When you’re talking about what makes a record engaging, responsibility usually falls in the drummer’s lap. A guitarist may come up with a given riff, but it doesn’t truly take shape unless sculpted by capable limbs.
Death metal bands—especially of the “brutal” variety—have an overkill problem. They’re too busy, too serious, too caught up in their over-the-top culture. That cool riff the rhythm guitarist turns in is usually in danger of being strangled by octopus-powered flashsizzle. (Remember We Are the Nightmare? Or any Spawn of Possession song ever?) The result of such overkill? Teflon. A scribble-logo’d sea of arms-clasped, black-clad, NO SMILING, GODDAMMIT Teflon.
But somehow, Benighted always manages to stick.
