Cynicism is a dangerous thing to give in to. That being said, it’s hard not to give in, and in the waning days of humanity (or, you know, just the shitty stretch of time we’re living in right now), the status quo machismo of metal doesn’t always hold water, so it’s hard not to blanket oneself in misery and despair. And not the self-loathing/shoegazing kind, but the writhing in agony variety. And sludge/doom collective Beneath Oblivion excel in this, providing a charred landscape of molten riffs on their appropriately histrionically-titled latest album, From Man to Dust. It’s a hard-to-digest bruiser, but despite its uninviting abrasiveness, it’s never superfluously obtuse or dull. It takes some easing into, but once there, it’s fascinating.

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The thing driving traditionalists crazy is the fact that there’s never been a better time to be a forward-thinking metal fan. I mean, Aborym, Rolo Tomassi, Iwrestledabearonce, OvO, Sigh — what is that shit?

It’s the outlier ethos finally hitting metal. It’s what follows after bands have already pulled at the fabric of metal genres and, no surprise, find them to be made of frayed old material that rips real easily.

To keep this metaphor going way past its due date, what’s happening now is part inexplicable, and part a groovy generation stitching swatches of all kinds of shit to all kinds of other shit while the metal-god version of Tim Gunn yells, “Make it work!”

Incredibly, with incredible regularity, it does.

Do you feel it, ladies, gentlemen, gentlemen who wish they were ladies, and so on? The incredible holy-shit-we’re-in-a-golden-age-ness of it all?

Because we totally are.

And we need to feel proud. Proud that, despite all the hard work and best efforts of the musty traditionalist ‘tards and constant efforts to suffocate metal in neo-thrash dead ends, Big Four circle jerks, only-troo-allowed ideological purity tests, and the first gurgles of the coming neo-nu metal kraze, The Armies of Awesomeness have beat out the Fuddies of Duddy.

So the three discs I’ve chosen are almost random in the sense that almost every week something blisteringly terrific shows up which leaves us with only one real problem — what the fuck do we call the issue of this new era of sui generis excellence?

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Summer is slowly but surely slipping away, and with that comes the eventual end of BBQs, pool parties, and muggy basement shows. While autumn is a pretty rad season, most of us are trying in vain to hold onto the last remnants of summer in any way we can. For some, that’s freezing the fuck out of one’s self at the beach. For others, it’s using up the dregs of BBQs past from the back of the fridge in an effort to pull together some sort of  “last hurrah!” smorgasbord. For me, it’s blasting crust and grind as loud as my car stereo will allow, windows down, scaring the bejezzus out of the townsfolk as I zip by. For some reason, grind just calls to mind summer for me, and I find myself in this situation year after year as the leaves start to turn. Currently on heavy rotation is Defeatist’s new album Tyranny of Decay and yes, my friends — it’s been hitting the proverbial spot.

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In each scene — and I’d wager that this is the case spanning from Boston to Bejing and beyond — there are at least a small handful of bands you’ve heard of time after time, but, for whatever reaso,n never really gave a listen to. Maybe you kept meaning to but never got around to it. Or maybe you missed one of their shows and subsequently/subconsciously dismissed their existence. The Proselyte has been one such band for me up until recently, I’m sorry to say, and, no, there is no viable excuse I can give. There is, however, a lesson to be learned here: get the fuck out there and engross yourself in all that your local metal scene has to offer, because you could be missing out on a potential new favorite.

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Welcome to the latest edition of “Freeloader,” in which we review albums that you don’t have to feel like a douche for downloading for free. Today Satan Rosenbloom checks out Unmothered’s self-titled debut.

For the two of you who are big fans of Austin’s incredibly bitching metal band Lions of Tsavo, Unmothered is what happened to guitarist/vocalist Matt Walker after he left Lions of Tsavo post-Swarm of the Unholy. For the rest of you, just know that Unmothered are an incredibly bitching metal band from Austin. And they’re releasing their eponymous debut EP for free. If you still aren’t convinced that you need to download this pronto, it’s probably because you’re bugged by Unmothered’s name due to some severe childhood abandonment issues. Unmothered can’t help you there. But they can help cure your case of All-Metal-Sounds-the-Same-Itis and Unable-to-Headbang Syndrome.

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Few records could be as intrinsically polarizing as Anthrax’s Worship Music, the thirteen-song set whose release tomorrow ends a maddening period of band tumult while launching a new era with singer Joey Belladonna. It’s an album with history, having been completed with a new vocalist, imperiled by the new vocalist, shelved, shuffled, completed again by Belladonna and producer Jay Ruston, and now, at least, unveiled for the world to hear. In other words, Worship Music has arrived with baggage; how much of it will fit in your trunk?

Representing at least two attitudes toward Anthrax 2011, our MetalSucks official roundtable review of Worship Music is co-authored by a John Bush era devotee (MS Co-Editor-In-Chief Axl Rosenberg) and a long-suffering Belladonna booster (MS Senior Editor Anso DF). On the fence about Worship Music? Sick of one-sided, insight-free criticism? Bemused by the way MetalSucks disagrees with itself? Then join Axl and Anso as they grapple with the meaning of this year’s most dangerous album.

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One-man death metal is a seemingly odd prospect: the genre is so wed to the idea of 4-5 guys hunched over their instruments, doing their thing. But it does make some sense. Death metal’s technicality requires a ton of practice time to get your chops up to snuff, and not every drummer is Kevin Talley, not every guitarist Erik Rutan, etc., so it could be argued that it’s best to rely on one’s self for the most desirable results. Granted, it’s not as prevalent as it is in black metal — where it can seem like 64% of all of it is made by one-man projects — but it’s an interesting subset. And these guys actually play out from time to time, so it’s not all jacking off and hoping somebody notices. The goals are the same as with most death metal bands, just with 80% fewer guys.

Granted, the shows aren’t always riveting, as I learned with Bloodsoaked. When I saw them (er, him) at New England Deathfest two years ago, I was struck by how utterly fucking boring it was (in contrast, Putrid Pile — another notable one-man act — managed to put on a surprisingly lively show despite being just a nerdy looking dude in a Devourment hat and a drum machine). And when I heard about their/his latest album — The Death of Hope– the name stuck with me. And while I may have been underwhelmed with Bloodsoaked live, on record, they’re fucking magnificent. It’s death metal for guys who would wear an Obituary long-sleeve and clip-on tie to their sister’s wedding: the dirty, technical yet straightforward stuff. Nothing you haven’t already heard, but certainly the type of stuff that you can never hear enough of. Thirty-one minutes of claustrophobic, atonal riffs and last-breath-from-a-corpse’s-mouth vocals, all of it great.

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While at work a few years ago, as I was hammering out document after document in my cubicle, listening to Wolves in the Throne Room battle the sound of my fingertips hitting the keyboard, a co-worker popped her head in letting me know that what I was listening to sounded like “funeral music” to her. Of all the niches I’ve heard Wolves in the Throne Room get thrown into, I thought this one was the most interesting. I guess I could see where she was coming from to an extent — the mournful vocals lent by Jessika Kenney on Two Hunters wouldn’t by any means seem out of place as an accompaniment to, say, a roaring funeral pyre. That very element, in fact, was what really took that album to another level for me. So of course I was glad to hear the beautiful, haunting voice grace the band’s newest release, Celestial Lineage.

Fans of Wolves in the Throne Room have come to expect a certain quality hard to exactly decipher or pinpoint with each anticipated album. That sort of earthen and, at the same time, undeniably ethereal sound, which invokes visions of rain soaked forest beds, or cavernous ruins of a long lost congregation of mystics. Of course, I could be completely alone in these specific conjurations, but the fact remains that the brothers Weaver continuously deliver not only meticulously well-constructed pieces, they create an intricate landscape with each note, each chord, each painful cry, taking the listener to another realm entirely. Rounding out the trilogy set forth with the sorrowful Two Hunters, and followed by the more punishing Black Cascade, the release of Celestial Lineage is anything but anticlimactic.

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Confession: I far prefer Brutal Truth’s more recent work to the stuff I cut my teeth on back in the 90s. While some bands shoot their wad completely in the first three records (I’m looking at you, Metallica), other bands mature with age. Brutal Truth belongs squarely in the latter camp, with End Time standing as a perfect example of how the band has grown as songwriters.

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Despite some rock-solid contributions to the genre, instrumental metal is an oft-overlooked idiom. Odyssey’s new record An Abstract Existence stands as a triumph in the genre, blending a love of thrash, death metal, fusion jazz and prog rock. Forget neoclassical metal and mathcore. Odyssey are what happens when a tech death band ingests too much classic Yes and fires their vocalist. In case you’re wondering that’s a very, very good thing.

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Full disclosure: I yearn for the Golden Age of Thrash, when young men in denim battle vests covered in Sodom and Exodus patches roamed o’er the land. While the 1980s are dead and gone, thrash lives. No one is more keyed into the thriving thrash scene than Diamond Plate. Their new album, Generation Why?, complete with audio samples questioning patriotism and authority, shows that Earache still know a winner when they see one.

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Landmine Marathon are a competent death metal band. To their fans, that may sound blasphemous; to casual admirers, it may sound like I’m underselling them. But, really, isn’t that a compliment? To be a band that a) can play their instruments, b) can play their instruments without Pro-Tools tinkering, c) leave something of an impression all while d) still playing ball in the rigid rules and orthodoxies of death metal is quite a feat; we’re so conditioned to seek out the BEST OF THE BEST that sometimes it’s easy to forget that there are competent bands out there doing great work. So while I don’t think the metal world would be any different if Landmine Marathon weren’t in it, I’m certainly glad they’re around to roundhouse kicking motherfuckers in the face. And Gallows, their latest, is a great front-to-back listen of gruff, unpretentious death metal. Nothing more, and that’s for the best.

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Welcome to the latest edition of “Freeloader,” in which we review albums that you don’t have to feel like a douche for downloading for free. Today Satan Rosenbloom checks out Wizard Smoke’s The Speed of Smoke.

I have neither the proper subwoofer nor the proper, y’know, glassware to fully appreciate the bong resin-saturated heaviness of Wizard Smoke’s second album, The Speed of Smoke. To my totally non-high ass though, listening to this album is every bit as enjoyable as burning a fatty, and totally holds up without one.

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Last year (and the year before) I got way too busy with this thing called life and missed out on a lot of quality music. I am here to rectify the error of my ways, month by month.

Here are the July 2011 releases that got under my skin, burrowed their way into my brain, made my ears bleed, or simply tickled my unmentionables:

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Skin Like Iron, Arrival (React!)
Descent Into Light, this band’s 2010 record for Six Feet Under, didn’t get the coverage it deserved on this site–and that’s my fault. Like so many good albums that come my way, it didn’t make an immediate impact. I’m making a conscious effort not to do the same thing with Arrival, an even-better follow-up that showcases Skin Like Iron’s coloring-outside-the-lines hardcore. The diversity offered on this short album acts like a headbutt to the ridiculous argument that hardcore is out of ideas. Melodic meets menace in ways far more inventive than what emo, screamo, or metalcore so predictably deliver. Skin Like Iron aren’t operating in some sort of scene bubble; “Consequences” even takes some cues from blackened death metal, from its post-apocalyptic lyrics to its breakneck tempo. After a grim intro, “Dim Horizon” punks the fuck out in a way that would turn a moshpit into a veritable piranha pit. This is a glorious, dark, and stunning release.

(4 out of 5 horns)

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Even in Today is the Day’s hard-to-classify catalog (Deeply disturbed psychogrind/doom with apocalyptic deathfolk influences? Intense grindy noisecore with suicidal outlaw country asides? Christ, who the fuck cares?), Pain is a Warning is somewhat of an anomaly. Granted, there are elements on it that have been touched on my the band before — big-ass riffs and quiet, contemplative moments — but… something’s missing. Early TITD albums (and Kiss the Pig, of course) were akin to starting up a conversation with the guy standing alone and twitching at the train station: he’ll be intense, at times hard to relate to, have some interesting things to say, and ultimately very much not for everyone. There’s been a tense wall of standoffishness to the band’s stuff, and that’s what made it great. If it was your thing, it was like someone was speaking to an intensely personal place. If it wasn’t your thing, it was incredibly unnerving. Even the folks in the middle would at least say it wasn’t a band they could listen to every day. That element is missing on Pain is a Warning.

Well, not completely, but it’s more manageable on their new album. And while the NEW THING=NO DEAL! kneejerk reaction awaits, Pain is a Warning, a curveball in a career full of them, is boldly different, and thus, fucking excellent. Whereas something like In the Eyes of God is taut and jittery like a rabid animal, Pain is a Warning is elephantine. We know what Steve Austin sounds like when he’s pissy, losing his religion, furious, murderous, bummed out, depressed, despondent, and fairly angry; what does he sound like when he just wants to bowl shit over? Pain is a Warning answers that question.

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Welcome to the latest edition of “Freeloader,” in which we review albums that you don’t have to feel like a douche for downloading for free. Today Satan Rosenbloom checks out Eschaton’s An Instrument of Darkness EP.

Two thoughts that I had while listening to An Instrument of Darkness, the boss two-song EP by Austrian black metal merchants Eschaton:

1) Maybe two songs are enough!

Think about how perfect a two-song release can be. It challenges the band to sum up its strengths in a far more compacted format than with a full-length, while still providing some element of contrast. The listener is rewarded with a release sans fat, and also some insight into what the band values about itself – I’d argue even more insight than you might get in an EP, which can often be a place to throw a bunch of stuff that a band didn’t think would fit on the new album.

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If you’ve ever wanted to hear Dio’s “Holy Diver” transformed from one of metal’s most powerful anthems into a hair metal-style sad sack power ballad complete with Casio keyboards and a synth violin so shitty it wouldn’t have been considered fit to be the ringtone on the cell phone you owned in 1999, then you are going to fucking love, love, LOVE Axel Rudi Pell’s The Ballads IV.

On the other hand, if you actually have decent taste, you will probably think that this album, y’know, fucking blows.

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All Pigs Must Die: even after a decade of band names evoking countless forms of violent death, dying fetuses, every disease in a medical dictionary, and hundreds of creative methods of vaginal demolishment, that name sticks out. It reminds me of how Pig Destroyer got their name: wanting to go with the most confrontational moniker they could conjure, they went from Cop Killer to Cop Destroyer to Pig Destroyer. But whereas that band has a paper-thin veil of vagueness as to what their moniker means — me, I thought they were a Mike Patton-y or Devin Townshend-esque squiggly omni-metal band until I actually heard them — All Pigs Must Die don’t fuck around. If your uncle is a cop, you can’t wear their shirts to cookouts (and as an added bonus, if your older sister is a vegan, you can’t wear their shirts to her solstice gatherings). And with a name with all the subtlety of a bottle of Old English being smashed over your face, it’s pretty easy to tell what they sound like: hardcore. Serious fucking hardcore. And I can’t tell if their name is so appealing because their brand of annihilation is so alluring, or if their brand of annihilation is so appealing because it’s attached to that name. All I know is I can’t stop saying it, or at least find reasons to say it as often as possible.

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Welcome to the latest edition of “Freeloader,” in which we review albums that you don’t have to feel like a douche for downloading for free. Today Satan Rosenbloom checks out Bedlam of Cacophony’s Neuroleptic.

Metal is essentially a modernist musical style. Since its very beginnings, metal has expanded what we think of as music by deconstructing – or outright doing away with – the schema we use to evaluate it. Metal bands constantly rub up against the limits of volume, speed, melody (or lack thereof) and other variables that all music engages in some way or another.

Even within a genre known for its pursuit of extremity, Neuroleptic, the debut album by Orange County’s Bedlam of Cacophony, stands out by hyper-extending pretty much every convention there is. Speeds alternate between grindcore fast and doom slow without notice. Riffs change quicker than your ears can process them, when they occur at all (much of the guitar playing is of the tap-heavy Psyopus variety). Sizzling distortion abuts clean fusion guitar tones. You’d be hard pressed to find two adjacent measures in the same time signature. Drummer Nate Cotton sounds like his kit is constantly exploding; three guest vocalists, including Cattle Decapitation/Murder Construct’s Travis Ryan, saddle the album with an intense case of multiple personality disorder. Hooks? Grooves? Tonal centers? All done away with. Neuroleptic blows by like four colliding tornados and dares you to keep up.

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