Death-doom not for a funeral, but for a ripe, putrescent self-exhumation. Like Thou stripped of pretension or any shred of hope. Like a Funeral Moth bereft of wings and dignity. Tendrils of boiling distortion ooze from every lumbering note and ire vomits from goddamn demonic vocals. The soundtrack to being buried alive, slowly, wretchedly, eternally. You'll feel every nail as its driven into your coffin. Devastating nourishment for a vegetative state. Pure joy.
Few warriors of modern death can wield the blade of melody without maiming themselves. Melodic death metal is filled with critical misses. Black metal’s forces of folk frequently fly off the cheese-wheel. Beansidhe, however, brandish consonance with a measured and sensible hand. Melodicism both subtle and blatant permeates this organic opus. Tremolated blackness, mid-paced march, and marvelous death strikes all flourish in Beansidhe's canny compositions. Modern comparisons to this fantastic formula are few; Obsequaie and Crom Dubh have recently managed the same masterful amalgam of memorable riffs and primitive euphony. You’ll certainly hear strains of Agalloch, filaments of early Dark Tranquillity, and the up-close and personal character of a young Woods of Ypres. Solid percussion and throat-ripping vocals fend off any whiff of senseless drone. Habit forming.
Out on January 28th via Via Nocturna:
Elastic, biomechanical grind that digs deep grooves in your consciousness and in your face. Shares some of Maruta’s robotic, entropic dementia; crushing, satiating slabs will often fly off spasmodically into disharmonic orbit. The whirling kick-speed and weighty guitar tone land Priapus squarely on the death side of grind. Lyrically and vocally intense in pursuit of its disconsolate ethos; miraculous anthems of self-hate.
Galloping waves of bright black goodness. Intricate but approachable guitar lines, entwined and engaging, with more than a little victorious melodic sauce. A less bestial brand of Mutilation Rites, or shades of a less esoteric Krallice. Distinctive and compelling in its own right, with an enticing focus on diverse and buoyant rhythm. Riffs frequently escalate above churning tremolation, rising to captivating compositional heights. I’ll be coming back frequently to partake of those high altitude excursions.
Out on July 8th via Gilead Media and Avantgarde Music
Leans away from the regimented deathblack-swarm of their debut, embracing bestial entropy at every turn. Witness an orgiastic deathspree, a band freed from the chains of sanity and convention. After a period of adjustment, realization emerges that this unbridled vision of Paroxsihzem is just as compelling. The demented joy is infectious, and this chaotic evolution doesn't discount an ounce of the quality previously displayed. The new-found diversity of riffs, rhythm, and dynamics make for a disturbingly memorable listening experience. Have fun storming the castle.
An exquisite, uncharacterizable cocktail of chaotic extremity. Deathspell-style dissonance doused in jet fuel, steeped in noxious hardcore and noise tendencies, dropped in a vat of demented death until dripping black, set the fuck on fire. Crooked arpeggiations ride rock-steady blasts and bursts, degenerating purposefully into Gorgutsy turbulence. Count in the broiling vocal fever-dreams and the pyrrhic victory is complete.
A choked, churning vomitorium of extremity. Slays in all directions, trampling heedlessly through death, crust, grind, and speed metal alike. Riffs and rage of the utmost purity propel this pandemonium, guided by deft and deadly percussion, goaded on by dope vocals. Goddamn hooks, I tell you. Solos squeal with chaotic glee, as if conjured by Kerry King with hair, on coke. Make no mistake, this is a gorgeously ugly affair, reeking of the lawless abandon of a band like Revenge while channeling the efficacy of a youthful Trey Azagthoth. I’m a proponent of brevity, but every spin of this fifteen minute morsel leaves me with an unrequited blood-thirst. Take heed.
Out on May 2nd via Iron Bonehead Productions.
Intriguing, buzzing, and blackened visions of doom, as if Blut Aus Nord turned their gaze towards utter despair. Ambitiously intricate in construction, deceptively dynamic in execution. Sinuous, shimmering visions will burst into tremolated flame without notice, lending precipitous dread to the proceedings. Rife with wicked riffs, peculiar arpeggiations, and magisterial atmosphere. Satisfies the desire for elaborate, ominous malevolence. Everyone needs a little evil sometimes.
Out on March 31st via Nuclear War Now! Productions
Funeral doom of the impossibly slow persuasion. Presented as two elephantine minor key mantras, crystal clear in delivery, crushing in poignancy. Although minimalistic and direct, the compositions ooze downcast mastery. Scathing vocals slice through the leaden march with pleasing ease, further emphasizing the power of these deliberate, measured movements. Perhaps only for the funeral doom devotee. Perhaps a pinnacle of this ponderous art.
Brilliant funeral doom by way of mechanized death. Perpetuates the sonic efficacies of their debut EP, and continues the lordly legacy of the diSEMBOWELMENT bloodline. Distinct, dry strains of death feel firmly rooted in timelessness. Death and doom sit side by side, separated by satisfying stylistic gulfs. Haunting melodies float on crushing, doomed undercurrents, and reflect many stylistic mannerisms of their antipodean countrymen in Mournful Congregation. Inverloch, however, are prone to outbursts of blastbeaten speed, driven by gorgeous percussive feats and icy, pointillistic riffs. A relentless funeral, a spree of death-dealing glory, an absolute necessity.
Out on March 4th via Relapse:
A revelatory blaze of light amidst a bleak black metal desert. Rides a bolt of Cascadian lightning, but does the deed without sycophantic intent. Whorls and eddies of dense melodic alchemy evoke the nofucksgiving of Weakling, while skirting the esoteric inhumanity of Krallice. An organic outburst of utter chaos, with a feeling of uncalculated necessity. An inexorable undertow, a bullseye of atmosphere and riffs, a no-mercy killing.
You say Assück, I say sign me up. A seasoned crew of veterans invoke the name of the most holy Ass, and deliver delightful death-grind goodness. Blunt force riffs reflect all of grind's chromatic demons, and a meaty-thick guitar tone wipes the floor with your entrails. Atonal bile is dispensed in slithering bursts and terse blasts. Gurgle and howl, churn and hurl; don't swallow your tongue. We all need a little beating sometimes.