A work of tenebrous density, unsettling derangement, and surprising nuance. Possesses some of Mitochondrion's windswept, abyssal storm-force, but also writhes with the tentacled screams of Portal. The ability to push mind-stinging riffs to the surface of this roiling cyclone marks Qrixkuor as a breed apart. The album’s compact dynamic range is quite purposeful, holding these heaving tones, demonic leads, and magisterial flourishes close to the vest. Break out your finest electroacoustic transducers, find a padded cell, and commune with some of the years’s finest death metal.
Red-hot, gurgling mid-paced death-doom with a guitar tone to bathe in. Krypts once heaved mud at your ears, but they’ve since learned to hit the listener full-on with the shovel. Removal of slap-happy Autopsy vibes makes for a sharper experience and allows sinister sensations to shine. A pleasing evolution; perhaps marking Krypts as a spiritual successor to the dearly departed Anhedonist. Malevolent and morose riffs congregate in labyrinthine assemblies, trapping your ears and demanding repeated attention. Immersive and rife with rhythmic dynamics, cleanses your bowels like a meathook colonoscopy. An addictive evisceration.
Out October 28th via Dark Descent.
Nucleus tilt at the Demilich windmill, subsuming Finnish death and wrapping it in a uniquely fetid package. Sentient succeeds mightily, trapping weird death metal’s lightning in a bottle of succinct hooks and digestible dynamics. Bass-bright production highlights the requisite rhythmic spasms. Screaming, acrobatic solos are conjured at will. Incantation ooze is wiped all over wriggling riffs. The amalgam is moulded into stellar songs, served up with putrid panache. Sentient has survived the summer’s sweaty ear-hole gauntlet, reigning atop the year’s death-pile. Supreme.
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.