“Every once in a while, something trvly special makes its way to the bin, something that I just can’t fucking wait to wax reviewic on. I’ve been pretty blessed with the majority of my selections as it is, but there’s still always room for something better—until now. I’ve been lusting over the chance to babble about Radiant Dark, the upcoming masterpiece by the UK’s The Drowning, and at long fucking last the day has come—” Powers used irresponsibly.
“I now recognize AMG‘s Law ov Diminishing Albums as a cold and cruelly ironic constant, and subsequently I slowly shuffled up to Six’s successor, the septimal En Olam, with extreme arthritis and trepidation. By the time it was all over, I sighed wearily and shuffled even more gingerly back to my sleeping perch—for such was the extent of my physical capabilities in the wake of the ass beating that En Olam had just given me.” Desert for dinner.
“With the annual pilgrimage to dead leaves and perpetual darkness underway, an appropriate soundtrack is imperative to survival; I need something that will simultaneously sonically augment the surrounding scenery as well as shield me from its scheduled sadness, something which will bring this death to life and save me from it. Such a savior has arrived in the form of Vorna’s Sateet palata saavat, and though I am loathe to share such splendor with the likes ov you, the urge to babble about said greatness has temporarily overtaken my selfish recalcitrance: you’re welcome, yo.” The autumn wind smells like Muppet.
“If you’ve been loitering in the Hall since the Great Muppet Invasion first began, you’ve probably noticed how great I am at promo selection rarely I wander too terribly far from my tried and trve metal wheelhouses. I’ve been burned by the bin before, I’m bitter and basically all but unable to believe that things could be better beyond the blackmosphere, but the burden ov objectivity and that big bastardly bully of a boss-monkey Steel have beckoned me to bid bye-bye to my beloved blackness and embrace being the bin’s bitch.” Monkey bin-ess.
“Alright everyone, take a look at that album art and raise your hands if you’re too kvlt for this shit. Cool: head outta the Hall and keep those hands up — you’ll need them for all the high-fiving that ensues as you elitists in exodus bond over your trve superiority. The rest of you should be ashamed ov yourselves try to keep Kenbellina restrained, this thing is pretty much tailor-made for the lil guy and the bulk of this review will be centered around why that’s a bad thing.” Stardusted.
“One of the only neat things about this angry metal gig is how you can select an album to review and within a spin or two have a pretty good guess as to which of these other cretins will enjoy said album. Today I present to you The Holeum’s somber sophomore escapade, Sublime Emptiness, with the strong suspicion that our silverbackedest scribe will scoff this stuff up.”Embrace the hollow.
“‘Be careful what you wish for, yo,’ they tell me. Well, they, and everybody else, also tell me to smile more, to not swear so fucking much in front of the children, and to stop stealing money from the holiday party collection jar to buy cigarettes and scratch tickets… take a wild guess how that’s going.” Scratch tickets and violent hands.
“All in all, they’ve done a pretty remarkable job of defying AMG‘s Law of Diminishing Records, and yet that very fact made me a bit apprehensive of Atonement. Wouldn’t it be just my luck to score reviewing rights to such a renowned and personally beloved[1. I’ll admit that I’ve cooled on Killswitch and metalcore in general over the years, but they were integral to my dive into the depths ov metal nonetheless, and I say thank ya.] act only for it to be their Cold Lake?” Atone for what?
“I fucking hate the promo sump. It lies, cheats and steals more than the whoriest ov my exes, and successfully cons me into infinite second chances just as often. This time, she – the bin, not the bad news boo – really outdid herself, preying on my spite and my lust for redemption following my second 4.5 in this year ov our Jørn 2019; she promised me metalcore, guys, she said she’d give me something trite and untrve, but instead she gave me Cable. Not only are they exactly 0% metalcore, but these Connecticut creeps can actually kick a competent amount of kiester, woe Discordia.” Sumpin’ sumpin’.
“Simply saying these Swedes sound insane would be completely underselling the bands bestial brand of barbaric blackened brutality. Döda Själar is death metal of the blackest, filthiest variety, the kind you turn to when Incantation or Convulsing just can’t quite hit that horrid spot.” Overkilled.
