Yes, it means what you think it means. They look more hardcore than they actually are, which is not to call Germany’s Das Scheit a bunch of shit-eating Weiner schnitzels. Not necessarily. Combining a mix of Gravity Kills with a bit of Godhead, this would-be Marilyn Manson Goth squad goes through the unmotivated motions for a while, until eventually rising to the occasion with a few inspired moments on their third release, the devilishly titled Superbitch.

Certain elements in the lower melodies of the opening track "7 Seconds" do make for a reasonably pleasant listen beneath the otherwise conventional bass lines and ordinary dance rock beats. "Coming Up Roses" roars and whispers with agreeable melodies on the verses while pushing forward aggressively on the choruses; some nice synths and programming adds flair to what would assuredly be a by-the-numbers Goth rock jam. "Much Deeper" and "Shoot Song" feature interesting blends of Depeche Mode and Gravity Kills, as if Martin Gore decided to amp up even more than he has on recent Mode albums like Ultra, Songs of Faith and Devotion and Exciter. While the analogy stops there – as Das Scheit’s vocalist, Clint, is by no means a David Gahan – "Much Deeper" grows stronger as it progresses.

Unfortunately, if you come to these songs with a full metal expectation, you’ll likely want to rip it out instantly and hustle in some Darkthrone to maintain your blackened cool. Likewise, if you’re looking for an industrial sex hammer to club grind to, I forecast a return to some classic Lords of Acid.

"Splinters" is basic, stripped-down Goth with finicky guitars by Casey and George that, without their presence, would make this track a colossal bore. "About U" and "Earth Stands Still" are equally fundamental Goth rock numbers with steady beats and aloof bass work by Sascha, who, to his credit, does master his programming skills throughout the album.

The hilariously titled "Catpiss" gets nod for the best song of the album, as all of Das Scheit’s previously hunky dory components finally gel together to create an enjoyable pop industrial number. "Catpiss" presents the catalyst from which the band takes off as "Hardbody" keeps the driving tempos chugging along with a slick cyber fusion that accents their material entertainingly. "Long Walk" keeps the Gravity Kills / Godhead motif going; with its grimy riffage and jive tempos it wouldn’t be out of the question to think of Filter either. Even as Superbitch concludes on a melancholic note with "Lonely Walk" and "Until I’ve Been Forgotten," the latter song is a textured and macabre leave-taking, complete with acoustic melodies and aquatic synths that calm the listener instead of compelling him towards absolute dirge despite the hapless undertones of the track.

While their look is derivative and the midline songs of Superbitch may have you reaching for the off button, stick with it; Das Scheit does get their scheit together in due time and they attend to themselves properly before putting out a disc that not even a pooper scooper could’ve cleaned up. (6/10)

Plague Angel is perhaps more than a return to form for Marduk, it’s also pushing the envelope of speed and intensity even for a band whose long career has been built upon such values.

The latest Marduk album has a rawness and grimness that is unique in the group’s discography. This sense of roughness is matched by a level of control both in musical execution and production. The extra sense of speed is largely because of Emil Dragutinovic, whose playing at least seems to outpace the classic tattoo of Marduk’s definitive skinsman, Fredrik Andersson (who retired in 2002 and is no longer in the band, contrary to what Candlelight’s press release says).

Now, as good as the CD is, a definite case can be made that it’s kind of hard to recognize the band playing on Plague Angel as Marduk. Gone are Andersson’s ever present drum pattern and Legion’s remarkable vocals. The M.O. is still the same, though, with brutally fast black metal songs with a few slow ones here.

Luckily, it’s a case of "Marduk is dead; long live Marduk." New vocalist Mortus (from Funeral Mist) brings his own form of morbidity to the fold... and isn’t it more than coincidence that the Plague Angel booklet has a definite Salvation look to it? Devo Andersson, who was once in the band as a guitarist, returns as bass player, but more importantly, recorded the album at his own studios, making him a major player in the success of this record, which is far and away superior to the last Marduk studio album, World Funeral, which had some excellent tracks, but some truly awful ones, and had too much polish in the production for the band’s good. Aside from the dummy explosion sounds, there isn’t a bad moment on Plague Angel.

Marduk’s quintessential albums have already been made, but Plague Angel still manages to be a unique entry in the group’s output. A high recommendation for any maniac of fast and brutal black metal. (8.5/10)

Of all the subgenre tags in metal, the one that amuses me to no end is Viking metal. Somehow the thought of Hagar the Horrible ransacking a French village to the tune of anything else but Wagner’s "Ride of the Valkyries" seems a bit cheeky to me (as if my analogy isn’t cheeky enough!)

Of course, most musicians will tell you that labels and tags are pointless, existing only to serve fans and critics alike to create some semblance of rank and file order. Viking metal, though? Hmm. Perhaps the intricate and impressive Moonlyght might be willing to step up and volunteer itself as a "Viking metal" practitioner? Maybe not, given its Quebecois roots, but the epic scale with which Moonlyght crafts their layered metal tapestries on Progressive Darkness hails a variety of mechanisms, be it black metal ala King Diamond, prog metal ala Fates Warning and Angra or traditional power metal like Gamma Ray. Perhaps it’s best to dispel with the taglines and simply boast the European lavishness that graces this highly involved Canadian project.

Progressive Darkness is as apt a description of a body of work as Queensryche’s Rage for Order or, more simplistically, AC/DC’s Back in Black. With songs that scale well past the five minute mark (the exception being the 4:39 "From Honour to Nothingness"), Moonlyght primarily uplifts more than it bludgeons, which it does to its own satisfaction. It’s apparent this collective from Quebec City plays for itself and no specific audience. Such thought either leads towards overblown arrogance or tempered brilliance. The good news for Moonlyght (and potential listeners) is that it leans towards the latter.

"The Sceptic Traveler" surprises with each unraveling minute, particularly on the neoclassical instrumentation in the middle section that is audile beauty to behold. Even as the serpent kisses hiss from guitarist/vocalist Roby threaten to undermine the extensive development of Moonlyght’s delicate songwriting, he mostly pulls back and lets the music take center stage. If you can soak up the ambience of "Ride on Ice Worms," which includes synths and flute-like sequencing that swim amidst the thrash sections, you will enjoy the elliptic ride Moonlyght takes you upon.

As pleasurable a trip as the aforementioned Angra or Dream Theater, Moonlyght mixes everything it can conjure up, such as the sublime guest vocals of Jessica Bell on "Fantasy" or the dreamy acoustics and Bach-like piano work sprinkled throughout the disc, or even the mirrored storytelling on "A Tale from a Fantastic Kingdom." Then there’s the Gamma Ray/Helloween velocity of "From Honour to Nothingness," which should delight thrash hounds who appreciate artistry over a hammering eight count of unyielding speed.

With the recent addition of guitarist Fred Bedard to the flock, Moonlyght stands to grow even mightier than they venture on Progressive Darkness. Their extroverted dexterity ranks them amongst the elite of their breed. Moonlyght’s unreserved songs are like exquisite representations of Thomas Cole’s "Voyages of Life" paintings (for reference, dig up some old Candlemass records, which utilized these works of art on their covers, or visit the National Gallery in Washington, DC), "The Autumn’s Freezing Harmony" being a prime example. The piano/violin/accordion solo section alone will have you playing Progressive Darkness with repeat appreciation, returning to it with reflective glee like that cherished childhood castle in the sky reserved on the highest tier of your bookshelf. (9.5/10)

Nomansland gets the things that could ruin it for you out of the way as quickly as possible, namely 1) keyboards that sound like someone has gotten a hold of his little sister’s Casio, and 2) harsh vocals that don’t really fit the music at all.

However, once this Russian folk/Pagan metal group get the worst out of its system (the weedy keys are mostly on the beginning of track 1), there are more than a good amount of moments when this band really shines. The best part about Hammerfrost are the unabashed, stirring, folky riffs put to metal guitar distortion. And aside from the offending keys, the production has punch and life to it that complements the music very well.

The music is more than stirring – it’s jaunty, bordering on being as life-affirming as one can imagine from a band with vocals that largely sound like black metal warmongering. And this indeed is the great problem with this album: the harsh vocals sound so out of place, it’s corny. In contrast, when the less prevalent clean, low, chanted vocals come in, it works very well, serving to augment the aura that the band is putting forth, rather than detract from it.

Still, Hammerfrost is a remarkable and good record, but some re-assessment of intent would yield something even better. (6.5/10)

Lazy eye would attract you to think Saves the Day has a new, exotic titled album out, and perhaps that works to Since the Day’s advantage in the overall marketing perspective. The album name, loosely translated, means the messenger is not important, but in this case, it’s the actual message that’s important. Angry hardcore delivered with a Panther’s fist in the air as executed by this German outfit, Since the Day detonates its hardened thought bomb in a musical language most metal fans can understand and hopefully relate to.

"Welcome to the Show" is a cool, paranoid song about media manipulation that is right on with its lyrics. The use of "Big Brother is watching you" is less Orwellian as it is a commentary on the show of the same name, dull-witted "reality" television that creates autonomous audiences who blindly favor such brain cell numbing tripe like Survivor and "American Idol." The farce attack even extends to those who unquestioningly accept news media as gospel. The scathing sarcasm carries over into "From Day to Day," which slags the human race by denoting the daily exchange of morality for the easy copout amidst its chugging rhythms and grinding metalcore,

"For Too Long" features intense melodies amidst its driving riffage, again taking a swipe at the average inconsiderate and apathetic individual; in this case, it appears directed towards lazy Americans if you soak in the following lyric: "not until captivity you learn to appreciate the sweetness of freedom." In other words, Since the Day has made it a mission statement to point out the spoiled-rottenness of America and its arrogant denizens who closed-mindedly suffer from a superiority complex the rest of the world has taken note of.

The most intricately written song, music-wise, on El Mensajero is "Lunar’s Eclipse," while the sinister grooves of "Powder Keg" accent the savvy lyrics that deal with the responsibility of criminal behavior, which could be taken to mean small-scale crimes all the way to international conspiracy. In any case, we’re all condemning ourselves with our selfish societal greed, the song points out. As Since the Day embodies the North American hardcore sound, the facsimile becomes more imperative as they fearlessly tackle the bullshit emanating from that region which, despite its overt spirit of progression, paradoxically helps keep our world from evolving as an all-inclusive conglomerate. In America’s current regime, a sore lack of communal global awareness exists and Since the Day is right there to point it out to anyone who would listen.

A spiffy guitar solo breaks up the guttural "Interlude," an interesting number that continues the abrasive commentary on what androids our world populace is becoming like a Borg collective (that’s a "Star Trek" reference – helpful editor): "an ‘abortion’ to recreate a person, more than a life, a username, a one, a zero, back in the offline world, disconnected!" Such obviousness unfortunately has to be artistically realized to present the absolute wrongness of our 24-7 cyber world.

Meanwhile, if you’re looking to just slam without thinking too hard, "En Vogue" is your huckleberry with its thrash attack and stomp breakdowns. Nevertheless, Since the Day maintains its litany against linear assumption: "the cloning company is at work, disposing all kind of singular beauty, extolling a new form of standard, you participate by consuming." Since the Day would have you rise up or rage against the machine, or simply put, think for yourself as you mosh to your merry heart’s content. As Isaac Asimov wrote, the robots of dawn are you and me and we’re interfacing on a quick path towards non-identity. Consider that as you forecheck your friend in the pit.

Musically, the biggest surprise is "Mascara Eyes," which takes on Tool overtures. It may not be as executed as eloquently as Maynard and company are capable of, yet the doom-heavy grind and industrial coatings, along with the rawness of the vocals make for a compelling close to a thoughtfully written hardcore album.

Since the Day are seemingly hell-bent on opening a few eyes, not necessarily as much their music as their words and viewpoints, hence the messenger indeed is not as important as the message itself, as the album title indicates. Since the Day is merely the springboard towards a deeper realization if you take the time to know them better. (9/10)

Could Stabbing the Drama be Soilwork's best work yet? With Figure Number Five and Natural Born Chaos, The Swedish thrash group seemed to be searching for an equilibrium between the tough, straightforward sound of Steelbath Suicide and the harmonized vocals and more melodious guitar lines that edged their way into Soilwork's formula. Stabbing the Drama reaches the optimum levels, with short bursts of sung vocals that do a lot for the mood and structure of the songs without taking up too much time or becoming too corny.

Percussiveness drives the album – Speed's vocals rip through each track with more grit than usual, the guitars hit in short but perfectly timed bursts and Scarve's Dirk Verbeuren does a great job on the drums. Perfectly accurate and completely entertaining, Soilwork has improved on all the subtle keyboards and impressive guitar flourishes that have gained fans for the group over the years.

Too clean, production-heavy and formulaic for some, Soilwork has been my guilty pleasure since Roberto and I saw the group at the 2001 Metalfest. If you've liked any of Soilwork's previous releases (or you're just a fan of good, progressive thrash), Stabbing the Drama is sure to please. (8/10)

Into the Moat is an experimental young band, filling out a meandering metalcore base with death-style grooves and grinding rhythms. These Floridians' first release is a promising effort, as well, full of quick and drastic changes, good musicianship and serious energy.

The production is clear, Earl Ruwell IV's vocal range is wide, climbing from deep growls to throaty screams, and the instrumentation is tight enough for what Into the Moat is trying to do – impress as a whole, with song writing and unpredictability taking the forefront rather than extreme skill or accuracy on the part of each player. A gritty feel from somewhat loose playing and fuzzy distortion adds to the dusty atmosphere invoked by the lyrics.

Tackling the overdone topics of ancient battlefields and betrayal, Into the Moat isn't taking metal listeners anywhere new, but some of the imagery is well-done. Most of the lyrics don't have much of a flow to them, however, and they often come off as amateurish, blank verse. This contributes to the disjointedness of the album, but not necessarily in a positive way.

Ruwell adds punctuation with his voice at strange intervals, and the lyricist's gaze shifts as his attention wanders, not getting a firm grasp on any one topic or reincorporating any themes in a meaningful way. And although it's always nice to hear an extreme metalcore band that isn't hung-up on emo crap for all its lyrical content, the radical, well-plotted shifts in rhythms, melodies and styles are The Design's biggest plusses. (7.5/10)

Swedish Altered Aeon has a technical thrash style and vocals with a taste of power metal, which is a good fit for the interesting, occult-inspired lyrical content. The production is crisp and clean, which is appropriate for letting the melodic guitars and ripping solos shine as well as for giving the detailed lyrics a shot at being heard.

Bands like this strike a nerve with some – a style this clear-cut mixed with wailing, high-pitched singing turn plenty of metal fans off, whether it is because they are looking for something more extreme, or less nostalgic (every time I hear power metal vocals it takes me back to middle school), or something more drum-heavy, or whatever.

But for the guitar junkies who like an interesting read and aren't bothered by stylized melodies that occasionally traverse into the realm of the cheesy, Altered Aeon is a good choice. The song writing and musicianship are excellent on this album, and you won't find yourself bored by repetition either within each track or among them. A great effort by a relatively new band. (7.5/10)

This is one of those albums that sounds just like it looks: fast and dirty, ugly and old-school. Black Witchery has been around since 1991 and has released various demos and splits, along with two full-length albums including Upheaval of Satanic Might. However, there's nothing in this new release that would give the impression of being at all recent – the production is filthy and muddled, and the band's sound is completely raw and so loose that you expect Black Witchery to come apart at any second.

Continuous blast beats fall somewhere near where they are supposed to, guitars are distinguishable only as background noise through most of the album and forceful growling punctuates each track – and after several listens, if you played a track at random from this CD for me I would have a one in nine chance of guessing which one it was (brief but varying intros excluded).

But bona-fide, claymore-carrying, corpse-painted black metal fans have a different system of evaluation than I. So if a barely audible (though evil-sounding to the core) excursion into the realm of Satanic black metal sounds good to you, you might want to check this one out. But if you like something experimental or with a discernable groove, you'll want to steer clear of Black Witchery. (3/10)

This album, somewhat surprisingly, is one of the most distinctive I've heard so far this year. Phazm, a French group made up of several members of Scarve, is all over the map with its style – blast beats to sludgy grooves to thrashy melodies all the way to blues riffs. The only regularly recurring theme in Hate at First Seed is vengeful trees.

An odd mix but a good one, you'll find. Clean production, well-written songs and well-executed instrumentation provide a solid base on which the unorthodox style shifts and bizarre themes can comfortably exert themselves. The vocals are generally weak, but this isn't a big problem for Phazm as a whole; the production doesn't bring the deep growls too far forward, and the strength of the other players keeps the album moving.

Hate at First Seed has strong, banging grooves at its core. It will mainly appeal to death-heads and militantly environmentalist headbangers. Phazm has already found a unique sound, and the group is clearly skilled enough to stick around for years to come. Hopefully their sound will continue to evolve, as creativity is this album's main asset. It will be interesting to see what comes out of these guys next. (7.5/10)

Scenteria sounds exactly like Swedish thrash is supposed to, with a metalcore edge amidst the melodic guitar lines. This is both the album's main strength and its most apparent flaw – the recent wave of Swedish-style thrash always includes a good degree of technicality, decent production and fairly strong songwriting that cuts down on repetitiveness and gives each song a distinct flavor. As a result, these elements are not hard to come by these days, and it takes something more to make a band memorable. Act of Aggression is a solid release full of good songs, but Scenteria isn't showing much imagination or innovation in its debut album despite the band's superior instrumentation and energy.

In other words, Scenteria's first album isn't anything you haven't heard before, though you're bound to like a few songs. Well-executed but unadventurous. (5.5/10)

(Editor’s note: what is up with aggro metal bands and the whole "scent" thing? Is this a joke or am I not getting it? Dew-Scented was bad enough, and now Scenteria? What’s next? "Aromatherapy"? "The Body Shop"?)

Vomitory, the Swedish death-metallers, are back with another high-intensity offering. Primal Massacre stands entirely upon good musicianship and pure energy, as the album doesn't bring new or surprising treats to the table. But there is a lot to be said for a well-executed, old-school release – Vomitory is doing what it knows best, pounding out crunchy grooves and thrash-inspired melodies as Erik Rundqvist forcefully growls his vocal chords into submission.

Accuracy, diversity and speed are the keys to Vomitory's style, and Primal Massacre is a solid, enjoyable release all the way through. A variety of techniques from the drums and imaginative melodies and styles from the guitars help ensure that one song isn't mistaken for another, and gory lyrics help keep the listener's attention ("Chainsaw Surgery" and "Autopsy Extravaganza" are two to watch out for, though "Gore Apocalypse" is a veritable epic of evisceration).

Thoroughly satisfying and well done, it is clear that a good deal of work went into Primal Massacre, even though it's not exactly revolutionizing the face of metal as we know it. This album is, at the very least, 34 minutes well-spent and should have no trouble pleasing the purists. (6.5/10)

This Canadian hardcore trio just smacks of Christianity – not overtly in the lyrics, but the general ring is so emotional, hopeful and unqualifiedly cheesy that it becomes impossible not to draw the conclusion that a band with such vague song titles and with such a whiny-voiced, angst-ridden singer must have Jesus on the brain. Singing about "the flame that burns in our hearts," "The Flames Inside," or how "Our Hearts Bleed" – it leaves one with a bad taste in his mouth, wishing for a break from such juvenility. And it really is Murray Campbell's high-pitched, monotonous, new-wave-punk-wannabe singing that is the low point of the album. Along with Matt Colonval's uninspired drum-pounding, of course.

But, on the upside, Murray Campbell is a pretty impressive guitarist. Versatile in his phrasing and imaginative in his melodies, Campbell's prowess with the guitar is the one thing that makes the album worth listening to. And it is here that we find the painful dichotomy: Why can't Murray keep his mouth shut? With a new drummer, Every New Day could be a strong instrumental group by the time of the next release. Throw in a few growls and some deep grooves and you just might have metal when you're through. But for now it's schlock, and there's nothing you can do about it except buy something else. Murray Campbell's guitars: (6.5/10) The rest of this crap: (1.5/10)

Star Tales’ claim to originality is that it is the first album in the metal spectrum in which all vocals are sung by a choir, made up of six men and six women. Stylistically, it’s power/prog meets electronica and new age.

The album started off as something that seemed more interesting than good. But it was interesting. Thankfully, the album’s worth grew with each passing spin, until it became an integral part of our collection.

Certainly, Star Tales isn’t for everyone. It’s not particularly heavy or aggressive. Electronica may not be the most palatable genre to metalheads; and the funk part on "Eclipse" might be even less. The album’s sonic values might take some getting used to; at first Star Tales feels like melodic ambient music, largely due to its sidereal, new age aspects, which are greatly played up with the abundance of spacey keyboards, and how there is no one lead vocalist. The drums (done by Rhapsody’s Alex Holzwarth) are mixed to sound like synthesized comet dust, rounding out the alien feel.

However, present in this album’s bold goals is a sweeping melodicism and quintessentially memorable grandeur that reveals itself more and more as the listener is able to look past the bombast and kitsch. Indeed, Star Tales is mostly about the choir, which is fabulous. But then, allowing oneself to get lost in the fantastic, pastel music vision of the universe interpreted through double kick drums and plastic fantastic instruments yields exponential returns. Very highly recommended. (8.8/10)

A side project of Nuclear Assault’s drummer, Glenn Evans, this actually sounds like an accelerated metallic version of The Misfits in a way that does not differ much from Metallica’s Kill ‘em All: a vocal approach that is all about an angry, aggressive mid-scream, fast guitar solos and thrashing rhythms.

Yep, it’s speed metal all the way, and while it was first released in 1992 (and recently re-released, on the brink of a new Nuclear Assault album), it still obeys the formulas engraved by Metallica’s 1983 debut.

That’s not to say it’s not good! These formulas are still effective for stress-unloading and headbangers balls, when they are as well put as they are here; and speed metal fans are likely to enjoy Attitude if they are willing not to overconsider some generic guitar solos and to overlook the lack of any added value to the genre over seminal recordings like Kill ‘em All and Cacophony’s 1987 album Speed Metal Symphony. (5.75/10)

With a new lineup and a new label, American Head Charge brings back lost pride to nu-metal with its sophomore release.

The influences of Faith No More and Korn are all around (check out the whiner-whispered vocals on "Erratic"), as well as a Ministry-like intensity ("Cowards") and even a Judas Priest "A Touch of Evil" inspired riff on "Take What I’ve Taken"; but it is the American Head Charge sense of melody and its accomplished performance that will win you over.

Clear melodic lines and mild guitar licks decorate the tight rage of power chords and menacing rhythm, and the vocals move faithfully between the two territories, from a mournful cry to a furious, throat-slitting shout. It is packed well and in place, with a layer of keyboards that enhances the entire work by adding a mysterious, atmospheric dimension.

Yet, there is something missing in terms of originality ("fiend" in particular is disappointingly routine nu-metal), and American Head Charge should pay attention and work harder to develop their trademark (and I do not mean a visual one, as I gather their live performance is pretty wacky) while prepping for their next release. This downside, however, should not discourage you from picking up this otherwise successful album. (7.77/10)

Frank Zappa, the man who brought Adrian Belew into world consciousness, titled him "a stunt guitarist," a title later attributed to his replacements, such as Steve Vai, with whom metal fans might be more familiar.

But that’s only a portion of what this fabulous musician had and still has to offer. His reputation speaks for itself, recording and performing with major league artists as diverged as Talking Heads, David Bowie, Paul Simon, Laurie Anderson and Nine Inch Nails. Add to these his unquestionable ongoing contribution to the ever-evolving King Crimson for some decades now, and his wide variety of solo albums, and that just about cover the entire rock scale of modern music.

It is, therefore, a real treat to have his first two solo outings finally re-released, after a long age of unavailability, in remastered form and for all to enjoy.

The two albums, 1982’s Lone Rhino and 1983’s Twang Bar King are quite similar in spirit, and they coexist quite nicely on this one full-capacity CD. The material, while tight, is diverse; moving from the cat like guitar howls of "Big Electric Cat," through everyday frustrations ("The Momur," "I Wonder"), laments ("The Man in the Moon," "The Rail Song," "She Is Not Dead") and reflective despair ("The Lone Rhinoceros"), and onto upbeat humorous moments, like "Fish Head," which can easily be spotted as a source of inspiration (with much of King Crimson’s eighties output) to Primus.

Belew, unlike most innovators, works within the boundaries of traditional rock, as he is a sucker for a solid songwriting (make no mistake, this is meant as a compliment), breaking conventions from the inside. The backwards sequences, the screeching, bent and hovering guitar lines, the squeaking saxophones, the funky bass and the edgy piano notes – they all live within the frames of verses and choruses; and even on the most effects-loaded situations, the material remains effective with meaning and feel ("I Wonder" is a great testament to this). This allows Belew to blend his compelling songwriting and accessible performance, highly influenced by The Beatles, with his profound sense for experimental adventures.

His colleagues on these two albums deserve praises for the way they complement Belew on his quirky ventures, helping him to audio-visualize his intentions by following his inventive eccentrics while remaining in his frames. Give one listen to "Adidas in Heat" and you’ll know what I mean.

One thing is for sure: fans of Talking Heads and King Crimson’s 80s work should not live without this release on their musical library. Even if you’re not amongst those, you should give this release a try, as it is a definite highlight of the talented and multifaceted Belew. (9.5/10)

March 29th, 2001 was an evening I will forever treasure. It was on that evening that my romance with Peter Hammill started. Being fresh to Hammill’s recorded output, I recognized nothing but the sheer intensity and the emotional well that Hammill is all about, as he (dressed in pure white) and his virtuoso electric-violin collaborator, Stuart Gordon, delivered a chaotic, touching and cathartic web of dramatic songs.

Once a dominant member of the messiest and most aggressive eccentric progressive-rock outfit of the 70’s (and perhaps ever), Van Der Graaf Generator (which has recently reformed to record a new album), Hammill has recorded dozens of albums, always exploring and never resting.

Like most of Hammill’s recorded work, Incoherence, his most recent work to date, demands absorption throughout time and repeated listens. So, in order to do it justice, I have contemplated it for over a year, building my review slowly, but hopefully, firmly.

I remember myself surprised to hear of this conceptual work coming out, as Hammill, apart from often being regarded as a Jimi Hendrix of vocals, is also widely known as painter of words, always inflicting them with meanings and serving them ideally and articulately, in a way that is idolized among his fans. It is therefore relieving, aside from revealing, to know he is also occasionally frustrated with words:

"And when ideas come entirely without words
their purity is unalloyed
even to ourselves unspoken is unheard
and so we try to give them voice"

Incoherence is a continuous, extensive journey through language and words that lasts around forty minutes, visiting myths, sayings and idioms in a profound way which only Hammill could have approached.

Like his recent releases, Incoherence benefits well from the artistic freedom of being released on Hammill’s own label. The production, by Hammill himself, is of great depth; revealing details on every listen, while remaining loyal to the economical, functional music.

Yet unlike his previous release, 2002’s acoustically dominated Clutch, his new release is a more electrified and electronic affair, and it contains some major keyboards allegations, bringing some of his 70’s and early 80’s aesthetics (most notably, those of A Black Box) back in an improved form. In fact, Hammill proves himself as quite a purposeful keyboard wizard, utilizing the keys as a necessary voice in whatever form needed, whether it involves a vibraphones cacophony or conducting a symphony with Gordon’s violin ("Gone Ahead").

Hammill, together with his longtime collaborators David Jackson (saxes and flutes) and Stuart Gordon, manages to maintain a cohesive, sobering piece; from the reflective and suggestive introduction, through the Gentle Giant-like polyphonic hysteria of the manipulative "Logodaedalus," the fragile disappointment of others ("Your Word") and of ourselves ("Always and a Day"); onto the frustrating paradox of "Cretans Always Lie" and the firing squad of notes on "All Greek"; ending with the shattered, anticlimaxed closure, on which Hammill considers the fragments only to remain speechless:

"And if language explodes
in our faces like shrapnel
all self-defence is blown away.

In the end this reasoning's sound:
how can we be found
if we're lost for words?
…
I've said my piece,
I'll take my leave now,
breathe not a word
of my disarray.

Ssh.
All of the words have flown away...."

If you have yet to explore the modest, tortured divinity that is Peter Hammill, Incoherence is a good place to start as it ranks among his best works, yet more melodic and accessibly constructed than most of them. If you are already a fan, you would not miss it for the world (or the word). (9.5/10)

This new release by Angel Air is said to represent the entire output of the 60’s rock band Ice, who later evolved into a better known band amongst progressive rockers as Affinity.

Though remastered, the tracks found here are far from being an audiophile experience, due to noises of the original vinyl, abrupt endings and narration of radio presenters on some of the tracks.

Ice’s output can be titled as "British" pretty much the same way The Kinks’ output is. Their soul-based material has a light psychedelia vibe about it, which is far from giving it a voice distinctive enough; and those who are familiar with Deep Purple’s first two releases aren’t likely to find something terribly refreshing on Ice Man.

Still, the diverse songwriting often makes up for everything else, resulting in a delightful listening consisted of both live and studio performances.

Ice Man may appeal to those who can appreciate fine songs while settling for sound quality, but it is mainly intended for sixties collectors and recollectors, who will be grateful to Angel Air for this archival release. Sixties collectors and nostalgia buffs: 8/10 (if you must, 4/10 for the general crowd)

Despite its clunky name, the band Klimt 1918 is in fact far from awkward. Rather, this heavy goth rock band from Italy creates music that is some of the most harmonious to have come across this reviewers desk in a while.

The songs on Dopo Guerra are good in themselves, but it’s how everything is so well in tune with everything else that makes them really shine. Certainly start with the vocals, which continue to be melodic and pure, untarnished by affectation. Indeed, the word "goth" generally incites me to pass on a record, as I find most music that parades itself under this banner to be lacking in the very attributes that the genre tries to uphold – a sort of plastic facsimile of the greatest incarnations of loveliness, beauty, death, sorrow and longing. But not Klimt 1918.

These Italians don’t go for the over-the-top. Much like their previous album, which we also liked, Klimt 1918's music is some sort of mix between Sting (especially the vocals), U2 (The Joshua Tree), and Depeche Mode, with an underlying current of traditional, heartfelt Italian folk music to make the whole unique. While not being at all like countrymen Canaan, Klimt 1918 certainly must now be considered with that other band as one of Italy’s elite goth rockers. (8.3/10)

What would Primus sound like if they switched the guitar for a clarinet? The answer lies within Kruzensthern & Parohod’s Songs, their second release to date, which tops their debut album (2003’s The Craft of Primitive Klezmer) in terms of aggressiveness, most likely due to the skilled contribution by Israel’s sound-maestro Udi Koomran (Ahvak, Orphaned Land).

Kruzenshtern & Parohod takes the Jewish traditional Klezmer music to modern extremes by blending it with free jazz, hardcore rock and a healthy dose of humor to create a refreshing dish, consisted of extremely groovy and loosed rhythm section of ripped-apart bass and kickass drumming, and an instrumental use of hilarious, mostly improvised vocals.

Their hardcore leanings are charming, joyful and original, at times sounding like a parody on metal conventions, from the death metal drum bashes on "Joy" to nu-metal ala Slipknot or System of a Down on "Portrait of a Sitting Man in a Hat." But these are only partial ingredients of the casserole, which might seem a bit monotonous at first but soon reveals distinctive melodic hooks and unique characteristics that are there to stimulate the listener throughout.

With freakish, nearly impossible twists and turns, these instrumental pieces flow naturally from untamed Clarinet-led melodies, to swift avant-garde passages and to the aforementioned hardcore demonstration. Just check out "Shtetl," on which they perform, with a honking of a horn, surprising transitions from intense drum lashing to a lazy clarinet melody and vice versa.

Songs is all about nonstop action and cheerful insanity, merging roots with up-to-date beats, and resulting in one hell of a mind-blowing adventure you do not want to miss! (9.25/10)

With its new album being promoted with the question of "Godfathers of Brit-pop?" hovering over it, The Look can be just that, as songs like "United" and "Roly Poly Man" certainly sound a bit like Blur.

Still, it is quite hard to make a resolved decision as this album is in fact a brand new release by a band that should have had its heydays in the 70’s and 80’s, meaning back in the time it originally emerged... although its 1980’s single, included as a bonus here, does support the "Godfathers" declaration.

With a Hammond inspired keyboard work, and a straight forward rock approach, The Look revives the sixties. "I Won’t Commit Myself" resembles a Spencer Davis number, "Runaround Girl" is very close in spirit to The Who’s R&B output, and there are further influences of the era’s major voices (The Beach Boys, The Kinks, The Faces) to be found allover. No wonder the band’s name starts with "The." Occasionally, some ska influence, courtesy of Madness, also finds its way to the songs ("Testing Times").

The Look delivers a collection of mostly potent, 1960’s R&B inspired songs – an unfashionable attempt that actually works. If you miss the sincerity of old times, like I often do, this one is for you. (6.25/10)

As a general rule, reviews are inspiring only to a degree proportional to the quality of the reviewed work. Therefore, you should not expect much of this review, as it is hard to find any inspiration in Overkill’s new release, RELIXIV.

RELIXIV is just another collection of heavy metal songs of high speed and intense rhythms that borrow heavily from the mighty Judas Priest and Accept. It lacks any genuine, melodic hooks, which leaves it as a standard, rhythm dominated, hard rocking release. The closing "Old School" is even more archival than the rest, being some sort of an accelerated tribute to punk.

I guess Overkill fans would dig this, as it should be in terms with past releases. Yet, if you are not among those, there’s no reason to join the club now. (3.5/10)

This double-CD reissue, which includes two classic albums by the Frenchman Jean Luc Ponty, pinpoints his phase of being an electric-violin pioneer, influenced by the explorations of John Coltrane and influencing a younger generation (East of Eden’s Dave Arbus, for example).

1969’s Electric Connection is concerned with a swing and much of a gentle big band orchestration, borrowing from jazz conventions. However, it is also close in spirit to popular, rock related works of the time by the likes of The Doors ("Strange Days," "The Soft Parade") and Blood Sweat & Tears, though overall less bombast.

The electric violin playing is the most dominant lyrical voice here, often sounding like a saxophone, with some solo keyboards spots by George Duke. The music is pretty straight-forward, closely structured, melodic and endearing. This mixture of electric jazz with a rock feel hints at the possibilities of jazz rock, a genre (or perhaps cross-genres) that has began to blossom at the time.

One of jazz rock’s most innovative figures, apart from Miles Davis, was "the American explorer," Frank Zappa. Indeed, Zappa and Ponty soon discovered they had a common voyage to undergo. And so, shortly after Ponty’s guest appearance on the Zappa’s seminal Hot Rats, Zappa arranged Ponty’s followup, King Kong, which, as its subtitle ("Jean-Luc Ponty Plays the Music of Frank Zappa") suggests, is centered around Zappa’s compositions, with only one original composition by Ponty, on which Zappa guests on guitar.

Amongst these Zappa compositions is the original "Music For Electric Violin and Low Budget Orchestra," presented here for the first time. No Zappa fan should miss this lengthy piece, which would resurface later on Zappa albums (such as Lather) in an abbreviated and reworked form, as it is a typical, yet successful, Zappa blend of orchestral movements, jazz and rock.

Ponty would make further appearances with Zappa, join another major jazz-rock outfit, Mahavishnu Orchestra, and will have some more significant output, especially his critically acclaimed solo release Enigmatic Ocean. (8/10)

A risky combo of Iron Maiden, Type O Negative and Carnivore, this Norwegian black metal unit hobbles along with a shaky construct that hasn’t quite found itself yet, despite a few shining moments on the band’s singular-minded album Pagan Manifest.

When John Carr sings cleanly, he attempts a melancholic cross between Peter Steele and Peter Murphy, not to much success. More out of key than in (Carr is downright laughable on the title track’s verses), Carr’s deadpanism is at least offset by his guttural parts in addition to screeches lent by guitarist/vocalist John Lind.

"Element of Sorrow" never really gets its wings, while the epic structuring of "Maanelys" escalates Ulvhedin somewhat. Yet the band nearly shoots itself in the foot by being overly intricate on the thrash section; the breakdown period of the song restores the band to its capabilities, which should tell you something. A decent bass player Helge Gaarder may be, but he tends to get entirely lost the faster Ulvhedin gets. When they keep to mid-tempo paces, Gaarder and his unit come together melodiously on the Grim Reaper and Coroner-like "One Eyed God," which likewise implements the Maiden element to its own appeasement. "One Eyed God," with an agreeable synth addition by drummer Are Gjerde, manages to keep itself intact most of the time, even as the speedier parts threaten to rip Ulvhedin’s infrastructure apart. Despite overstaying its welcome a bit, "One Eyed God," along with "Echo of the Goddesses Voices," is the most memorable moment of Pagan Manifest.

By the time "Where the Spirits Gather" arrives you will feel like you’ve heard the same sweeping march rhythm repeatedly played out on this album despite some pretty nifty guitar licks by John Lind. Ditto for "The Unholy Path," which at least develops a pleasing melody after starting out with terribly-timed thrash parts. Therein lies Pagan Manifest’s main detriment: a lack of structure to its harmony disorders.

As the stringed instruments launch in unison on "The Unholy Path," this time it is drummer Gjerde who goes astray. As the title track wears on, it sounds like Ulvhedin begins to give up on itself, the timing issues are that many.

At least Lind and his mates put in solid efforts on "Echo of the Goddesses Voices," which does boast a terrific Gothic sub-rhythm. The likewise stout instrumental "Gnipahellir" gives a fleeting hint of this band’s forthcoming potential.

Plain and simple, you could do a lot worse than Ulvhedin, but this band needs some work. The components are definitely there and with more practice, they can expand into something stronger than what they deliver on this album. Such was the beauty of the old metal scene, watching so many bands begin sluggishly then evolve into something good if not great. (5/10)

When thinking of it, the case of Loits may appear to be rather tragic. A group of Estonian extremists, attempting to present their mythical ancestors with an offering of proud, crude, folky pagan metal, bringing forth their glorified nationalistic tradition, but ending up creating an intriguing yet too light and enjoyable, almost parodic-sounding musical product. Bah! why should we care? It is still fun!

The music on Vere Kutse Kohusta features a heavy dose of traditiona black metal-ish riffs that reveal influences of Loits’ neighboring Scandinavian founders, blended with significant elements of exceedingly simple chord progressions usually characterizing either ignorant British teenage punks of the late 70's or subtle-minded NSBM intellectuals that tell us all about ZOG.

The admixture of elements is interspersed with occasional innovative and creative artistic ideas, usually in the form of unusually performed, folk-oriented movements or creative, innovatively intertwined atmospheric bits. These are balanced by primitive, not to say humorous growls.

The aforementioned amalgamation adds together to quite a beneficial sum: Usually, it is interesting. Whenever it is not, it sure is as entertaining as any heathen may ever be. So, even if not managing to sweep the listener with an inflaming experience of old zealous fame and might, the latest release by Loits (doesn't their name remind you of a sensitive part in the human anatomy?) always remains, in one way or the other, rewarding. Enjoy. (7.5/10)

The music of this US extremist sextet has obviously picked the conceptual anchor point of sheer, virtuoso-level aggressive intensity. Setting this thematic centre of overwhelming prowess, the band revolves around it, combining all sorts of elements and influences to the sum of a versatile yet coherent expression of brutality: from grind-like moshing to traditional blast beats; from simple, direct violent riffs to rhythmically complex, dissonant moves; from clever, elite-oriented compositions to simplistic nu metal screams, interestingly mixing flat anger with more subtle, filtered emotional conveyance. All of the above are flawlessly executed, supported by excellent production work.

However, as promising as it may sound, it seems that Hostage Heart are tottering on the edge of taking their agenda of aggression somehow too far. As old as it may sound, the mixture of high quality performance, sterile production and such unrestrained dosage of unleashed force comprises a somehow exaggerated amount of bombarding sonic information. This may inflict a listener, even being a brave enduring metal veteran, with a terrible headache. Not the hardcore, headbanging one. Just a bothersome, golden-age migrane.

Then, so far, lasting only for a brief 16 minutes, the album functions as an outstanding, intimidatingly impressing capsule of finely crafted extremity, just bordering on unwanted irritability. However, if ever planning to proceed to the realm of full-length releases, The Hostage Heart have to take under consideration that the listener's stamina may be lesser then their own. (8/10)

Texas hardcore quintet Mugzu is..well, hardcore. Their website claims that their sound defies definition, but it's certainly hardcore. They formed in 1994 as a trio and added British frontman "Vulture," then added their bassist in 1999 and now being released on April 1, 2005 is their EP titled Not Really.

If you were to ask me if this album was great, I'd quote the title of it to you. It's another of those bands where in their local venues they probably rule the roost, but on a national level, aren't quite up to par. The playing seems a little sloppy, though there are some interesting time changes not usually found in hardcore songs, almost a bit thrash-infused here and there. The vocals are the harsh, screamy kind typical of the genre and the drumming is average. The best thing about the album are the bassist and the track "What’s Your Business, Man." So, all in all it's "not really" a must-have album. Die-hard hxc fans might find it an interesting addition to their collection, something not everyone else has. Everyone else might find it rather "meh." (4.4/10)

I could call Tarantel the abstract stylizing of both Sonic Youth and The Velvet Underground. I could, but I won’t. I could call Tarantel the experimental tinkering of Pigface. Again, I could, but I won’t. What I will call Tarantel is 68 pain-in-the-ass minutes of sparsely strung wannabe moments of the aforementioned groups, art fart musica nouveau that grants mere hodgepodges of comprehensiveness outside of the nonrepresentational coldwave-like expressionism that is too avant guard for its own good.

To break it down plain and simple, Tarantel employs paper mache beats and basic melody theories that serve as fodder to delve into the grains of their unsophisticated craft, despite the fact that Tarantel obviously believes that sophistication lies within their conceptual plainness. Okay, granted, there are some soothing melodies on tracks 1 and track 2 of Paper White — the second of which is almost all straight music — but any mood established in these works are undone by the fact that Tarantel seems intent on being a minimalist Mars Volta.

The thing is, Mars Volta is the opposite extreme; the more lavish and intricate, the better for them as well as their devout listeners. With Tarantel, such texture is apparently unnecessary and unheeded. Too bad, because their core compositions would make nice alt rock instrumentals. The acoustic melody of the fourth track on Paper White is so agreeable it’s a downright shame that’s all there is to cheer about. Never mind the 44-minute tirade of frigid emptiness, Big Black Square, which is a downright chore to slosh through.

The lunatic fringe art of Fantomas is far more appealing; in fact, Mike Patton might very sneer at Tarantel’s audacity. In other words, instead of being a potential Cure or Jesus and Mary Chain as their echoey guitar notes hint at, Tarantel takes itself far too seriously as art rockers.

I just roll with the punches. If it makes you feel better, in my frustration, I quickly threw on KMFDM’s WWIII Live and got my groove on before I screamed like Malcolm McDowell while strapped to his eye-prodding torture chair in "A Clockwork Orange." Judging by the sound of Paper White / Big Black Square, Tarantel might be fond of said movie for all the wrong reasons. (2/10)

Belef hails from southern France and formed in 1998, releasing a demo and an mcd in 1999. We have before us their newest release, Infection Purification. It's very... black metal. Complete with really fast, unintelligible guitars, fingernail on chalkboard vocals screeching about all that is evil and scary in the world, and that black metal style production that leaves so much to be desired.

Basically, it's impossible to differentiate any of the eight tracks from each other. They all sound like the same song, and that song isn't even a good one. The only good thing to mention about this album is the artwork on the cover by JP Fournier (known for doing artwork for Immortal), complete with some serious guy in a military uniform holding a flag, and two monster-looking humanoid creatures, and a naked chick. Said naked chick is shackled and chained and one of the monsters is branding a pentagram on her ass in what appears to be a pit of fire. Cool cover, but not worth the price of the album to get. (2.9/10)

If you could look in an encyclopedia under "death metal supergroup" you would find a picture and bio of the Swedish band Bloodbath. How can you possibly go wrong with this lineup? On drums, Martin Axenrot of Witchery, Nifelheim and a few other bands; on bass, Jonas Renske of Katatonia and October Tide; on vocals for the 2000 EP and 2002 albums Mikael Akerfeldt of Opeth, being replaced on this current album by Peter Tagtgren of Hypocrisy and Pain; and on guitars, Anders Nystrom of Katatonia and Diabolical Masquerade and Dan Swano of... Altar, Edge of Sanity, Katatonia, Ribspreader, Diabolical Masquerade, Nightingale, Total Terror, Infestdead and many, many more. Basically, if it's Swedish, Dan's most likely had a hand in it somewhere.

This album meets and exceeds all expectations. Their earlier EP and full length album were great ones but this one blows it out of the water, so to speak. The riffs here are thrashy in a death metal vein, the production very clean and slick, massive-sounding rhythm section, and the vocals... are... amazing. The very best kind of death metal vocals, deep, booming, make your brain vibrate in your head vocals. Not a bad song on here, and the track "Eaten" will give you chills, both lyrically and musically.

The best thing about this album is that they kept all the good aspects of the sound they had on Resurrection Through Carnage, and added some technicality and better songwriting to it – not that there was anything wrong with Akerfeldt's vocals, but Peter Tagtgren's voice is more suited to this project, it was the final perfect touch. Pity that he left in February, due to scheduling conflicts and Akerfeldt will be filling back in for Wacken 2005. Here's hoping that when it comes time to do another album Peter will be free again. All in all, I'll have to say that yes, it's essential. For those of you who didn't like Resurrection Through Carnage, you'll find this one is an improvement. And for those who have been Bloodbath fans from the beginning, you most definitely need this one. Your ears will thank you. (9.3/10)

If you're not familiar with Chuck Schuldiner and Death, just keep on walking. You have no business here. This 2-cd release is for absolute Chuck-o-philes only. After leaving Death, he formed the band Control Denied, in which he stepped down as vocalist and only handled guitar duties. Zero Tolerance contains four rehearsal tracks of Control Denied, four Death demos (going back as early as 1985) and a live Death recording from 1990's Spiritual Healing tour.

Death, and Chuck Schuldiner himself are among the forefathers of the death metal genre. It wouldn't be where it is today if not for their influence. 99.9% of fans agree. That said, this album is not really necessary the for average fan of the genre. It's got horrible production (being mostly demos), very, very bad sound, and doesn't show the true technicality that was Death. It sounds like what it is: tapes found in Chuck's estate after his death.

In all the demo and live sections, it's hard to distinguish what instrument is doing what, and comes across as very noisy. The first four tracks of CD one however, are great. These are the Control Denied rehearsal tracks. The sound still isn't wonderful, but the playing is. They're instrumental and Chuck's guitar ability shines through in all its brilliance, especially on track three. But four tracks out of two discs isn't enough for me to recommend this as essential to everyone. It is however something that hardcore Death / Schuldiner / Control Denied fans must have and must cherish. It's a nice piece of history and a memorial to the legacy of Chuck Schuldiner. (6/10)

Being unable to find any background information on this band that was in English, let's just say that Defacing is from Chile and they had a demo in 2003, and Spitting Savagery is their first release, on Spain's Xtreem Music. Honestly, you don't need much more history on them than that. What you DO need, is to hear this album, it's easily the best brutal death release so far of 2005, possibly even going back farther than that.

Putting the CD in, pushing play and the music starting is the equivalent of stepping out your front door, minding your own business, and BAM! being hit by a Mack truck... followed closely by a Greyhound bus, and then a tank. If you're looking for in-your-face aggression and brutality, this is the album you've been waiting for. It's got speed, technicality, and flat-out violence.

The guitars and bass are tightly woven and intricate; the drums are ungodly fast, sounding almost like a machine gun, and the vocalist has what all brutal death vocalists should strive for, the perfect growl. Not pitch-shifted, not the shouty bellowing grunt kind... but deep, booming, ferocious growliness. The songs move right along and never get old no matter how many times you play the disc, and this is only their first album!!

This is one of those bands you'll definitely want to keep an eye on as their careers progress. It will be interesting to see where they'll go from here, I don't know if it's possible that they can get any heavier than they already are. Let's hope they don't change their style any. For fans of brutal death, completely essential. For those who aren't fans of the genre, this album will make you one. (9.5/10)

Kataplexia got its start in the brain of Rodrigo Artiga (of Deep Red) back in El Salvador in 2002. He made the band a reality in Finland the following year with the album Morgue's Reality. Now with two more members (recruited from Brazil), they’ve signed to Dave Rotten's (Avulsed) label, Xtreem Music.

Their new album, Catastrophic Scenes, was a pleasant surprise. Their sound is more reminiscent of the American brutal death scene, belying their South American roots and Scandinavian locale, very similar to Brodequin but with better vocals and cleaner production. The sound on the album is great; churning, dense guitar work that isn't simply the same chugga-chugga riff throughout, but the bass is a bit buried behind everything else that's going on. The drumming is fast and technical but has that hollow donk-donk-donk sound that Brodequin is now known for. The vocals are great here – thick, guttural, "punch someone in the street for absolutely no reason other than the music is so brutal" type of growls. What's particularly impressive is that these awesome vocals are done by Artiga, who is also the drummer. How someone could keep up that kind of drumming AND pay attention to keeping his growls that growly is beyond me, but somebody buy that man a beer.

Overall, it's a great effort. Nothing new or original to be heard here, not absolutely essential but if you're a fan of American-style brutal death, most definitely worth the time and money. (7.9/10)

The main idea on the cover is that this is Larry Lifeless' (Upside Down Cross, Killslug) band. That will probably say it all to anyone who knows those other bands. This is the doom-sludge version. It sounds OK. It would have been better if there was some deeper exhumation of George Harrison, than mere song titles: "Here Comes the Cum" and "My Sweet Gourd."

How to recommend this is if, for example, one was considering collecting one of those Eyehategod releases that they had to put out to crush bootleggers. This is that kind of sound, with a more wasted sounding vocal, but better recording quality. So it's kind of a rendition of something else from way back, yet done worthy of mention. Except nobody's going to say, "listen to Adolf Satan" out loud. Just typing it feels stupid. Yet, yet, "swastika upside down cross" is too much. So what else could they do? Sure.

That's about how much effort this represents. The band logo's got that crude swastika and upside down cross in it, sure enough. They can't be taken seriously, so how much of a joke is it? Is this just Larry Lifeless makin' fun of Eyehategod? It's so similar, and sounds so faithful, except no feedback fun.

Maybe it's all supposed to be open to interpretation, just a sound that musicians find compelling. But trying to put Hitler and Satan together in crayon is pretty much admitting what lies within is crap. Then they try to make it sound exactly like some other band's work. So already a portion of people are going to avoid this anyway, and those who might think they get it, get something they’ve probably already heard. (5/10)

This CD has some deep concept behind it relating to the title, and it has Greg Christian from Testament on bass. They got some singer from an ad, and it sounds like he's giving it his all. If that seems like a little too much at times, then remember this is powerful thrash, it's all supposed to be right up there. It's the state of the art sound, too, kind of all over the place, but not too technical sounding. And when Tim Bouchee sings, it never sounds weak, so it's ahead of ninety per cent of today's bands already.

There isn't a lot of super speedy playing here, and the songs are mostly pretty steady. That's probably why the CD as a whole seems to lose steam at only track three, but recovers from the power ballad with the next track. It might be the whole Cycle of Pain philosophical discourse, too – I never really wrap my head around that sort of stuff. I can appreciate the imagery, and definitely the songs as a whole; maybe it will all make sense subliminally...

Mention Greg Christian in the first sentence, and by the third paragraph the Testament comparison has to be made. Not too much exact matching up, but there is common ground. It all sounds a little more mature and with a little less velocity overall. With that in mind, it's also reminiscent of Megadeth, minus Dave Mustaine's annoying vocals and guitarist ego inflation. It's this progress that elevates Havochate's songwriting and various talents. (7/10)

The first fifty seconds of Heavy Metal Tonight are pre-music live crowd warmup. It really is a lot of live heavy metal for the other thirty nine minutes. The killer CD cover art's promise delivers. It's punk, too, really. Not wanting to split hairs with anybody, a waste of time, they opt for taking a metal stance and stick with it for the sticking's sake.

There's not a lot of difference between Motorhead and the Ramones, and Superchrist don't go far from that little patch. They don't take the music any further, but their songs are all way more smut and tough stuff. It all goes together: classic music, grimey singing, and their willing audience. It has the relentless barrage of songs like those other two bands' live shows. Superchrist sound like they had more to drink, that's all.

Superchrist is a truly dumb name that conjures up images of two phony "good guys" for a change. But the word looks cool on the cover, typefaced all Olde English style, striking a church with lightning bolts. It's not subtle, it's a live rock and roll show, a little self-conscious, but not pandering with irony. (7/10)

Anybody who is into COC might think having a jam-band drummer do an album with them was a risky move, but players from that style are supposed to be good, even if that's usually a false pretense.

It takes a minute on this CD, then there is no doubt, for a solid hour, that this is one of their best yet. They've been around forever, and had their own style and direction the whole time. Yet at the same time, everything good going on around them, musically, is absorbed and made their own.

This might be a classic, time could easily add another point to this disc. There's a couple of fillerish tracks, songs that don't take arcs like the others. There's one song that takes a chance with a vocal affectation similar to Howlin' Wolf. Time might take away a point for that one... Track eleven is a soft ballad, sticking out like some kind of requirement, but it's cool.

What makes this a probable classic is how it's all song and album-oriented, not just a collection of clips. Any track that doesn't live up to the one before it is really a transition. The disc as a whole works when played all the way through, and it's not just adroit sequencing of the songs. The next one up is anticipated after a couple of listens. Even with ballads, funny voices, it all works, and takes long time fans to new places. (9/10)

This band is aware enough to term itself hardcore influenced thrash, when everyone considers this style thrash influenced hardcore.

The fall of Rome (the actual fall, not this disc under review here) is the heaviest, most metal thing in history. Sure, the seventeenth century had its plagues and witch hunts, but there were so many plagues and witch hunts in the dark ages, that usually nobody bothered to write them down. That is too much for hardcore to tackle right there. So thrash it is.

The monstrous vocals are from metallic hardcore – there's no singing here. The riffs are direct, all metal. The instrumental ballad in the middle has no style whatsoever, true filler. It's followed by a song that sounds like it belongs, but is way more screamo sounding than any of the other songs, vocally. Musically, it manages to be one of the most intense, yet, oddly, the least evocative of the barbarian invasion.

This soundtrack to our own empire's fall is more for the hardcore crowd, really, despite the Metal Blade label and overarching theme. Black metal listeners might see past the predominant style to appreciate a really brutal and extreme sound. The label of thrash gets its definition stretched a little, but nine of the ten songs are raging, some are really technical, it's a lot of great, intense music. (7/10)

This is the one screamo singer too many. He basically detracts from this music. The vocals are up in the mix, and the great, bright and dark at the same time guitars get drowned out, making it sound like something His Hero is Gone did years ago. The instrumental track proves this, it's such a relief. Everything except the vocals is great.

For ages, nobody who did vocals wanted to do the higher pitched screaming. Now it's time for the ban to be reinstated. There's this political message paragraph in the sleeve for this CD. If Balboa want people to get their message, they should sing it so that some of the words can be understood. That stuff is supposed to be important, so don't let me down here.

From now on, no band should be allowed to sing about politics, and expect the people who speak the same language as them to have to read a tiny lyric. It's not that hard to do. The only danger is that some of these singers will have to fess up to the fact that they should have learned to play the drums or something.

There's only four songs on this mini CD. That's enough to demonstrate Balboa's sound so that it doesn't get stale or sound copied. No way anyone should have to listen to a full length of the screaming, though. There's so much of it out there, usually not worth understanding.

It's not like Charles Bronson or Orchid or anything. The instruments draw the listener in, only to spring that singing on them. (6/10)

Most metalheads are like fans of any other type of music: they work at jobs, and enjoy lives with friends and family. But there is also a hard core subculture of metal people. Everything they do is metal to the extreme. When they bang their head, it is against a solid object. When they party, everything gets destroyed. You never know how far they are going to take it until the damages have been assessed.

Clifton, New Jersey, is home to people like this. Metalheads is a documentary about the death of Bill Zebub, Clifton's biggest metalhead. Bill is so metal, he gets by by stealing from the unconscious, selling the false metal clothes his girlfriend buys for him, and trying to win the lottery playing 666. His friends are a bunch of dope fiends, incestuous lowlifes, and even an outright rapist pimp. His girlfriend is a cheating acidhead who talks so much shit about him to his friends, her own mother thinks she's a total waste.

Bill had no reason to live, yet every day was another chance to take metal to new extremes. He didn't play an instrument or sing, but he lived his life like he wanted to: "NO BAGGY PANTS, NO EBONICS, NO GAY HAIRSTYLES, AND NO MERCY!!!" Was his battle cry, as he forced metal into everyday life, regardless of whether or not the world was ready for him. Clifton's fascists, the sadistic cops, couldn't stop him, but the Ford Explorer's front bumper sure did.

Like many of the metal gods Bill worshipped, he left this world young. Special effects took over his graveyard, depicting the morbid and Satanic hallucinations of his brain dead friends. Will Clifton overcome its dysfunctional metal envy of Bergenfield?

Bill Zebub takes humor to places people think it shouldn't go. Don't think his self-conscious act is some phony irony clowning. He's an observer of in jokes and outside perspectives towards in groups.

Whatever all of that is supposed to mean, this movie is more metal than twelve metal CD's. It is also funnier that a stack of comedy DVD's. (9/10)

Know what you can do with the likes of Woody Allen, Spike Lee, David Lynch, Harmony Korine, Kevin Smith, Todd Phillips, John Waters, the Liquid Sky guy, and the Coen brothers? You can put them in cryogenic storage for later. Maybe not all of them, but you know... Because Stereotypes... is a masterpiece. It challenges the audience to sink to its level, all for a laugh.

So often, movies offer some kind of redemption, despite any challenges. This movie depicts everyone as manifestations of the most hideous stereotypes, all beyond hope. It portrays Clifton, New Jersey's citizenry as an abominably inbred tumor, with a gibberish spewing, knife wielding Mother-prophet of Doom. Her ex-husband is so much more messed up – he's turned their son into a morphodite prostitute, and their daughters into his brainwashed slaves.

Frank, a Beavis caricature come to life, is the oblivious chump who woos Kelly, the doomed he-she. But that proves to be a proposition too hot for him to handle, and his friends all get their taste. Like the traditional, lurid morality plays this evokes in order to regurgitate, it's all this running around that proves to be Kelly's undoing.

Skits cross plots, and then rejoin each other in different combinations. They all are driven on some taboo idea or another, always for destructive ridicule. Nothing is left unexploited in acting out of the "wrong idea." A white kid is such a wannabe black that he actually fools his racist boss, with the help of a big afro and blackface.

If this movie isn't completely misanthropic, its bile is spared towards the viewer who knows what's up. Still, watching it is sometimes a true challenge, what with its premise that we're all afraid of some distasteful view of some group or another. It might be the overall production – New Jersey, not Hollywood people depicted at sub-bottom existence. (10/10)

The idea behind this band seems to be, "play pop with as much rock as possible," which just might be cool – hearing some kick-ass rock on an elevator or in a grocery store check-out line. But the Dirty Americans don't pull it off.

Their whole deal is "NO METAL," not even nu-metal. They can't be serious in how they dredge up references for imaginary credibility, or in their grandiose delusion that they'll be wildly successful with this: "The title track of the album is a Motor City anthem that a band like the mighty Grand Funk Railroad would praise..." and "The release of Strange Generation in the States will finally complete the world domination this band has been working toward, and you will no doubt see this band... headlining an arena near you soon." This is their publicity, not embellished by Maelstrom.nu at all.

Every progression, every hook has some eerie familiarity to it, like it's based on melodies copyrighted by Walt Disney. The slick progression reeks of industry puppetry, of greedy claws reaching out for the consciousness of the consumer class, exploiting even that which was considered too exploited already to exploit again. That way, nobody expects it. Not enough levers in clever for that one.

Their promo CD is proof that I don't understand the music business: it's got a barcode sticker placed over a barcode printed on the sleeve. If they have a scanner at the landfill, they will have successfully tracked this disc's ultimate destination. So I hope putting that extra sticker on was worth it for them. They couldn't even supply a servicable jewel case, to house a disc worth being stored, to play again later. So not even a one out of ten, for being cheap.

Dirty American's blather has nothing to do with rock, partying, or freedom, but it has everything to do with the recent murder of Terry Knight, former Grand Funk Railroad manager. Without digressing too far, he was caught up in a name-dropping turf war between some "retro-rock" executives. There's no bottom to what industry acts will do to get that sweet, sweet record deal. Connect the dots, and these usurpers "...to be crowned the kings of Detroit 'rock'," with their fascist scheme of world domination, should be locked up, just to be safe.

Once again, that's their own publicity – ROCK WITHIN QUOTATION MARKS! That is the genre. (0/10)

This is mighty praise for what many might consider the wrong reasons. Sliter is a Japanese thrash band, and they play well. But the singer sings in mangled English on this CD, and it's trippy. The lyrics have this disjointed, stream-of-consciousness, free verse quality to them, too. There is no way to know for sure what is lost or gained in translation, just by reading the included lyrics and listening to the CD. Having this much to fill in is provocative – or, to others, despicably jaded. Those others, they still have to give this one an 8/10 for the music.

Anywhere metal manifests itself, it is still metal. The different interpretations of the style enrich it, giving us all more incredible sounds to hear. The way in which Sliter is adapting and uniting different sounds is refreshing. It's as if, in the U.S.A., there are lots of points of reference that are agreed upon. Sliter's sound would suggest that different sorts of distinctions can be made, a point so obvious it is forgotten until this CD is playing.

Sliter isn't so far out there song-wise, this doesn't sound like some noise experiment. Anyone with an ear for thrash could appreciate this, but the subtle departures recall other great sounds, and that's more of the interpretative feast this CD offers. Makes one wonder what's in Sliter's record collection. (8/10)

For everyone who missed it the first time, because we know creatures who are prone to drone are rather slow, Southern Lord re-released what should be the defining moment of said slow creatures: Thorr's Hammer, a band that slowly bellowed out all things Nordic at that time; actually a troop of trolls from the United States. Although they had what one might call the ultimate Norwegian characteristic: their very own Norwegian rune child spewing forth the vocals, Runhild Gammelsaeter.

Unfortunately, they disbanded when Runhild moved back to Norway. Even though Greg Anderson and Stephen O'Malley kept on rumbling with their Earth appreciation band, together with Jamie Sykes and James Hale they opted to keep the Hammer legacy alive with Burning Witch. The same amount of sludging, grinding DOOM, but not the very thing we wanted it mixed with, that being Runhild's flat vocal style, like a grunting bear in heat after a long winters sleep. Or like a glacial princess in heat. It works both ways.

Dommedagsnatt, a record that should be obtained unless you have a natural tendency to fall asleep like an impotent bear in winter when hearing slow rumbling madness. Thirty-two minutes and twenty-six minutes of pure bliss. And because we've been good creatures, there’s a live video included. Grainy, low quality, but absolutely perfect. Don't miss it this time, guys. (10/10)

It’s been done a bunch before, but rarely has it been done this well. Urgehal’s version of black metal – that tried and true cold, rough, harsh blasting of rocking riffs stretched and blurred out – is top notch. Black metal is as much about feeling as anything else, and Through Thick Fog Till Death oozes it for the album’s 78 minutes (that’s including three live tracks).

Thrashy, rocking, chilly and true, this is by far Urgehal’s best album yet. Definitely for fans of Horna and Immortal. (8/10)

Deeply black and brooding, great halls echo their secrets outward into the minds of those who sit like sheep. The sheep get gobbled up by the dark corners that are in abundance. The feeble minded however, find solace in the rumblings deep inside their minds. Their brains aware of the slow vibrating frequencies picking at the insides of their skulls, waiting to crash out in waves, across the millions gathered at the steps. Waiting for salvation.

Rows of those who have given up hope. In themselves, in mankind, in the innocence of youth. Rows of those who no longer believe. All waiting for the Black Emitting Oven to open its gigantic hatch to gobble them up like little fleshy pastries. Scathing hunger displayed in heat knobs slowly sliding more and more into the red. Vibrating strings of hunger lashing out left and right, cutting in two those who in turn abandon their insides. Cookie clutter cutters cutting away at the grey and sullen, brainmatter across the steps of the Black Emitting Oven.

Pulsating organs, slowly creeping out the great orifice of mankind. Washing over and wading through millions of bodies fading away in deep slumber sleep. Like the ice age blasting away the green and hopeful, replacing it with white and cold and death.

These are roughly the kind of stories one might invision while listening to Infinitas in Aeternum, of course in the dark. Because daylight scares the shadow away. So best leave this record hidden away till nightfall. Gently cradle it to sleep and then slip it in the stereo. Listen as it awakes, shiver from excitement and let your self be washed away. (9/10)

If you know the background of this band and you’re expecting Mercyful Fate, abandon all hope and rid your mind of all traces. Hank Shermann and Michael Denner’s extroverted guitar soloing aside, their current venture, Force of Evil, is anything but, save maybe for some cheeky devil play in the lyrics. Never mind that drummer Bjarne T. Holm joined Mercyful Fate in 1995 and never mind also that Hal Patino has history in King Diamond’s solo band. Bollocks. As hinted on their self-titled debut album, Force of Evil’s second release, Black Empire, is decidedly one for the old school. Instead of the suggested second coming of black metal however, Force of Evil delivers unabashedly straightforward power metal.

The title track opens like most power metal albums of the eighties, a quick tempo gatecrasher with monster riffage, articulate solos, and falsetto courting by Martin Steene, who looks like a black metal Sebastian Bach. Instead of the bludgeoning pierces of King Diamond, whose omnipresent vocal theatrics often overshadowed his band in Mercyful Fate, Martin Steen’s traditional metal vocals assume a high octave capacity without stealing the show from Shermann and Denner. If Steene’s shrieks bother you, try your hand with Jim Gillette and Nitro; you won’t know what hit you afterwards.

Next comes "Back to Hell," a cockstrutter jam that plays by-the-numbers from many metal albums you’ve heard before. In fact, you’ll undoubtedly see a duplicate pattern with Black Empire in comparison to at least 70% of any power metal that holds residence in your collection. By the third song, "Cabrini Green," you realize that Force of Evil might as well be Black Steel, Rage or Primal Fear. Ditto for "Death Comes Crawling," which paces itself according to its namesake. While we’re at it, we could call "The Sinister Show" an Accept ala carte with even better solos. Taking it one step further, "Beyond the Gates," oddly enough, sounds like a splicing of Accept, Malice and, of all things, Dokken. Just goes to show Dokken had less of a prefab factor than history bears them.

This is not to say such derivative devotion is bad, but Force of Evil treads no new ground and it’s obvious their base is to give launch to the fret mastery of Shermann and Denner. But "Dead in Texas" is kind of tawdry (I sooooo need to hear W.A.S.P.’s more rousing "Blind in Texas" immediately!) and even the most casual horror fan will be able to decipher the meaning of "Voorhees Revenge." Alice Cooper’s homage to the Friday the 13th mogul, "He’s Back (The Man Behind the Mask)" is geeky but for some reason has far more life in comparison to "Voorhees Revenge." Indeed, Jason is the blackened entity that just won’t die, even in song.

If this kind of familiarity is what you want in your metal, by all means go for it. You can certainly bang your head to Force of Evil. If you didn’t live the original scene, however, then Force of Evil is going to be a tough sell on you. In short, Force of Evil is highly formulaic; they try nothing fancy with the exception of the showcase guitar solos which are simply gorgeous to hear and are the chief reason you’ll want to get your mitts on this slab. (7/10)

Ah, post rock. Complicated, dissonant, often difficult and regularly dolled out with a hearty dollop of smirking irony. Speed has been a holy grail of sorts for those who worship at the altar of Bitch Magnet, Slint, A Minor Forest and the like. Out of print for well over a decade after a pitifully small first pressing, Crain’s debut rises again in 2005, rearing its Medusa-like head in a whirlwind of damaged time signatures, fractured melody and a plethora of hard/soft dynamic interplay. Does it hold up? Youbetchya.

As the genre dictates, Speed is a decidedly metallic affair that skirts diving headlong into the myriad trappings of metal. The guitar is generally scratchy and abrasive but will catch you unawares with unforeseen moments of prettiness. Drummer Will Chatham pounds along in true punk rock simplicity only to be repeatedly overcome with a propensity for irregular breaks, dexterous cymbal work and rolling fills that sound like dozens of barrels let loose down a flight of stairs. Songs that thrive on a base of noise and antagonism give way to undercurrents of gentility which, in turn, produces unexpectedly glorious snatches of pop inflected catchiness. Tempos range from speed(y)(!) to near crawl with plenty of see-saw action in between, often throwing the whole deal onto a thin ledge teetering on collapse; it’s obvious Crain wouldn’t have had it any other way. Why makes things easy when you can make them as difficult as possible for both you and the audience? It’s much more fun that way.

In large part, the beauty of Crain’s approach is that it is in fact all over the map. One can’t get complacent, and while you might wish they would just stay the course and kept some consistency, at least within the same track, ultimately you wind up not caring because something so diametrically opposed to what you just heard will lunge out and you’ll forget what it was you were immersed in the first place.

"The Dead Town" kicks in the door, announcing itself with all the subtlety of a jacked up and pissed off parolee on his first day out prison, while the infectious guitar strains of "News From Warsaw" will have you reminiscing for the days when Husker Du ruled college campuses. It weaves back and forth like this and when it happens within songs like the expansive "Kneel" – moody loping punctuated by intrusions of shouted refrain and hurtful down rhythms – there’s really no option other than to sit back and admire. And as if to demonstrate it’s not all about smartass swagger, they rope a presumably unsuspecting female in for backing vox on "Stabilizer," turning a hazy shambling rocker into an understated bit of emotive boy/girl interaction and grandeur.

For everyone? ‘Course not. It wasn’t in the first place. But if you need to delve outside your comfort zone, peer into musical crannies better left to others or thought you’d never visit, if only for a few minutes at a time, Crain is a fine conductor into that realm. (7.5/10)

That Keanu Reeves movie "Constantine" has come out, and I feel a strange desire to see it. I think it’s mostly because I like the promotional poster for the movie: the intense green, shaded and icy, mixes together with the darkened silhouette to make things striking yet dark. I should probably just get the poster instead of blowing $10 on a movie, and call it a day.

Similarly, our advice to you is to save any money at all on buying Scorngrain’s Cyberwarmachine. It’s got an eye-catching cover: a similar color pallette to "Constantine," and a tank that looks straight out of the "Half-Life" computer game. Surely this will be a crushing, phenomenally produced album of speed and brutality. Blame Marduk for this preconception.

Turns out Cyberwarmachine is only part of what you might have been expecting. It *is* fantastically produced: heavy tones and great clarity and projection. However, it’s light on the crushing brutality and heavy on the Eurotrash nightclub feel. Sure, the album’s got it’s share of thrash beats and metal guitars, but most metal fans will froth in anger when they hear hip-hip beats and phrasings on "Blank," and might not take too kindly to dance club breakdowns. The great production can’t always cover up how silly the vocals often sound as they reach that land of no return known that is the whiny scream.

It’s hard to say this album sucks, for too much work went into it, and because even if you don’t like Scorngrain’s various elements, at least it is not rampant plagiarism. Yes, the style is pretty original. However, anyone expecting a new dose of Aborym or Diabolicum will be unpleasantly surprised. (4.5/10)

It’s gotta be tough being a keyboardist in a metal band. The lack of respect is one thing, but how to deal with the isolation while onstage? The injustice, shackled behind an edifice of racks while the guitarists and bassists get to thrash around with reckless abandon, running, jumping, leaping and headbanging as if tomorrow is but a tantalizing rumor. Hell, even the sedentary drummer gets to flail about by sheer design, a three limb minimum of activity. Oh, but the poor keyboardist, limited to deep knee bends and, if a daring sort, tipping the stand itself in mock fury and passion. The sad truth is that is you can only so look so tough, so menacing, so metal while simultaneously trying to tickle the ole ivories and bang the head that should not bang.

Which conveniently brings us to the video for "The 7th Seal" included with Pandemonium Theory, illustrating case and point for the lament of paragraph one. Nebulously medieval Catholic imagery intersperses with shots of the band toiling away in their practice space. And there, in the corner off to the right, lurks Claudio Loreto making a go of it behind his dolefully small rack, dipping and weaving, coming up for air in grimace of rage and infernal intent. And, of course, headbanging. It must be an inextricable gravitational pull that leads keyboardists astray into this field. Or maybe it’s just a case of knowing better but not being able to do a damned thing about it. There should be support groups for this sort of thing:

"Hi, I’m Claudio. I’m a keyboard player and I bang my head during minor 3rds and arpeggios."

Group: "Hello, Claudio!"

Dubious physical gesticulation aside, the keys are what lift Urshurark out of the ordinary, though that’s not to discredit the rest of the band. Their approach is a blackened thrash attack, heavy on the early Dartkthrone and Emperor mixed with death underpinnings; this comes out no more so than in the vocals of bassist Luca Loreto, who exhorts though a low, low vocal range often processed through various affects that bring to mind a more human version of Carcass. All in all it’s solid, intense and unrelenting.

But it’s Signore Claudio that adds the spice. His tone often has a tinny quality that gives his quasi-classical interludes a creepiness that evokes images of terror and unease suited to the likes of a John Carpenter or Dario Argento film. Whether it’s utilized as accent to the brutality of "Church of Alienation" and "Room of Suicides," or the edgy base for the double kick attack of "Mater Terribilis," his instrument is the glue the holds the Urshurark sound together lifting out of the merely crushing and transforming it into something a bit more insidious. (6/10)

It’s nothing short of marvelous how much Origin has improved over their now three studio albums. Their last one, Informis, Infinitas, Inhumanitas nearly disconnected our writer Abhishek Chatterjee’s brain, he was so excited about it, proclaimng it "the best death/grind album ever."

Echoes of Decimation one-ups anything this Kansas-based band has ever done in all the categories they hold dearest: speed, technicality and unrelenting brutality. The music does not let up, ever. While the band plays, you will constantly be victim to incessant barrages of blast beats and lightspeed arpeggios, all put together in a way that is more musical and appealing than what Origin has done before. However, it would be incorrect to say that Origin is doing the same thing on all their tracks, something that you might initially think as it all goes so bloody fast. In fact, there is a great wealth of different rhythms and details that become more palatable as you listen repeatedly and more closely.

Indeed, as a listening experience, Echoes of Decimation works equally well both actively and passively. The very swarm that makes up the sound and the way the instruments are all meticulously out of key, married with the extreme precision of the masterful musicianship, make for an experience that will go down pleasantly for connoisseurs of the genre, while the very same elements will make technique geeks swoon.

Some criticism might be leveled about Echoes of Decimation’s short running time of 27 minutes and change. That only seems like a shortcoming on paper. In reality, 27 minutes is a perfect amount of Origin. It sticks around long enough to whip you into a frenzy, and doesn’t overstay its welcome, making you want to play the record again. And if that doesn’t convince you, just think of it as 45 minutes of many other death metal bands’ material played twice as fast.

The new best death/grind album ever? Sure, why not? I wonder how Abhi’s doing? (9.5/10)

Oops. Having someone from a famous band produce your debut record is a double edged sword at best. On the plus side, you’re going to get some recognition not available otherwise and, if lucky, benefit from said band member’s experience and expertise. On the down side, that same recognition can overshadow a band’s unique attributes.

What Gizmachi’s unique attributes consist of is anyone’s guess. This five person crew may have been Slipknot fans from that band’s inception. Their songs may have sounded like Slipknot well before they ever laid down a single track in the studio. But with M. Shawn Crahan, the bloodied Clown of Slipknot, helming production duties for Gizmachi’s debut, the Slipknot comparisons, which would have been abundant anyway, will be legion. At its best, The Imbuing is a more bare bones take on the formula that Slipknot has established over the course of four albums. At worst, it’s a pale comparison to the genuine article.

There’s no joy derived from disparaging The Imbuing. The musicianship is tight and there’s enthusiasm and hostility bursting from the album’s eight tracks. Problem is, without fail, each song is generally an amalgam of Slipknot – the song structures, drumming and vocals that are a dead ringer for Corey Taylor – imbued (couldn’t resist) with choruses lifted from the Alice in Chains catalogue. Capable yes; original, no.

What makes Slipknot so untouchable at what they do is the violence with which the material is wrought; full of bile, loathing and menace. Even the more restrained stuff from The Subliminal Verses oozes with malicious intent. Gizmachi is Slipknot minus the threat of danger. There are hints of promise, though. They have a penchant for interesting vocal bridges and harsh/clean vocal flips that work well. In their hands the almighty breakdown is wielded has a blunt edged weapon capable of pulverization.

There is reason for optimism. For future reference, the band need look no farther than album closer "Voice of Sanity" as their guide. It’s an eight-minute trek through roughed up grooves, soaring melodic breaks and ambient textures. Sure, it too will have you thinking of a host of other bands but in this instance the breadth and diversity of the track work well, not allowing you enough time to pin the source material as it moves among its passages. (4.5/10)

Beware of bands whose image is intrinsically linked with the championing of marijuana. That’s an old rule to stand by here at Maelstrom HQ. And if the band has a pot leaf in their logo or anywhere in their packaging? Pass it on to someone else.

However, there are anomalies to every rule. Cephalic Carnage might be the finest one. They’re all marijuana addicts, and proud of it, but the lethargic leaf hasn’t slowed down their brains as far as constructing mind-bendingly fast and intricate death metal.

Most of the going on Anomalies is a breath of fresh air – a way to reconnect with the reasons you might have fallen in love with death metal in the first place. Deep and heavy production, clear instrument separation, killer riffs, dazzling musicianship, all wrapped up in a warm blanket of crushing brutality. These moments on this album are indeed very fine.

Unfortunately, Cephalic Carnage can’t seem to resist going the route of many other pot-centric bands and playing some lame-o stoner rock. This genre rears its permanently stagnant head on at least one whole track, "Piecemaker." You probably have to be a marijuana addict to like this kind of music, and you probably have to be a drug addicted death metal fan to like both technical grind and music that sounds like an 80s porn soundtrack, but so be it. Luckily, Anomalies is almost entirely a refreshing, original, exemplary album, and for that it should rightly be highly recommended. (8/10)

One thing’s for damn sure, the lads in Primordial couldn’t NOT write an epic song if their lives depended on it. The seven tracks that compose The Gathering Wilderness fall into that revered category, all of them in the seven- to nine- minute range, treks through soulless hills, desolate valleys and the all encompassing sea. Each song is a journey unto itself, and while Primordial may dip into the waters of pretension and affectation from time to time there’s an earnestness, coupled with an overall bludgeoning quality, that rescues it from being a an overwrought endurance test.

The most immediately noticeable and contradictory element is the album’s production: muted, sometimes dull, as if recorded through a few layers of cotton batting. Rather than detract from the sound it enhances their tales of tragedy, searching and perseverance; the production’s muffled thicknesses placing you on Ireland’s stormy shores right along side of the band as they spin their tales.

Musically, it’s a mixed bag of tricks, variations on a theme: big, drawn out, the tempo regulating the slight mood changes from track to track. The majority are mid-range as far as speed is concerned and that works just fine but when the pace picks up, as in "Tragedy’s Birth," the aggression level takes a turn upward. Conversely, when things slow down as in album highlight "The Coffin Ships," the result is stirring, compacting an expansive and mournful tale into a ten-minute meditation on loss with only the slimmest chance of recovery. The poignant violin strains that close the track interpreted as either elegy or flicker of hope.

What with Enslaved making 22nd century prog-metal albums and the recent dearth of Viking metal coming out of Scandinavia, it looks as if Primordial will have to usher in a new era. Ready for the first wave of Irish Viking metal, everyone? (6.5/10)

Extol has righted itself since the release of its last album, on which the Norwegian Christian metal band went for a major stylistic change from the more traditional Swedish style of their outstanding debut album, Burial. Regrouped and refocused, Extol delivers an album of fresh ideas that work exceedingly well in The Blueprint Dives.

Part metalcore, part technical metal, The Blueprint Dives is foremost a collection of excellently crafted songs that appeal almost with a certain pop appeal. Thankfully, the vocals are predominately sung; and unlike the vast majority of clean metalcore vocals, are sung well. Heightening the singing are a collection of interesting effects, the likes of which you might find on a Gathering or Third and the Mortal record: an old vinyl record effect, and a flat, hollow effect are the ones that spring most readily to mind. The harsh vocals are used as a counterpoint to the melodic ones, in fact being the opposite of what most bands that use both do.

Beyond great songs with excellent hooks is a wealth of technicality. Extol is no longer a double bass drum machine, rather relying on one kick to deliver its engaging tempo and time signature changes. Most importantly of all, The Blueprint Dives will keep your attention over the course of time. Highly recommended. (8.4/10)

We’ve already met Olen’k on the Flowers Made of Snow compilation released by CMI (and reviewed in Maelstrom), and while they silently got washed aside by some of the other more impressive names on that compilation, they have an entire disc of their own this time. If they will impress you in those 55 minutes is just a matter of how serious you want to take them.

We can skip "Season of Tears" the first time around because it is the compilation track. "How Hard" starts off not on a good note. Musically, it's a rather bland track, reminding of the first Antimatter CD but with a denser, song oriented atmosphere. The vocals are such a highlight that you can easily forget about the song itself. Take that as you please but use it to your advantage, I say. Also focus on the tones of the voice itself; the clarity and not the lyrics because they sound more like pretty fluff than anything else. There are lyrics in what looks like Spanish, but since yours truly can't read them, you'll have to imagine they are equally fluffy but just in a different language.

If you find yourself in one of those moods, this album will do wonderfully. But Silently Noisy is like a cute, pale girl next to a cool glass of beer on a hot summer’s day; you can enjoy her appearance and even try to look interested when she speaks, but you never quite lose sight of the lush beverage next to her, wishing she would just try a little harder to resemble that beer. She has some endearing moments, but she doesn't fool you. Silently noisy, on the background while I fall asleep with the sun shining on my face. Yes, please. (6/10)

There’s something to be said for a band that can take a few familiar styles whose distinctions are oft minute at best and merge them together into something satisfying. The inaugural album by Thine Eyes Bleed is a ferocious blend of modern thrash interspersed with shadings of melodic Swedish death metal, metalcore and an eccentric streak usually associated with the likes Voivod. The album utilizes these elements while beholden to none of them. More to their credit, too, as this should have some across-the-board appeal.

At a quick thirty-six minutes, In the Wake of Separation is a perfect calling card: an aural death squad obliterating the stillness of the night, conducting its lethal business and getting out quickly – efficient, no wasted motion, with an utter void of pity or compassion. What keeps this from degenerating into a monotonous slugfest is the band’s refusal to adhere only to the staid tactics of the various sub-genres. They’ve have no fear of the weird. The drumming in particular on a few tracks will leave you scratching your head in confusion at rhythms that feel off but mysteriously work juxtaposed precariously against the linear guitar lines.

Mid-CD is where the band drifts off the reservation. "Live to Die" is a potent At The Gates-like thrasher that comes to a skidding halt, crashing into a languorously thick verse before regaining traction just a bit too suddenly and careening into a break that whirrs like a blender set on high. And it’s near impossible not to appreciate a band that proffers a song entitled "Corpse You Up"; the odd time shift that occurs midway will justify that titular admiration.

Battering double kick drums, punitive rhythms, pleasingly restrained soloing, and a vocalist familiar with the benefits of gargling with drain cleaner. You’ve heard all these things before, just not with the same devil-may-care attitude for the supposed rules of the game. (7/10)

Guttural is a misnomer. You might think the band embodies mosh pit death metal genericism at its worst, but rather, this French group is a breath of fresh air from the old school of rough and melodic heavy metal of the epic variety.

None of the players in Guttural are especially virtuosos at what they do, but the point isn’t to be able to hang with the flashy noodling of power metal bands coming out of Italy, for example. Rather, it’s about catering to the sense of metal nostalgia, while not being recycled dregs.

Suffice to say that Guttural will appeal to fans of The Lord Weird Slough Feg; while the latter is far more polished in its sound and execution, Guttural far slower and doomier. Both share the quality of being able to convey a passionate, timeless, medieval metal energy that is unfettered by the bells and whistles of the current trend.

Perhaps Guttural’s lack of production polish lends itself to the charm. One of the very notable things is how rigid and heavy the hi-hat is, making it literally sound like swords clashing every time it is hit. The singer is past decent... there aren’t any real complaints here; you could say he’s far from being the most talented singer around, but his voice lends itself well to the refreshing, meat-and-potatoes honesty that can be found throughout Cross Words With Us’ length.

Guttural has some kind of balls to start the record off with a four part, 17-minute meander of a track. Who do they think they are, Rush? But the gamble will pay off, at least for enthusiasts of bands like Slough Feg and Doomsword. Only problem is, you might have a hell of a time actually finding this CD. Northwind Records’ mailorder section is non-existent, and their distribution is practically non-existent in the USA. Any offers to buy CDs from them go unanswered, and they don’t even have Guttural in their release section! Dis of the highest order. (7.5/10)

Goddamnit. This one was primed for the chopping block from the moment it fell through the mail slot. Terrible band name, excruciating cover art that surely has Michelangelo weeping from his crypt, tired song titles and a band photo replete with the singer wrapped in the embrace of the American flag.

Urggh. Now comes the pain: the album isn’t that bad. Hard to admit, but some of it is actually pretty good. Now why’d they have to go and do that? Critical evisceration denied.

Demon Angel throws out ten chunks of power groove that’ll get you moving and shaking against your will, guarangodddmanteed. Sure, there’s some execrable spoken word on one track. Run for cover from the intrusion of some unforgivably funky slap bass on another. Ignore the pointless acoustic fade out on one (don’t get sensitive on us boyz, your only mission is to rock) and grin and bear an inexcusable Cypress Hill rip-off.

Rather, languish in big, fat, meaty grooves, burly slabs of guitar and the Rob Zombie – minus the effects rack – roar of vocalist... are you ready for it? Ca$h Payne. That’s money, dude! Matter of fact, a gaggle of tracks evoke La Sexorcisto/Astro-Creep-era White Zombie in addition to any number of bands from the mid 90s Century Media roster.

Chunky, heavy, groovy, more than listenable. Damn, damn, damn. (a resigned 5.5/10)

On Allfather Odinn’s self-titled record, god awful presentation and sloppy execution kills what could very well have been a fine album.

What makes this all the more tragic is that these criticisms have nothing to do with the musical main attraction, which is very well played and interesting Scandinavian pagan death metal, featuring excellent, speedy percussion, talented musicianship, stirring "Viking" riffs, and more than decent singing and harsh vocals.

It would be exceedingly surprising to hear that the metal tracks on Allfather Odinn have been mastered. They definitely sound like they could benefit from a total EQ overhaul. As they are, they lack much punch that could really propel them past the sonic doldrums that they occupy on this disk.

But what really dooms this album is the contrast between the metal and the would-be grandiose instrumental filler. Never mind that these interludes are often of the worst possible keyboard and MIDI (although some of the music could be very good if given the proper instrumentation), it is rather the disparity of sonic values in which the weedy interludes are bright and clear sounding, and the extreme metal meat of the album is grey and muffled, that makes the CD appear all the more thrown together. Ironically, if the album had just consisted of the four or so metal songs on display, Allfather Odinn would have fared better, as the sonic values would have been consistent and the listener’s ear would have adjusted far better. As it stands, this 27-minute album is merely a taste of what could be a great offering, still mired in amateur mediocrity. (5/10)

They say behind every music critic hides a failed musician... and perhaps even behind everyone who appreciates the aesthetic side of music. Remember those times when you were together with some friends, all banging away on something; a broken guitar with three strings; a two piece drum kit with pots and kettles for toms; a big, old and rusty trombone found in the garage, remember? Also remember how it sounded so bad and despite your hopes that after a while it would start to sound good bad, it still ended up bad bad? Now imagine another group of misfits doing the same thing, except they sound good good.

Are you mad yet? Well don't be, be happy that they reached what your pasty little hands never could. A rag-tag pack of tales of bluesy defects and sandy desert palm goodness. Be happy that you finally get the change to listen to that which is clutched in the pit of your stomach, for years now. Let it free while you turn the volume up, higher and higher. Dust off that bong that's been hiding in your closet since you got married. Do a hit, hit and a hit while you dance, dance and dance. Sweaty middle aged man, middle aged boy, girl, dog and cat. All dance, dance and dance.

And while you dance, say a desert palm prayer for Orion Satushek. The man that knew your dreams, and knows them again in death. Curse his death as you curse your broken dreams and broken instruments. But love that which he left behind, a perfect testimony for everyone loving music but never had the balls to be good good. Dance the waltz on "The Waltz" and forget about your house, your job and your mother-in-law. You are part of the music. Grab that bitch of a trombone and blow your little heart out. Stomp away on your wife's kitchen paraphernalia. Wear that guitar on your head while your hands and legs feverishly hit strings and basement sand. The knife hits. And hits. And hits. (10/10)

The outlook was bleak on the new record by the world leaders of Viking metal, Enslaved. In his best of 2004 list, our writer Bastiaan de Vries had made it a point to let the world know that the new disk was a major disappointment compared to the previous album, Below the Lights, and everything else Enslaved had done, for that matter.

We’re happy to report that all is still well within the Enslaved camp. We understand how someone would think that Isa is a failure. Certainly, the music is a lot more static than we’ve become used to over the last albums, hell, ever since the rather static Viklingr Veldi.

If you approach Isa looking for an engaging listening experience, and keep trying to unravel its content, you probably won’t like it. Rather, if you let the music grow on you – even within one spin of the disk – and allow it to appeal to you as a whole, it succeeds. Think of it as kind of a progressive Viking drone metal record, and you may warm up to it.

Enslaved has had a major personnel upheaval in the past couple years. They now have a new drummer, their second guitarist hasn’t been in the band all that long, and they have keyboards. Go figure. The drummer is the guy from industrial metal band that uses real drums Red Harvest, so you can be sure that he can hold a beat. And that’s primarily what he does. The rhythms are repetitive and simple and on the nose, gradually growing in likeability as the songs progress. The most infectious beat is certainly on the instrumental track "Secrets f the Flesh," which does a thing that many successful instrumentals do, and includes non-lyrical vocals from trademark frontman Grutle Kjellson.

Grutle’s one of the best, so it’s kind of a shame he’s not as loud as you’ve come to expect from previous albums. Keyboardist Herbrand Larsen has taken over the departed Roy Kronheim’s role as primary clean singer, and he does a very good job.

Enslaved had been going nuts with its progression over the last four albums or so, something that has been matched by the frequency of new Enslaved disks. Deep forays into 60s psychedelia manifested itself in everything from the more obvious folk tracks to the metal songs to straight-up Doors and Pink Floyd-inspired pieces. But on Isa, the progression takes a rest, at least overtly. Rather, it seems to go backwards again, back to more simple structures and patterns, and yet Enslaved’s creative roving still exists.

One clear thing has to be said about Isa’s superiority over the pat couple albums: the overall sound is much better. In our interview with him, Ivar Peerson said Enslaved had likened the production on the last couple studio albums as having "a live feeling." It sounded more like half-baked production. This problem is remedied a great deal on Isa, and it sounds more like a proper studio album from a band of renown such as this. Overall, perhaps Isa is a disappointment, but only in reference to the whirlwind efforts of the previous few records (get Mardraum before all else). Comparisons aside, Isa will be a fine addition to your collection. (7.5/10)

Deus Ex Machina’s first international release, Cinque, is probably the closest release in spirit to classic progressive rock I have heard yet by Cuneiform, as it relies on the impressive legacy of the 70’s Italian progressive scene in various aspects.

Coinciding with the majority of the aforementioned scene, originality is not Deus Ex Machina’s strong side: "Uomo Del Futuro Passato" quotes from Gentle Giant, "Luce" offers country-soaked jazz-rock courtesy of the Dixie Dregs, and "Olim Sol Rogavit Terram I" resembles (the Led Zeppelin inspired) The Tea Party’s "Midsummer Day" in a way that risks plagiarism.

But perhaps above all other influences, the forefront is dominated by a deliberate, melodramatic, operatic vocal performance paying homage to Demetrio Stratos, the eccentric voice of one of Italy’s most creative outfits, Area, from which Deus Ex Machina also took the slight experimental tendencies, realized mostly by the mischievous keyboard work.

The mostly inspiring adaptation of the varied influences mentioned earlier, as well as of some wild guitar playing ala Mahavishnu Orchestra and a punctuative, precise Steely Dan-like production, showcases the way Deus Ex Machina blurs the borders between neighboring genres (progressive rock, jazz rock and even hard rock), relating its music with its poetry in denunciation of definitions ("We order things for fear of not recognizing ourselves. We classify for fear of being different").

The philosophical reflections (can you expect something else from a band with this name?) about the forces that drive the world and the ways of its living figures are insightful, and there’s definitely a benefit in the English translation of the Latin sung text that is found in the accompanying booklet (making one wonder if Deus Ex Machina, like other famous Italian bands such as PFM and Maxophone, ever planned to re-record the vocals in English).

While Cinque suggests that Deus Ex Machina’s members are not weavers, they do masterfully tailor previously made musical fabrics to their own measures, resulting in an impressively executed, even if slightly unfocused album, which manifests both experience and enthusiasm. (8/10)

It was a mere matter of time before Nirvana, Faith No More and Soundgarden came into their own, the latter two as openers for Voivod in one of the most memorable concerts I’ve ever attended. It was at this point when Voivod released their arguably indispensable Nothingface album and as far as I was concerned, the second coming had arrived. History proved me wrong, however.

A longtime friend of mine, Bob Lange (who was with me in attendance at the aforementioned concert), recently wrote a provocative and well-thought blog about conventionally acknowledged classic albums and how their greatness was preceded by albums that may not have matched the level of execution but surpassed them in the passion and spirit in the times they were recorded. As applies to Voivod, it’d be an easy ride for me to tout the greatness of their archetypal Nothingface until the cows and cocks greet the morning dew, but I’ve done it once in my lifetime. Therefore, using my friend’s approach, I offer for your consumption, Voivod’s explosively raw but intricate Killing Technology.

For a quick refresher course, Voivod is a Canadian cyberthrash unit whose elemental prominence in the late eighties took them to a speed metal twilight zone seldom few dared follow, the completely obscure acolytes Thought Industry notwithstanding. More in tune with The Crow than The Matrix as far as cyberpunk theory, Voivod was inadvertently the first band to be given the cyberpunk moniker.

Voivod’s futuristic sound got lost in its own avant-guardism by the time bassist Jean-Yves "Away" Theriault took leave of the band. Numerous attempts to breathe life into an obviously talented but tailspun band left in its confused wake indecisive efforts such as the forlorn Angel Rat, where their Pink Floyd tendencies got the best of them, or the perplexing return to the searing War and Pain mentality on Negatron and Phobos.

Unlike the ear-shredding Rrroooaaarrr and War and Pain, Killing Technology is a building block to the prog thrash behemoth Voivod evolved into. The cybernetic mainframe housing the reverb of Denis "Piggy" D’Amour’s guitar strings was cutting-edge for its day and in many ways, for all of metal history.

While the manic drumming of Michael "Blacky" Langevin overexerts ahead of the pace of his already rapidly strumming guitar section, it’s his hollow resonance that delivers part of the intensity on Killing Technology, along with the suspenseful openings to "Tornado" and "Killing Technology" that launch rocketing, neck-snapping tempos; the former impressively embodies its namesake with whirling rhythms and seismic melodies. Never mind the charismatic tapestry vocals of Denis "Snake" Belanger, which at one time were one of the best in the business.

Perhaps the best written song on Killing Technology is the savvy and disciplined "Ravenous Medicine," which adorns its agreeable cyber riff by keeping the pace mid-tempo along with rocksteady melodies until the justifiable thrash ruptures at the end. "Ravenous Medicine" and "Forgotten in Space" represent training grounds from which the more experimental and radar-generating Dimension Hatross took flight.

If you acquire an interest in Voivod, you’ll quickly begin your collection in the bargain bin with some of their lesser heralded but still worthwhile offerings such as The Outer Limits, but to get the true Voivod experience and to determine their obvious influence on metal, begin your expedition with Killing Technology. By the time you get to Nothingface, you will see the intense effort it took to advance Voivod into the monster innovators they were.

As Nothingface goes down as the pinnacle of this band’s career, it cannot be stressed enough that Killing Technology is the yin to Nothingface’s yang, a case of intensity preceding proficiency. The revelation will be devastating if you’re a fan of the form and you hear how slick and polished Nothingface is by its nearly perfect comparison. If nothing else, Killing Technology will give you whiplash faster than Metallica’s song of the same name, which, after all this time, now seems as tame as Ozzy’s "Crazy Train."

Be sure your version has the two bonus tracks omitted from the original release, "Too Scared to Scream" and "Cockroaches." Seldom are filler basement add-ons imperative to a release after-the-fact, but despite their rawness, the album strangely feels naked without them from its original cut.

Standing in sawdust, amongst the sections of cattle carcasses that hang from hooks in the meat locker, wearing chain mail armor and fur, a young Billy Joel poses for the cover of his album. That juxtaposition says a lot, but its only the wrapper to one of music's great mysteries.

How did this abomination come to be? The piano man and his drummer out Manowar Manowar themselves up front. The music itself is a curiosity – Hammond B3 and drums, with Joel's enraged warbling on three fourths of the eight songs. The electric organ is all overdriven, wa-wah'ed, tickled with all the bombast Billy can muster. A Billy Joel quote about Attila: "The more we played, the more people left." That's half the appeal here: the public, embarrassing skeleton in the used bin, twice reissued on the strength of the pop wretch's notoriety.

My 1985 vinyl repress had comments from the record store people written on the price sticker: "with BILLY JOEL! Really Dumb!" They know how to sell stuff at that store.

This bad idea for Billy Joel's career has its musical moments, unlike the bad idea that is him driving drunk. The singing accompanies the heavier cuts, yet the instrumentals are kind of jovial sounding, still completely distorted. Some of the music sounds like a Jon Lord tribute, other stuff like basement dwelling aspirants to the next Austin Powers soundtrack. That is a compliment, but the singing sabotages the music in a funny way.

Joel's high little voice tries to tackle burly topics, with typical heavy rock cliches, like the song titles: "Revenge is sweet," "Tear This Castle Down." It becomes a fiasco, which is inevitable, considering the source.

Reading the cheese-on-cheese liner notes while listening to their flailing is enough excess to make my skin crawl. "AD COPY" leaps out from between the lines, smacking my face with hype. These liner notes must also be acknowledged as a major inspiration in my own writing style.

It might be false metal, but it opens the mind to other possibilities. Why not black metal accordion? Why not have Elton John sing crust punk? Is blasphemy an acquired taste, or a disorder?