“Altarage’s debut turned quite a few tar-covered heads, each new adherent drawn in by its tendrils of sticky ooze, a concoction of lo-fi hideousness that languished in the bogs somewhere between Portal and Teitanblood. Not the most original of albums, but it pounded a chord for metalheads oppressed by melody and clean production.” The sound of chunder.
This album absolutely fucking broke me. You see, the AMG style guide requires blog contributors to make careful scoring decisions based on how good or bad an album is. In terms of quality, Tales of Gaia’s debut Hypernova, in direct defiance of this foolproof system, is absolutely paradoxical. It is both one of the best and worst power metal albums I have ever heard, an amazing contradiction of a record that lacks so much as a hint of self awareness while also never taking itself seriously.” Power without responsibility.
“The formula for Spectral Ascent is quite simple. The music is rooted in classic, 70s style hard rock with a Coven-inspired occult atmosphere, draped over the bones of Black Sabbath and Blue Öyster Cult. If that makes you think: “Well golly gee, this here description sure do sound like Ghost,” I would tell you two things: learn some grammar, and you’re almost right.” Me fail English? Unpossible!
“Everybody from Mayhem to High on Fire have been influenced by Celtic Frost, but few have been as blatant about it as Totengott. Let’s tally it up: their band name is a track title from Monotheist. Their cover art looks like a mountain goat version of the last Triptykon album. Even the name of the record, Doppelgänger, implies they’re just a shameless copy of someone else.” More(bid) tales.
“How many death metal records today are worth stealing from? Not many, I’d wager; we simply have too many of them to keep track of. Look to the language: the promo writers are bored, ‘brutal’ only has so many synonyms, and hearing that somewhere’s latest upstarts sound like old Deicide is only titillating for so long. But what else can be said? For the average death metal fan, the overabundance of material is a boon and a bane: you’ll never run out of grisly tunes, but you’ll never really dig into a record like older ‘heads did Altars of Madness because a brand new platter o’ splatter is ready and waiting.” Single serving death?
“Taking inspiration from their native Catalonia and from the morbid, decadent, and sick reflections on a rapidly changing society, Foscor – Catalan for “Darkness” – play a dark progressive metal that shares features with the depressive European heavyweights of Katatonia, Solstafir, and Lantlos. Les Irreals Visions is the band’s fifth full-length and a considerable shift away from their early black-metal sound to a depressive progressive metal that tastefully merges elements of black metal and doom.” From black to dark.
“Repeat after me: Djent is not a dirty word. It certainly appears that way with the general consensus in the metal community of the often maligned offshoot sub-genre of progressive metal. The potential is definitely there for bands to take the basic template of the djent formula and manipulate the components in a myriad of interesting and innovative ways, yet the quality bands able to do this effectively appear few and far between.” Semper fi, or semper die, there is no semper try.
“Their older stuff isn’t half bad with its Dissection-inspired melodeath and meloblack hybrid, and certainly offers a blacker, rougher outlook than those of the Gothenburg ilk at a similar time. Yet In Thousand Lakes hail instead from the significantly less kvlt Spain. It is at least one of the rainier parts. But all this research and I’d not even yet listened to the album! I pulled on my Somberlain boots and prepared to get stuck into the Light’s Bane…” Tales from the thousand fakes.
“Do you smell that? No? Breath deeper? Now do you smell it? Nope, it wasn’t me or the dog. That is the flatulence of another year. Forced out the sphincter of 2016, 2017 promises to be better than the worm-ridden large intestine it was shat from. Actually, twenty-seventeen doesn’t promise shit.” Doc loves the smell of blackened sphincter in the mourning.
“Winter nights mean crackling fireplaces, warm sweaters, and mulled cider. They mean snuggling under a comfy blanket in the warmth of your house while you watch snow gently fall outside your window. They mean piping hot stew, thick wool socks, and fluffy cats curled up in your lap. What else provides warmth and comfort like that in the dead of winter? Instrumental progressive metal, of course.” Can you cuddle up to a noodle?
