CRUEL THERAPY (S/T)

  So it longs for, speaks like, hearkens and tirades as the Rap past gone? Definitely worth a check up?—tough call. With all its easy-going attitude and exuberant furnace of proficiency, Cruel Therapy is neither an ultimately good nor bad Hip Hop release.

  For anyone aesthetically reeling for the actual Hip Hop sound at around its peak, it's a very good listen. Right to that part. To consider the current date—the years passed between that age and now, it might border on passable beyond its beats.

  Cruel Therapy may have the ensnaring boom-bap on full display but lyrics-wise the Mad Mane Machine is bonkers for boundary pushers. Much worse music has similar content. Additionally is a willingness to give albums with outgoing covers a chance; over anything else—and now here things are, on Cruel Therapy's. Paying dues at times is not enough. Half sarcastic and half entertaining are skits involving fan interaction. Excellence to you. As a collective, more energy was concentrated and channeled into Fool on the Hill—managing to jab a the contemporary society, though I still remain apolitical.—Less impressive is an urge to be trendsetting (WTF!) with (skittish is the word) red carpet acclamation; based on what the album offers. Even retaining my partiality to the upliftingness portrayed in U​.​R​.​G. To an adult it comes off an embarrassing self assurance anthem, less to a younger listener.

  Such an expressive sail down, and the beats are attended to as clean-cutly as could be. The brash roughness found on Rotten Apples  strikes out the most on the album, especially after oftenly coming across corny ass choruses that denature a track by being forcefully pastiched ito A FUCKING RAP SONG! Only glad my time was not wasted.

XENO (ATLAS CONSTRUCT)

  Music—the mad Mane Machine'll straightforwardly admit—comes in two outstanding varieties. The outright blow-you-away and the sink-some-teeth-first. As an effect the former has less staying power—applying to majority of Pop and bangers (funny thing considering the nostalgic aspect overshadows this some time down the life). The mad Mane Machine's experience with Xeno is upon this line of distinction. Blown away at first listen . . . degradation with repeat absorption.

  It's always been on the hunt for progressive Death Metal. This had been birthed by a denotable bad habit of back-benching in class and prog/tech deathing by various means. Such lead to an encounter with Xerath, who at the time sounded off-kilter. To the admission of the Xeno guys, they do borrow a leaf from them. Expressively heard pumping and pulsating in the keyboard section, along a mixture of keyboards and grooves. As such, the mad Mane Machine's view is based on first impression—but judgement is based on a much calmer treatise of the unfoldings aided by replay.

  For a young band, it's a weighty burden to quickly quip with their hats flung into the field of their emulations. Having some Djent permeations that instigate the Gojira-esque groove laden brushes upon the cavernous walls of Death Metal. Here is more of a passing than a missing link between Meshuggah and Gojira; with a keyboard component—the inner section offers no surprise when the listener lends their selves to this. With that said, it is more of a quick blend of the two with more an assimilating effect on the latter band—and the quicker the connection, the more charged its fix; sterilizing long-term stance. And if one started out similarly—endless prog death quests, the hunt will be on faster than they can say gesundheit.

  None a diabolical act to say Atlas Construct is a burden that is straining to collapse on itself, for has not the album art professed it in all an earth-bound glory—the band's choice. Hard to unsee and discord such an impression. The Mad Mane Machine would be more stoked for a second release and actually appreciate to have a definite stand reiterated. hath a quick fire be a sure fire—a hefty fix, or a diverting impression.

MR. MORBID & MELPH (UNRELEASED DEMONS)

  Rap 4 heads—an ambiguous though somehow fitting description. Even as the phrase would better describe  a release like Heavy Metal Kings, this is neither bad for the same.

  Mr. Morbid and Melph have struck the Rap structure with a magic wand such that whatever twinkles off is brilliance and lusciousness. For the benefit of heinous views coupled with respect for decadence—the heads administered to ought giving a closer look to the cynicisms chipping off loose like fiery splinters from heavily welded metal. this is not Horrorcore or sensitive emo bullshit in its self immersed efforts to spite and dispute the self. rather, it is a cry echoed in the cover—what they wish of their identities is the portrait the musical canvas displays—demons throbbing with pulses of unhinged feelings.

  Melph appears to be the producer lending flaps to Mr. Morbid's laid back —often sleek—flow; around a few spits by Mr. Morbid. This EP works so well it could be listened from any track as the first that mere putting down becomes an irresistible matter of choice. Fucking perfect length. E.N.D. dwells on an electric guitar that's something leering into what an alternative Metal band may have to offer—not that it's bad, for its somewhat tasty effort.

  Unreleased Demons found an outlet upon the intersection of a duct that clicks—if not falling in place like jigsaw. Do not hesitate upon this—or fuck, it's rap 4 heads.

9

  Dystopia is a ricocheting friend. Should be. Or refute and plug that head up the clouds. Nonetheless, it is a curve that continues to confront daily. On the keenest of days, nature unwraps humanity's caution. Total prosperity does occur but not guaranteed. Though natural disruption is not a huge cause for worry—basic human instincts rouse the need for concern as privileges of power to the inwardly unstable are catastrophic.

  With the glimpse 9 offers on a such and interweaving situations, the human contend takes hold. Based on a warring period Germany, when they had superior technology, it is a contact upon animated alternate history. A transcendental scientist succeeds at making a mechanical brain with human-like capabilities—until military interference. Once seized, the mechanoid is inflected with world control and domination—a setting from which it is almost impossible detracting it from.

  World of havoc, war, metal, and discord—all organic life has been wiped off. It is built on a Steampunk, Futurepunk directory; this post apocalyptic world—with the old world still technologically upending—is a shot into an unyielding unfolding future with the punks following a devoid direction.

  Opening up to statutes in their perfect sculpt, The Mad Mane Machine retraces Wells' the time traveler arising to the same in a distant future. Much with its Star Trek allusions as Seven of Nine gets a centre-stage presence—saving a sinking ship. Another moment of Wellsian descent yields itself in the hall of retrieval and archiving, from the time traveler's escapades. Dusty, decrepit, and devoid of life—a towering structure of decaying records. Collective hands are involved in the tid-bit gathering needed to destroy the enemy gladiatorial force.

  From the recollected manuscripts the scientist gave his life for—much to foresee mechanical defeat—the same electric eye mechanism that gobbles and destroys is the same that takes part in disintegrating the hub of the bug hive-mind.

  9 is akin to degraded Steampunk with alternative Cyberpunk sheddings—or primitive Cyberpunk in its best description. Arising technology that fails to boom once the ultimate breakthrough culminates to unmitigated corruption. It purges a lot as a disaster film—once salvaged to savagery the survivors have zero option to figure out to turn the best of their fate. Spiritual aspects of transcendention leave an un-rooted gap on the plane of escapism but given the rushed connections to keep the story linked and running it should pass as a ground to ignore

RUPTURED BIRTH (TRANSMUTANT)

  Canada has seen an upsurge of great Death Metal bands—especially tech death. With such laid groundwork for expected high repute in the country's metal exports, it would be highly safe to suggest listenership to a band from the mentioned North American soil. Inadvertently, it seems the bar was set too high by the predecessors, given the potential acumen of Ruptured Birth and a failure to completely allure.

  Since this is Brutal Death Metal and not much should be expected—a terrible precept by itself—as it denounces and dents better instigators. Suppurating a slam catch-all which make the band's overhead additions seem like a joke. If anything, Unnatural Selection is the best way forward for Ruptured Birth—by virtue of expressing this song. Saprogenic coalesces a rabies sample that admonishes any belief of anything great forthcoming; a not so promising pace-setter it would rather be satisfying to listen to Katalepsy's Rabid as a better exchange. The whole idea of the song is taking the brutal death metal usual, but palely—by huge repetition of breakdowns and the lead work. The shrieks are far from saving grace by point of eccentrically aplombing non stand-out growls. A basis that falls upon Strogg once it sparks flashy Rings of Saturn sides, furthered along the release.

  Hurtling, very much on the side of miss upon few hits like parts of Blood Siren—where it is catch off-guard; repeat the grabber. Brutal Death Metal that wants to slam possessively, with ties to tech death, but still wants to have a demeanor which pulls off like it owes Deathcore its existence. This time straddling has cost somebody—good thing it is a brutal death metal band?

  The Shape threatens to parlay its sample the Craniotomy serial killer style—however, checking on sample length. Rhythm goes a bit fuzzy compacting annihilating no-frills riffs. Such fuzziness heads straight into the next track. Once with textured solos that overrun ears with technical patterns plus slam accentuations. Samples start to teeter on overload. Taking on a sharp experimental offset is the finisher—or assorted phase before bonus tracks that might well be enjoyed from their original EP—provides the only substance to hold on to.

  This is no different from what has already been said concerning horror and science fiction intermingles. An art that is equal to lack of identity well represents the content it helps wrap. Horrific sci-fi or science fictional horror—if it has enough science orientation to be gauging futures. What Ruptured Birth espouse is non confounded footing in gory medicinal havoc which would matter less had they encapsulated it with brisk butchery.

CLASSIC (BACK TO THE PAST)

  In a way, there is no longer a need for the Doctor to explain time warping by the chalk-board—time travel has relieved itself to less mass confusion. No more obfuscation for the sake. Much better, if one wakes up to a Hip Hop time capsule. When the Mad Mane Machine was not being around when some of the greats Classic resolves to sampling were dropping these releases, what wasn't on Back To The Past was an awareness of its existence.

  More of a mixtape and a fun release, Back To The Past 2 pays homage to some of the older MCs the rapper admits to have—still studying it occurs—studied; the old school. Any definite way than a Delorean rapture? As wont are up-comers to spray and flex their verbals on staid releases' instrus—whichever side of the rap day they lay—the traction gained and/or attracted determines how much of a spitter was in the offing.

  On an otherwise revelational lay-out, the line of sci-fi is drawn strictly on a reference to a thriving genre hey day. Featuring instrumentals—albeit a usual bangers case—overdubbed with rhymes that cover, among others: them bitches, how 100, the grind, other rappers. Well, it might as well be when a slew of cues and patterns run from Kendrick Lamar, Busta Rhymes, to Ghostface Killah. Much-a-very.

  Teflon Da Don features twice—the only guest—and does his best Busta on first appearance. How about a caution? That sci-fi sells—second if not better than oversexulization—and everybody's buying. Optimus Rhyme went for the same jugular massively. The closest Chris Webby descended to genre-ling were game references. For this release, it works just fine. Stopping at that is a let-down to anybody else leaping in with sci-fi expectations. So much it ruined Future Rhythm for the Mad Mane Machine. Ah, shit—then where is sci-fi rap! Holding his own but fuck—not enough justice. Goddamn.

QUO VADIS (DEFIANT IMAGINATION)

  Taking my time to accept accidents don't happen—that stems from a failure to account how I came across Quo Vadis, despite how popular this band seems to be even if it sounded remotely familiar. The lads churn out some of the best of in death metal—which is assembled from the genre stalwarts past and present. Adding various edges to their take on death metal—wasting no time to combine melody and technicality.

  Matthew Sweeney is one hell of a vocalist albeit not perfect. It takes enormous breath control to pull a feat as done on the album opener. Making no difference if done by low growl or a high pitched singing as Kiske—bottom line is control; challenging as trying either is. His flaw is noticeable in track four—sounding strained where all instruments bar one have been stripped away—how much vocalists' flaws do they hide. There is a bridge appearing before the main vocal work which lieges the path of Overkill's Necroshine in the refrain supporting part. A literal death-bat, skull-bashing with death metal.

  Majestic kicker is To the Bitter End—written with music in mind, and technicality at heart; just like the rest of the album, where it's the actual music and end product matters more than impressing with sideshows that will appeal to fellow instrumentalists—but not strictly to them. Silence Calls the Storm lays at the figurehead of Beyond Creation together with the opener and the second song, emulating them to a limited degree. The bassist is a straight-up face of BC, and yes he does not take center-stage if only an effective pulsating presence.

  When putting their Death hats on, they must have been beanies. The close-tying Tunnel Effect (Element of the Ensemble IV) hangs away to prevent cloning and duplication. Hearkening Born Dead—especially the drum work—as the guitarists exhibit their lopped emulations that reach the acme of a Schuldiner solo. Title track too, alongside In Contempt. The opera version of an interlude introduces some female vocals—which is not a surprise when the closing track pummels melodeath with a gushing propensity for a slight sullenness.

  My appreciation for the album went further into the thoughtful title as the lyrics may want to fledge into an existence by themselves—one to be hung onto dearly with their clearly stated observations. Not to attach the listener(s)—they should listen, apprehend and detach.

LAMENT CHRIST (IN VENTUS EST DOLOR...)

  The life of black and white. It is such a gloomy and grainy leaning for dedicated doomsters and far end black metallers. Misanthropy neither is colourful but its charm in Doom's diatribes is indescribable with a completist drift; more-so its adverse effect on mood, disposition, and spirits. Of importance is inclination to willingly allow its encompassment. Totally.

  Funeral Doom relies on entirely crushing and subjugating the partakers in its playing and consumption. Emotional deterioration. On my part—since discovering DBM and Doom, satiation has strained over the pale horizon. Lament Christ's demo forays into this exact expanse, with its meanderings and moments of delivery. Clocking away as a procession, with what can be termed as field samples—harnessed space and nocturnal life forms.

  A lot on its gushing sorrow—In Ventus Est Dolor...—heavily relies on Black Metal. Times are plenty when the guitars meticulously drear from BM to Doom with a visible and soul-searing temperament—streaks of dark melancholy are hewn from the BM riffs abruptly, and equally for the inverse. Melody multiplies with its unfolding; and once The Cry of the Loon...—really an expanse—trails off, BM guitars emanate, usurping but their effect is nary close to limited. Sometimes trading or sharing sections with the slower Doom.

  This rendition of Funeral Doom as effective as its approach is, is mournfully unreplicated—even though its countenance and amplitude seems to have prostrated Locus Horrendus - The Night Cries of a Sullen Soul... tremendously. The tortured growls—the proficiently purveyed that make (Funeral) Doom a force to reckon with, terms with extending sorrow—lay to waste any sense of forgoing a dismayed existence; elevating the sense of hopelessness—amidst clean singing and humming. Screams relay an emotional peak and are eminently staged at moments of heightened playing and musical intensity. Locus Horrendus followed suit, as Desire accosted themselves to the whole array: spoken word—poignant growls of grief and piano sections with a sonata of sorts that provides the listener with context to be really pensive—outbursts of howls; only relegating the BM. Which is a few steps to being the albums distraction.

This is for contemplating sorrow and its accompanying misery at sundown, with the help of thunderpeal. It only gets depressing, with the channeling evocation that unfurls past the half mark—which matter-of-factly is unnoticable since the songs are lethargical across the seamlessness. This music is best aided by environment and outdoor surroundings for total impact. Is it summer? Take an evening away from civilization.

HAUNTED WOMEN: THE BEST SUPERNATURAL TALES BY AMERICAN WOMEN WRITERS (EDITED BY ALFRED BENDIXEN)

  Anagrams—all the life's wisdom can be found in anagrams! A lot can be done with a phrase or a sentence, but only the structural competence matters—further within that restriction is upholding meaning related to the words being anagramed. The less to no repetition of words in a phrase, the better a shot at it. Anagrams allow for so much wordplay among the meticulous homophones—here puns become trite and appear like child's play. Taking them this further was a well worth self-challenge beyond previous music reviews—I don't mind my language. . . .

  These are handpicked phrases from each story of the collection—non machine aided re-workings.

 

HAUNTED WOMEN: THE BEST SUPERNATURAL TALES BY AMERICAN WOMEN WRITERS 

WHET RUE YEARN EBBS: TRITE SPATIAL HOUNDS WREST MATERNAL ACUMEN

  1. The Amber Gods (Harriet Prescott Spofford)

ALL THOSE VERY GNOSTIC DEITIES WHO ASSISTED AT CREATION.

SISTER COLOURS TOO AIDED WISHES SETTING THY ACT ELEVATION.

      Story First.        Story  last.

        —Flower the peach     —Astra Castra, Numen Lumen

 

—IT IS COLDER THAN IT WAS.—I THINK I WILL GO TO SLEEP.

PLEA—TIE LAIC TWIN IN. ROOK HAS THIS WILED—GLOTTIS.

  2. The True Story of Guenver (Elizabeth Stuart Phelps)

SONG AND STORY, LIFE AND DEATH ARE SO CRUEL TO A WOMAN.

WAN ALMOST DETHRONED, OAR FELONY AS TANGO AIDS CURE.

  3. The Ghost in the Cap'n Brown House (Harriet Beecher Stowe)

BUT YOUR GRANDMA SHE BELIEVED IN THE GHOST, AND SO DID LADY LOTHROP.

GHOULY MANSION HOUSED GRIT IDLY. STAB ADVENT PROD ETHER DAB

  4. The Yellow Wallpaper (Charlotte Perkins Gilman)

THIS PAPER LOOKS TO ME AS IF IT KNEW WHAT A VICIOUS INFLUENCE IT HAD!

I WAIT FATEFUL ANT EKES I PREPONE VACATED KIN WHICH IS MOOT SOUL HOIST!

  5. The Story of a Day (Grace King)

SUCH A SPLENDID BLACK HEAD THAT HAD JUST YIELDED BREATH!

ENDURED BULK HATH JADED A HASTY DEATH! BILLED CAST CHIPS

  6. The Little Room (Madelene Yale Wynne)

AND ALL THIS NEVER EXISTED EXCEPT IN HER IMAGINATION?

THEN EMANATING SERIAL INCEPTIONS HID EXTRA IDLE VEXES?

  7. Her Letters (Kate Chopin)

HE VANISHED SILENTLY; SEEMINGLY INTO SOME INKY INFATHOMABLE SPACE.

HEAD ON; FAINT NOSEY HALE BELYING HIS MOSTLY SKIVED IMMINENT ESCAPE.

  8. The Foreigner (Sarah Orne Jewett)

I ALWAYS RUN OF AN IDEA THAT THE SEA KNOWS ANGER THESE NIGHTS AND GETS FULL O' FIGHT.

HEED A SHALLOW FUNK HUGE WAGES SAT AT INTENDN'T TO INGRAIN FAITHLESS GHOST FEAR.

  9. Luella Miller (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)

SHE'S GOT STRENGTH ENOUGH TO HANG ONTO OTHER FOLKS TILL SHE KILLS 'EM.

GHOULS STROKE H'NGES FOR THE NTH TIME TONIGHT TELLS HEAL SONG'S LOOK.

  10. The Lost Ghost (Mary E. Wilkins Freeman)

SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN VERY BEAUTIFUL IF SHE HAD NOT BEEN SO DREADFUL.

BRIDE WOUNDED BY EERIE HALF LOVE FUELS VESSEL AND BEAU HUNT.

  11. The Bell in the Fog (Gertrude Atherton)

HE SPENT A HAUNTED NIGHT, BUT THE NEXT DAY STRANGER HAPPENINGS BEGAN.

EXTEND AUGUR HANDY BEINGS HATH BESET SIGN STRAIGHTEN BATHING PATENT.

  12. The Fullness of Life (Edith Wharton)

PERHAPS NOW I SHALL REALLY KNOW WHAT IT IS TO LIVE.

WHITELIST KNELL AVAILS WORRY WHIPS ON SHAPE A LOT.

  13. Pomegranate Seed (Edith Wharton)

OH, YOU NEEDN'T IMAGINE THAT ANYTHING CAN EVER FRIGHTEN ME AGAIN!

ANY ONE MEAN TACT, OUGHT MENDING THY HIGH FINITE TANG AN' REVERIE!

  Since I don't have mild triskaidekaphobia, I regress from overlooking everything else to pinpoint 13's loom in my life—it's two pithy stories, three outstanding pieces, one obsessive em dash shoaler.

K21 (ANTS)

  A(n un)certain entity looks like Leonard Nimmoy—clutching hyper to its instrument of Electronic perversion. This is undeniably a serious business. Beautifully crafted to befit dance music with coruscating breaks and corresponding hollowness in dimension.

  The man's craft supersedes deification. K21 is an expulse to intelligent dance where his frets and devotions are exhilarating occupations of preceptive drums and perfusions that simulate the effects of—if amid samples—annihilating the organic reach of vocals. The present vocal samples are as alien and fiendish as a morose Klingon—with blood-thirst and war-lust. Rune prevents the music from engraving and etching the auditory preference with inadequately descriptive pounding. The airy ride shuttles from concoction to decantation. Hurtling forth into battle of cymeks.

  As a rhythm of articulation, it freights convening formulations. Preamble openings that play along sotto voce. This is grand and mighty. It is not enough trouble preventing other activities getting in its way. Every sound delicacy  is birthed in a bleeding permeation. Holy shit!—the death march—the storm—the Ajax. Where art thou Industrial freaks. Discretion hath now faced unearthing. Inundated by a linear finish—punish and taper. Inferior ants got no indemnity against the militial—nullify and eschew. This cover art is freaking superb. Close-up and blur. Ajax run the world.

  Confined to a Synthpop furnish is closure Voicesback, and it's not much of a stretch. Parallaxed by echoing overwolds of sounds. An Industrial rafting appraise that whiffs into synth corruscations. Into submission thou shalt descend. No smarmy.

PETER HAINING—TERROR! A HISTORY OF HORROR ILLUSTRATIONS FROM THE PULP MAGAZINES

  The pulp magazines were the launching pad of some of the cornerstone names in the horror, fantasy, and science fiction among other genres today. Their popularity relied heavily on illustrations, and like many publications,—including novels—they are indispensable and as decisive on the importance of publication to readers as they are an influence on their biases/preferences. Much less the same thing that has had certain dictations upon my reading habits/purchases over the years and looking forward to to depictions as a young-in to accompany long gone favourites. 

  This is a compilation of illustrations the author—Peter Haining—deems important to the horror and to an extent, fantasy pulp magazines—where some tended to cater but not limited to both—across the span of the 19th to 20th Century. Showcased are various artists and most are engravings as the printing press gained traction. Other styles of illustrations were later incorporated at length, replacing engravings. Some artists were impressive enough to be featured twice or more. It absolutely is an art lover's cherish. I had a copy from a library that had some pages plucked, and some missing sections that had been cut-out by some dumb fucking moron. Fucking retard wouldn't understand this might not be available in a hundred mile raduis. PoS!

  Here are some of The Mad Mane Machine's choice illustrations from the compilation. It's fantastic to have a new—old—great artist to uphold. That is when it resumes drawing.

 Experiments in the lost art of poisoning

 Steam-powered robot (cover)

Invaders from the infinite

 

 The bride of death

 

   Nor moon by night

Excellent cover by Hanes Boke

  Having book perusers serves as the prelude pictures with details about each illustration. Much more like Space Bestiary from GURPS, with its various artist perception of exo-monsters and a much longer description. TMMM envisions Groot as World Tree! The wonderful chronology is a mesmerizing work to anybody interested in that aspect of literature's history.

SIGNIST (OF WORLDS, ENDTIMELY ENSHADOWED)

  The ouroboros is an enticing concept—ensnaring musicians and artists as a means of expression—metaphorically or ironically. Over-exposure's desensitization make end-users and targets almost immune to a reaction—especially this being the creator's point of concern. That is the much that can happen between 2005 and now, when the blueprint of Of Worlds, Endtimely Enshadowed was realized and articulated. Furthermore, the chained self-devouring snake portrays a continuum in stasis, something of a disheveling reality, accounting for self-begetting.

  Signist is an unforgettable name, incredibly significant where there are myriad bands left, right, and center. From Russia with pluck purpose to pulverize and perpetuate perdition to the rest of the (Metal) world. Largely cast on a Thrash Metal motif that stretches to Heavy Metal and barbaric Deathy Thrash—progressions and changes abound on a lot of the songs. Influences are worn aggressively such as a slight Punk pummeling—on track six—, technicality, and portional synth flourished atmosphere. Interestingly, it is the rhythm that channels the solos. Premonition of the Endless Night's placement was tactful. Other than splitting it into a short intro or insertion of one, the behemoth of cudgeling grooves is allowed to mature into a flounce, the first of a tenacious whirlgig—the kind that Wrust lashes unrepentantly—on an intracion of melodic rhythms which culminate into a Blackened lead, accompanied by blast beats. Played at a Spazmosity Blackened Death range. An acoustic shed follows, making up for the onslaught taking the listener off the nook at the start without warning.

  Stillborn Mind Reflection perpetuates a blackened infusion while track three revives the catchy, contoured and uncompromisingly conking grooves by the advent of Heavy Metal accompaniment. It wouldn't be surprising how much the guitars take center space, especially on this song. Only the 'spongy' cymbals—unluckily quite consistent once or twice—are its downside, including on Bells of Oncoming Winter, the longest and felicitously changing track. There is some featured singing as the album unravels while addition of a synthesized keyboard wells a Darkified feel—with some Post-Thrash occupations. 

  As marginalizing as their logo is—a Pagan/Viking oriented band?—any Power/Thrash cacophony?—it certainly is a pointer to the listener to heed expecting anything—especially to be blown away. With melodies that are almost epically inclined; progressive tincture and bent, its omnipotence forays the floridness abound in a gradual manner—a propitious sculpt on Thrash Metal's mould. A progressive Thrash Metal stomp where Lieveil meets Wrust.

BODYCALL (MECHANICALLY RECOVERED MEAT / STATES OF EXCEPTION

  Bodycall! There is EBM and there is discovering Bodycall. Its mechanical logo symbolises a club crunching menace. Embrace the dark disheveling—

LEERED MYTH CLAIRVOYANCE MACE / MECHANICALLY RECOVERED MEAT.

  BODYCALL - MECHANICALLY RECOVERED MEAT

VITAL BEAM CAME CHOCY - LOCALLY RENDERED

BEYOND CONTROL (2009 COMATOSE MIX)
EXALTED ITS (2900) COMMON CRYO BOON

DISCIPLES OF HEDONE (CLUB MIX)
EXPEND FLUID BLISS (CHIME COO)

YOU AND ME (RECOVERY MIX)
COAX REVERIE (YON DUMMIE)

FOOLS' PARADISE (TOO DISCO MIX)
DISSECT FLOOR AXIOM (AID COOP')

FOOLS' PARADISE (HARSH MIX)
AIR OF RASH HEX (AMISS' PLOD)



Here is a great release I never get enough of. Voy delivers a compelling vocal performance with damn good lyrics—too fitting. Pure hails.


BODYCALL - STATES OF EXCEPTION

ACE LOFT - BOLTS STEADY LEXICON

REVOLUTION AT YOUR GATES
RATES TO VALUE YOUNG RIO T

DISINTEGRATION (FACTORY MIX)
SIMIAN DOCTOR FIX (GYRATE IN IT)

NAKED LIFE
FAKED LINE / FEED A LINK

DISINTEGRATION
TIED TO INGRAINS

ELECTRO HAVOK
CHEER TO VOCAL

SCIENCE FICTION AND PORTRAYAL: DISTRICT 9

  Majority of humanity is way too fucking stupid. That is reason enough to guarantee disregard from exo-intelligences. Worse still is a risk of exploitation by sardonic life-forms or plots of actual attack and devastation. Cliché as fuck. Yet a possible looming dystopia the planet is likely to contend with. The War of the Worlds may have offered the peculiar novel-ending type of course, but in actuality, Earth is only nuclear weapon strong—a much stratified and small-scale disparity scenario—in terms of arms. Overestimating—an understatement—outer intelligences may only act to reduce surprises. Even disregarding the anthropic principle—since every situation tailors itself to produce unique features and life-forms—on a small-scale, to put evolution, natural selection and mutation into consideration. Humans—not alone.

  Visitation needs not be a Wells-ian kind of approach. District 9 offers a necessitated kind of setting. The planet's habitable space—and one yet to be inhabited—is presaged by overcast intrusion; stranded exo-sol system beings. Distinguishable by their uniformity even across genders. Speculations abound the situations around these prawns. Regarded as servile workers of a superior race, they might as well have come to spread malevolence but fell short of expectations. Their pilot regards Earth's technology as the junk it is, with an aim to restore their mother ship and return home.

  Societal clashes need no introduction. Neither will inter-planetary wars. District 9 relays the havoc on a Terran scale. The stellar proportion is another, if not a precursor to the previous. How prepared is shambolic humanity? From a War of the Worlds' approach, it has everything it needs. —The sun. Huge orbital lenses would be formidable weapons. Their concentrated and invisible heat rays would disseminate dreamless energy at the speed of light—and inflame in seconds; be infallible to disabling of electrical equipment by alien technology—fucking alien fiction, The Mad Mane Machine blames—to protect mother earth. The only downside would be cyber attacks on their functionality, which would be disastrous. This can be overcome at the expense of extra-planetary travel. Dismal when the planet's sick and inhospitable.

  Upheaval will begin with everyone's attempt to cash in on the state of deterioration. And the ordinary citizen will be at the mercy of the forces that be. Everybody caught unprepared and plunged into estopless elegy. Such disparity is sheer as the prawns came armed, shriveling human artillery with bio-enhanced articulation. The planet lays at an edge of colonization. Wipe-out is not a very bright idea, but culling will be the first call.

SYNCHRONICITY AND TIME TRAVEL

  Time travel and its support run-arounds have infiltrated many aspects of film, including the non sci-fi and barely speculative ones. It has rather become a setback that this beloved genre/aspects of it can be fitfully committed across the cine world—as far as drama and comedy took it. How they decide to cover such depends on the film-makers' dedication to the subject. Sadly most partake in its indulgence as a tool for profanity against time travel whose means is to crimp their (you bet weak) plots.

  Better it's to avoid any portal references. Shit's been reduced to lame-assness and lazy options. Other time machines have become secluded. I Will Follow You Down is exemplary of time travel's ailments. No cordial dedication; all appropriation—especially when no grand mystery is being solved. A fucking drama film. Synchronicity may have come at a post-peak period for the processions. Three joint physicists are on a quest to make a time machine but nature has a few revelations for them. Social relations are kept to the significant prospect for the question at hand to proceed unhinged. It has such a throwback setting that comes off clinical in isolation. A Blade Runner atmosphere bleeds in most parts to induce a fear of lead character, Jim Beale, appearing into such a world, or in Archangel's revitalization in X-Men: Apocalypse, a swift mise en scene for the 80s to be beheld—from music to location.

  To prevent ending with a thumb up its arse, the film delegates to alternate timelines. Nothing new too. Even the continuous cycle stab. The catch is always the start, the plot's butterfly effect. Which is invariably it's unsealable loophole. The vicious cycle can't start without an alternate universe—that for the liberty of filming and plot progression—has no definite origin. Present is a collision of parallel worlds, and only imagination can grasp the myriad or reduced of differences that make the branes almost similar. Parallel universes being split-seconds of possible options to the maximum extreme. Working with the closest semblance is the only saving grace that produces the desired profile.

  By now every time traveler into the past has related the inescapability of a pre-ordained future. Needless to say, every jump into the wormhole by Jim would only result to other Jims, behind in time from the most recent Jim by a duration of his predecessor's point of decision to leap forth. But timelines are all encompassing and it would be a prize should an—even slightly—older Jim arise forward.

  Moribund unwinding defers as seconds younger Jim overmasters the other. The seamless handling of this situation forfeits the need of extra interpolation. Behoves that the slightly fringed but purposeless Narcopolis is comfortable playing homage than executing itself to relevance—it is shite that disrespects Wells. Time is not easy to fix.

BADBADNOTGOOD AND GHOSTFACE KILLAH (SOUR SOUL)

  Word was that BadBadNotGood got the goat of Jazz purists. Not fucking smooth Jazz listeners. The Mad Mane Machine is yet to find out how their collaboration with Ghostface Killah relates to Guru's Razzmatazz efforts. Ghostface was a choice, solidified by veteran status, appeal, and content.

  Striking a chord of patriotism with the trendy new school Long. Live. A$ap—not something I would really care about—as Starks poses with his country's flag. Could have done better than this. The situation is similar to that of rapper; and producer in the shadows but name. Accessible is the name and mainly a Rap overlay. It may have been released at the golden age of Hip Hop and still fall in line—especially Gunshowers which is a classical case of New York boom-bap. Featuring Etching consistently swordsmithing along his elder. They street along glorifying bath salts that Lefteris rasping about these drugs, alongside their effects on the track Tormenting the Innocent comes close once the "I'm a damn vocalist/my throat so heavy" line drops. Powerful instrumental.

  Danny Brown's egregiously hurtling flow simmers Six Degrees. A cat who has landed features on substantial releases like Cancer for Cure. The Gunshowers Starks profiles the Yapp City Killah. This is the Tony Starks that blew me away—his greatest feature effort. Along saxes, Mind Playing Tricks

reaches for the melodic perfervid percussion—alhough not to the levels of Ghostdini—providing the album's second name-drop for Supreme Clientele.

  Followed by another boom bap slammer—laid back this time—that has Tree sounding like Like Father Like Son Weezy. Syrup. Street knowledge is for fools in the name of Triple 9's Chris Allen. Now rises the need to put the Fallujah kid to rest. Polar a moment as two supers provide a destructuring super-hero but lyrically fair track on Ray Gun. MF Doom's verse is better.

  Nobody would expect sub-par work from Ironman. He is a man one would anticipate with high hopes and fail to bedisappointed. Soul Sour is a short excursion which I would count on the super-hero broke little to no adding to hisrepertoire. Bump this shit everywhere.

CFS (ENOUGH IS ENOUGH)

  Punk is a core genre. Whenever I fall back to splitting. Far as sub-genres go, Electronic can not be out-fashioned. Only Punk and Metal come close enough. The three frothing together The Mad Mane Mane Machine is yet to come across. Aesthetic-wise, it is more than possible.

   Simplicity and melody are the first synonyms that best describe a lot of punk. On a recent forefront is Burnt Cross' execution. Clear and concise fuckin' Punk. Simplistic does not stand for defective (mostly) if still not a relation for all Punk bands. One of those rare outfits that completely stretch and entrench can be portrayed by CFS.

  From the heart of Greece—a Mediterranean region derricking forth music The Mad Mane Machine only wishes it could keep up—is a pinnacle and a paragon—Enough is Enough. Hardly inconspicuous is its flirt with Post-Hardcore commencing the prolapse to eminence. Liakos sounds pissed and gruff, with a rough voice to give the music some ID. The extent may not be much if you consider what Jessie Williams does for her acoustic punk—fucking raspy BM. Descent into the rest of the songs has a heavy Oi! preoccupation and the drums would be home to Milkman from The Netherlands' music. Melody and precision are par, a blend with no oscillation. I was the last to expect a Post-Rock insertion to a Punk band, but what the hell—it is as natch as it could ever be written to be, not a farrago.

  Detractors of Punk should let CFS bear witness. The Metal effications are far and wide. Cexyst speaks of infusions that hit the heart, a reflection of OG BM. But Punk does not need anybody. As for Pop goes Punk . . .

BLACK TOWER (INERYA)

  The sleeve art of Inerya portrays a gothic parchment—written in ink. It may pass for darkly permeating—but beyond such, any speculation prior to familiarity with Dark Tower is a chase collapsing on desolation, dreariness, ineptitude.

  Polish duo in the name of Dark Tower writes a condensed, dripping love letter to Electronic music in general. Polished with nuances and out research that rely on patience. The mainstay of the first half is EBM as Marivsz prevails to find vocal matches to the sound surges. Duch may resonate to anIndustrialist with its oral instrumentation, the adulterated throbs around the most part of the first into the second minute mark that pave way to tamed abrasions abstracting the higher second minute. Feniks nicely serves Aggrotech, preparing the grounds for palpitating, hard-hitting drums delivered in Czarna Wieza. An absolute ear-crawling inhabitant. It is so energetic the impact is felt once the lessly pitched intro to the progressing track incurs. A leisure permeating its shank to/fro energy releases and gains evenly around the record.

  Revelations of the letter compel further once Diabel w Nim tinctures in a truncation unprecedented by going the Wave way, including some songs on this section. Merging it with EBM as the vocals ribald-like some words and entrance others. Ending in a very Vangelis manner. Just as the pace starts to relay a relaxation that is Inny, which is Trance In essence—that permeated Czarna Wieza—with keystrokes, Kardio U-turns closure severely. Its placement is only a matter of preference. To end on an upbeat.

  Inerya is an album whose significance is not a mere breath or happenstance. The Mad Mane Machine can commend it for lack of weak tracks whatsoever, where familiarization and enjoyment are lineal. It is a formidable run, but listenable in a single sitting. Designed to create an impact that necessitates (a) return.

FANTASY AND PORTRAYAL: THE HUNTSMAN

  Reliance on limitless illustriousness makes Fantasy a genre easy to lend itself to abyssal descent. The key to success is a concept taken down to its least story carrying capacity. From then the abetments and enshrouds can take hold to manifest their imaginings and bestrews tailored to them. If jumbling of ideas to make intricate embellishments that effectively work, more power to the creators.

  An alternative is given to the Snow White(and the Seven Dwarves)'s tale. It still follows as a sequel to the previous film for what now seems to be the origin of a franchise. The previous onset had transfixed an admixture on Snow White, and a huntsman that aberrated by a spellbinding witch queen. The advantage of The Huntsman is a positional stand alone. Fantasy lends itself well to escapism and visual magnificence. Appeal increases with decrease in age. The Huntsman taps into such a reservoir unmitigated, given its concise revolve-around plot line. Portraying everything to appeal to the said audience.

  Setting provides preludes to en required relishes. The spate is tugged around emotions: Love conquers all; Evil never prevails in the face of its opposition, not until it's avenged. The norm. There has to be a well perpetrated affair—clinched on slants of malice and spite, against all bleakness to find the purity it portends to achieve.

  A mirror and magic; a warrior who's tragic ; spells and more compels. It really is everything a child could hope for, enchanted by and compelled to. Why should they be relegating happiness to inclinations, accruing meanings or society's portrayals? The metaphors, the mirrors, the cues, the . . . are reserved for the older viewers. Puns are enough common ground to convene execution. Costume-wise, I it's similar but a relieved leap from it's prequel, authoritatively graceful and halfly periodic as strength and teamwork required.

  Positionally, the last trinket is not a happy ever after, as the onset had laid its ground—since evil finds another way, like a (shortlived) triumphant laughter. This stands at par with The Dark Crystal.

DARK BLACK CORE (GATE OF DIMENSIONS)

  In all honesty, I could not complete listening to this release. For all the achromaticness it could adhere to, it is not justice to make it run for almost the better part of an hour. Is this Noise? Relativity applies, as well as as it's dis/praise.

  These are sounds or a structured and slightly ornamented sound from a howl. An indecisive fleet. A hell hole may have graced the cover art and all would work as fine as the portal. It is an instance of where the two or the closest fruit falls from the tree would only work.

  A question would be if pretentiousness would be cape enough to let the listener apply their own philosophy to justify a listen. Heck, had the artist brought about their own, would it still justify? Would it matter if it's a deviant work of an actual musician or just another shot of random? Would Jackson Pollock have mattered if he was no trained artist beforehand?