We humans are not as important as data centers. That’s been made pretty clear. And if you’re thinking the current opposition party is going to swoop in and save us, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Our country is a fucking joke that gets less funny and more barbaric every day, and a source of serotonin boost in this hell is shrinking by the day.

Oklahoma City’s Chat Pile have encapsulated this feeling in their relatively short time together, and their morbidly honest, unreasonably heavy sound has become a soundtrack for those who don’t know if hope is just a sick joke. On their third LP “Who Loves the Sun,” the band—vocalist Ray B., guitarist L. Manhole, bassist Stin, drummer Cap’n Ron—may have tweaked their pseudonyms but they haven’t pulled back on any of the fuel they use to feed their fires. With data enslavement, increasingly meaningless jobs that never seem to get better pay, and an unprecedented corruption plaguing public officials, this band stands as the perfect voice for the moment. There’s anger, sarcasm, humor, unflinching personal darkness, and acerbic commentary delivered in the band’s trademark style. But they also branch out more, making their toolkit deeper, their intent richer, and their attack is as effective as ever.

“Creature” opens with the drums rousing, guitars stinging, and the bass chugging hard, howls scarring as they deliver scathing fury. “On every creature led to slaughter, every city underwater,” Ray B. wails, the playing sneaking into thick murk, a vicious, Korn-like breakdown baking, screams scorching. “Deep Blue” is colder when it starts, the pace luring, the driving chorus lighting new fires. Guitars then pin prick, adding steam as the screams turn more deranged. The playing stirs as the chunkiness increases, the singing lulls, and guitars leave ash. “Same Rules” is cloudy as the vocals glaze, dripping from a black icicle, Ray B. howling, “No world on the outside.” The gloom thickens, guitars jolting as the harsh wails smear, turning unsettling before the temperature drops dangerously, sliding into darkness. “PEN I S MALL” clouds with disdain, the bass clubbing as guitars jar, Ray B. taunting, “Simon says no protection! Simon says get back to work!” The two characters in the story suffer from life’s crushing realities, and the charring madness and cement-thick power resonates, slowing down to pummel more directly, the final rants stabbing home the nails. “Shrine” has guitars bending as Ray B.’s singing coats, sludgy fury getting muscular, bringing some of the record’s more metallic moments. “And share my dreaming and join my grieving,” Ray B. scowls, explosive emotion gushing from pores, picking up the intensity and smashing you.

“Intruder” bleeds in with post-rock shine, churning as guests vocalists Claire Hannah and Brittany Sawtelle from Nightosphere join in on the chorus to add different textures. The playing crawls through dank darkness, wails and gasps making your anxiety more pronounced, Ray B. gutting with, “Dreaming about a life that’s fair and true, cause there’s no difference between me and you.”  “Christabel ’26” is grungy as fuck with Ray B. in more of a scream-sing mode, a different shade for his vocal style, and the sound is kind of like if Nirvana had been a doom band. “All they really need, every drop of blood, all your family’s blood, spit in the face of god,” hammers as the playing feels catchier than it should, clouds thicken, and you’re mentally put to the test as you’re left gasping. “Influence” has a punk edge, and it jerks and bruises, the bass thunking and getting muddier. The tempo is a battering ram, and at one point the assault reminds a bit of Prong classic “Beg to Differ,” the power bouncing your face off decaying curbs. “Family Funeral” drubs as the guitars warp, Ray B. talk sings nakedly, paying off the morbidity of relations that are poisoned. The tone gets darker and more disturbing as the track lingers, the bass/drum force loosening teeth, the screams chewing on your psyche. “And though you’ve come to save your sons, the blood on this knife should reveal my pain, chariot of the sun now will take me and our dead children far away,” Ray B. howls, the playing growing more unhinged, sobering reality setting in its claws. Closer “October All the Time” opens with acoustics, deliberate singing making sure every word lands, the folkish, sad atmosphere growing more penetrating. “These unholy signs, they’ve been stuck in my mind,” Ray B. levels, a power surge bringing a brief storm, then everything returning to sullen, fading as chests heave from emotion.

Chat Pile have improved markedly from their first work to now, and “Who Loves the Sun” is their most realized, varied, and unglued performance yet. It’s not like this band needed to get better. They were hammering and efficient from the start. But they’ve grown into their bones and figured out a new way to reveal a continually crumbling world, the heartbreak it delivers, and the ways we can try to climb back and defy these fuckers.

For more on the band, go here: https://chatpile.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://nowflensing.com/collections/chat-pile

For more on the label, go here: https://nowflensing.com/

The amount of artists twisting death metal to its physical and mental limits has ballooned in recent years, which is expected when bands such as Gorguts and Krallice and Atheist and others have spent years rewriting and updating the DNA. Disciples are to be expected, and the ones that have new things to offer will continue to stretch the boundaries.

Dylan Cruz (Noxis, Scumbag, Dissonance) solely helms Hanging Garden, and this project always demonstrated its capacity to keep taking death metal elsewhere. “Dream Death” (not sure if the title was inspired by the legendary Pittsburgh-based band) is the second installment in the band’s story, and it’s seven tracks and 41 minutes of progressive death that feels natural and channeled. Cruz puts dexterity and ambition into the music, trading brutality for brainy instrumentation in spots that always hits the mark. It’s an easy-to-digest record if you’re a seasoned listener, but it also is a good guide for anyone who has yet to take on death’s more flexible terrain.

“Arete” rips opens and jolts, growls lurch, and atmosphere bursts from the seams, the guitars churning before halting. Calm flows as keys flush, and then the violence renews, adventurous playing soaring, leads taking off, and shrieks jostling your spine, blistering and trudging before subsiding. “Ondine” snares and blinds, growls crush, and the force clobbers, wrecking as it makes your brain tingle. The bass slithers as the pace melts, the guitars climbing out of a vortex, the screams ravaging. The engine reignites as things get uglier, the vocals reach into your bowels, and a slight glitch hits a stormfront and runs into “Dreamwoven” that immediately impacts. Beastly growls flex as airy violence strikes, shrieks belt, and then an oddly breezy sequence ruptures. The playing stomps and stuns, guitars catch fire, and the final moments stymie.

“Carambola” explodes, melodies charting courses, the howls retching as the momentum kicks in harder. Guitars go crazy, reaching zany territory, growls crushing and drums battering. The leads explore before going more tranquil, keys bathing your psychological wounds. “Endymion” stomps, guitars gliding, the drums kicking holes in skulls, a progressive force unfurling multi-colored wings. Vicious howls leave marks as the playing turns mystical and quaking, the final moments spitting cinders. “Tears of Lustful, Secret Desire” is active right away, howls ripping and guitars buzzing, rampaging through a burning hellscape. Growls wrench as the playing rips harder, guitars encircle, and spacious headiness infects. Closer “Suffering Radiant Memories” starts with rustic acoustics before guitars build and then take flight, hitting more ambitious waters. The vibe is cool and calm before a new charge ripples, tearing apart earth and lashing with a last gasp of electricity.

Cruz continues to poke and prod with his progressive form of death metal, and on “Dream Death,” the Hanging Garden ethos gets thicker and more complex. This album feels perfectly served, never overstaying its welcome, and delivering mental journeys that leave you stimulated. And bruised. This also is heavy as fuck and does physical damage that teams with the challenges it puts on your brain.

For more on the band, go here: https://hanginggarden-label.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album (U.S.), go here: https://us.tometal.com/

Or here (also U.S.): https://transcendingobscurity.indiemerch.com/

Or here (international): https://eu.tometal.com/

For more on the label, go here: https://transcendingobscurity.bandcamp.com/

Five records into a career, it’s not super common a band figures out something that really works, galvanizes them and lights something under them that hadn’t burned quite that brightly before. Yet it happened with Dreadnought, a band that built an impressive resume over their first four records and unlocked some really interesting mental and sonic space.

“Wars of Spirits // Wards of Light” is the band’s fifth record, and wouldn’t you know it? It’s a revelation for a band that already was operating on a high level. Boiled down to a four piece— Kelly Schilling (vocals, guitars, keys, synth), Ryan Sims (guitars, vocals), Kevin Handlon (bass), Jordan Clancy (drums, percussion)—Dreadnought unleash a new adventure and reality, sounding like a different animal with sharper claws, even more ambition, and jolting a volcanic gust into something otherworldly. It’s a record that keeps your heart pounding and reveals different hues, like nature itself rolled out a majestic display that makes your imagination work overtime, happily.

“Tiamat’s Gate” immediately signals things are different as we join in the clouds, Schilling’s singing enrapturing and feeling as if visiting Kate Bush terrain, the playing sweeping and rousing. Howls wrench as calm arrives, breathy echoes gasping, a sinister sense crawling up your spine, the playing ravaging and pressing lungs. The pace cools as piano notes splash, propulsive playing powers, and everything fades. “The Archive” starts with growls gutting, burly playing flexing, and breathy singing fluttering, roars arriving as the keys surge. Icy speaking chills as screams tear at sanity, the tempo trudges, and the final moments exhale fuzz and hypnosis. “Colors of Our Broken Hearts” dashes with synth and powerful singing, keys icing as Sims’ voice joins the fray, a cosmic gaze sprawling and arresting. Speaking clouds as the guitars snarl, the pace combusts, and a lightning strike buries.

“Serpents of the Moon” opens with the bass slinking and the singing floating, the pace plotting as synth clouds build, and the sound washes out like your ears filled with water. The vocals coat as keys plink, the playing growing more immersive, the power bursting as guitars scuff, sci-fi fog and staticky beats stinging. The pace then explodes, swelling the drama, the keys tingling, and roars fading into the clouds. “Aeonwar” starts with keys glazing, the singing cooling, and then shrieks tearing at the senses, guitars coming unglued as the atmosphere turns volatile. Alien strangeness surrounds as propulsive playing makes waves, screams belt, and hearts race anew. Keys drip as the temperatures cool, Schilling speaking, “And so they met their grand awakening with nothing but spirit to guide them.”   “The Twilight Protectorate” closes, unfurling prog-fueled keys, rousing singing, and a light glaring like sunrise, guitars flexing as Sims takes the lead with Schilling responding. The playing spellbinds, Schilling calling, “My soul is not for you to take,” the playing gushing as growls punish, the drums hammer even harder, and everything rushes to a spirited end.

“Wars of Spirits // Wards of Light” is a revelatory record for Dreadnought, their most daring and commanding entry in their catalog, and also one of their most exciting, which is saying something based on their past output. Everything is bigger here, but not in a way that aims to overwhelm or bathe in gloss. This is a creation from a band who found their true self, poured all of themselves into the music, and created their own fantasy terrain where they make up the rules.

For more on the band, go here: https://www.dreadnoughtdenver.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://linktr.ee/vesperian

For more on the label, go here: https://www.vesperian.world/

And here: https://www.metalblade.com/us/

A machine never will be capable of creating art that truly connects with one’s heart, because it doesn’t possess any organs, can’t feel, can’t imagine, can’t dream. As long as humans are here and have access to what we need to create, music always will be dominated by people who put their sweat and blood into their creations.

For second record “Human,” Jasmin Lempinen, the vocal and creative engine behind Jess By the Lake and who once fronted Jess and the Ancient Ones, retreated even further away from technology and into honest, organic creation with a full band. These nine songs ripple with fire and energy, Lempinen’s unmistakable beast of a voice dressing these songs with personality, charisma, and her husky singing. Lempinen also contributes guitar and Rhodes piano and is backed by guitarist Sampo Leksis, bassist Oliver Karttunen, and drummer Marianne Heikkinen, and they’re on fire here, feeling like a spark to your heart, which should be surging after you experience these songs.

“Jaleihou” starts with shrieks followed by psychedelic smoke, a bluesy churn taking over and swaggering, the chorus snaking through the yard. Lempinen’s wails remind of vintage Robert Plant in spots, and then the soloing scorches, sounds clapping before burning off.  “Wanderin Kind” has guitars jerking and the pace driving, Lempinen’s singing flexing as it does, keys plinking before leads start up. The track takes on a dirty feel as the pace grows heated, the singing hammering home the emotions. “Lovely Boy” has icy keys and a dream state feel, guitars glazing and easing, Lempinen calling, “Black birds marking your scars,” her approach giving Fiona Apple vibes. The track bursts open as smoking soloing takes over, the singing soars, and the final moments bleed out. “Sister” buzzes and slinks, the pace feeling sultry, Lempinen urging, “Now it’s your turn to stand up and fight.” The ambiance turns swampy, and some great guitars works ignites, the desert heat landing.

“Alice” starts off a little playful, hypnotic guitars churn, and the pace kicks into gear, Lempinen’s spirited singing sending jolts. A warm solo swims as the momentum continues to bubble, everything surging before fading. “Falling Under” delves back into psyche waters, soulful singing swells, and the heat increases, pushing harder and letting blood flow freely. The playing splashes as new colors dash, Lempinen singing, “When you’re down, who will say your name?” “How Could You Tell?” trudges and shows off more crunch, the playing is steamy and alluring, and the intensity melts, Lempinen urging, “Carry her name in your heart.” Birds chirp and the pace shifts, the atmosphere tears back into time, Lempinen observing, “How beautiful everything is from up here,” before the magic subsides. “The Shame” slinks as the bass trudges, cool keys ice, jazzy coolness increases the fog, and you can smell the distant smoke in the air. “It’s never too late to lie,” Lempinen calls, guitars calming as the curtain drops. Closer “Holy Grove” brings punchy guitars and echoed singing, the riffs scuff, and keys add new hues to the clouds. Leads fire the engines as keys loop, the singing rises, and a thunderous thrust brings a breathless end.

“Human” is a good a title as anything for this record because it so obviously flows from the hearts and minds of Lempinen and her band, that you can’t mistake it for anything a machine might conjure. Jess By the Lake radiate with energy and emotion, and this would sound great in a live setting anywhere, needing just the band and the proper venue to give theses songs even more life. Those who profit from it have a reason to shove unauthentic art down our throats, but Jess By the Lake stand in defiance, ready to give their listeners something that floods with feeling.

For more on the band, go here: https://jessbythelake.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album, go her: https://svart.ochre.store/release/597611-jess-by-the-lake-human

For more on the label, go here: https://www.svartrecords.com/

I just returned from the beach recently, and I’m not a guy super into doing anything but sitting on the sand, absorbing the surroundings, unplugging from everyday life and its monotony. I don’t really go far into the ocean as I am not good dealing with the waves and would rather wade, appreciating its majesty and how it can recharge your mind.

“Waves” is the seventh record from Severoth, and the sole creator behind this project said he was inspired when visiting the black beach near Grettislaug in Iceland. He noticed the activity of the waves, how each had its own mission, and he related that back to humanity. The seven tracks that flood over 50 minutes rain down from the heavens, mixing winds and pressure, the water rippling, hammering the shore and returning. Severoth saw how people also act like waves in their movement and nature connecting us all as we make up a thing greater than ourselves.  

“Stars Will Show the Way” opens with waves crashing, and then glorious melodies explode, tearing with anguished wails, an emotional, huge outburst lighting up the sky. Blood courses through veins as screams belt, guitars open, and hearts flutter, Severoth howling the title to the stars. The tempo bursts as wails explode, hearts pound, and then calm arrives, settling into the waters. “We Are Waves” tingles before gashing, storming as the keys ice, howls belt, and the leads flush, an active pace jarring. Harsh calls envelop, great energy peeling off, sweeping into cosmic wonder, a gazey storm encircling. The tempo bursts as everything gushes, dazzling with colors, and all elements returning to the waves. “Vyriy” unleashes a synth beam, the screams belting as the pace lays waste, a frenetic charge shaking you to your core. Screams lash as thick keys emerge, whirring as the playing storms again, engulfing with fiery intent, synth taking over, spilling into oblivion.

“As Forests Dream at Dawn” is clean, swirling in the stars, eeriness scraping at your mind, the playing trudging through a frigid terrain that attacks your cells. Cries clutch your arms as a fantastical display captures minds, the heated chaos suddenly cooling. The moodiness slips into a coating mist, guitars liquify, and the waves returning to flood minds. “Snowind” opens with spooky keys, howls echoing, melodies sweeping, and cosmic melodies haunting. Screams echo as the keys hypnotize, energy pulses actively, and cold, driving melodies leave you shivering. The playing clouds the senses, guitars drive thorns, and the waves crash again, sounds left ringing in your ear. Closer “Glacial Dreams” is a brief instrumental with water rushing, synth glistening, and your mind drifting away.

“Waves” is a record that is volcanic and mind altering, a creation that feels like it is pulling you back to the earth and paying homage to one of its mightiest elements and our roles in it. Severoth commonly creates music that takes you elsewhere, and that remains the case here, even if that destination is part of our own world. This is an immersive, exciting record that lights hearts on fire and honors the world in which we’re all connected.

For more on the band, go here: https://severoth.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://www.sound-cave.com/en/band/severoth

For more on the label, go here: https://avantgardemusic.com/

Calling your band Filth is a pretty big swing. It’s bold in that it uses an everyday word instead of some strange moniker that might stick in your mind easier. It also puts expectations on their music though they’re pretty straightforward with what you can anticipate. This is death metal that maintains its warts and wounds.

The Swedish trio—vocalist/drummer Per, guitarist/bassist Sebastian, guitarist Ismael—is here to push your face into the gutter, and their hammering second record “Death Exhibition” is as ideally titled as the band. Over 10 tracks, the chaos that unfurls is rooted in early death metal, the grime and madness welling up in your throat and trying to choke you to the ground. But it isn’t just caveman shit here as the band also possesses a generous amount of ability they display early and often, adding some brains to the battery.  

“Intro” has noise boiling and a weirdly cinematic scape, moving into “Split Casket” that trudges before growls erupt. We’re neck deep into a death grind, battering and snarling, crushing with force as the guitars stagger. The heated pace continues and buries, the bass flexes, and everything ends with a spike piledriver. “Buried Alive” smashes and pummels, thick growls engorge, and the pace gurgles blood. The leads encircle before driving into the mud, and then a spacious stretch clears the air, burning into oblivion. “Born a Corpse” drives hard as the guitars smoke, growls chewing amid guitars slashing. Hell then is fully unleashed, tangling as the playing scorches, brawling to the mat. “Mental Butchery” opens with leads stretching as the growls engorge, the pace coming unglued as the tempo jars bones. Growls club as the guitars gain heat, the playing storms, and things get oddly mystical, ending in thick murk.

“…Inhumed…” has the bass clogging veins before the playing blackens eyes, the leads glow before slithering, and the madness blows into calculated madness. The vibe gets dirtier but also eerier, a ghostly hammer loosening teeth as the instrumental piece flows away. “Sadistic Ways” absolutely engulfs, growls smearing, the band thrashing, guts spilled onto the floor. Guitars spiral as the intensity spikes, and then a full death assault destroys, rippling from a final blast. “Death Exhibition” dawns in a thick fury, guitars creating a whirlwind as the growls tarnish egos. The bass buzzes as speed smashes, adding muscle and scar tissue, beating everything into dust. “…Exhumed…” is a sludgy instrumental that is cement thick, guitars attacking, melodies flowing like lava, leaving a pile of bodies. “Rotted Life” closes, and it attacks from the bell, growls shoving your face in mud, the tempo boiling violently as the leads stretch. Growls lurch as the chaos gathers, slowing and punishing, tornadic guitars achieving decimation.

“Death Exhibition” makes it feel like your veins choke with grease as your face repeatedly slams against the ground. Filth have a penchant for strangling and defacing those who come across their music, and they pile on top of you physically and psychologically. This is a pressure cooker that swings for the fences and manages to mangle a few faces along the way.  

For more on the band, go here: https://filthdeath.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://www.mesacounojo.com/shop/filth-death-exhibiton-lp/

Or here: https://www.rottedlife.com/rotted-life-releases

For more on the label, go here: https://www.mesacounojo.com/

And here: https://www.rottedlife.com/

I am pretty sure it won’t be long until I get a promo from some publicist who is delivering an all-AI metal band. Those are out there, I’m sure, but that dreck hasn’t washed up on my shore yet, and I hope it never will. But we are in a period of devaluing art and creators, and the idea of machine-made music is abhorrent to me.

Long-running instrumental powerhouse Russian Circles say a lot of what inspired their new album “Nine,” obviously their ninth, is the idea of human beings creating something that comes from their heart and minds. From the Tony Tasset sculpture that adorns the cover to the seven tracks that electrify your brains, the band—guitarist Mike Sullivan, bassist/keyboard player Brian Cook, drummer Dave Turncrantz—ensures what you experience is genuine through and through, and you can just feel it. There also is the band’s stellar catalog—it has no weak spots—so know you’re in for an actual experience.

“Borehole” stings, the drums hammer your temples, and the guitars catch fire, the start/stop tempo jerking your stomach content back and forth. The leads snake and then trace a pathway, and everything rips open, electrifying the senses, chugging harder as the soundscape crests. “Empath” zaps as the bass pounces, guitars thrash and pummel, and the pace feels like it’s actively hunting you. The attack energizes and spews heat, the intensity mashes digits, and the guitars fry, pushing until the pressure bursts. “Eluvial” feels pastoral when it dawns, synth bubbling as guitars gather under the clouds, the pace plotting its course toward your veins. The playing circles the sky as cleaner tones haunt, guitars sail before bringing emotional tumult, engulfing your heart and adding force. Leads bask in gray overtones, the energy peaks, and the valve releases.

“E2” bathes in synth pulses, riffs gush, and the momentum kicks in, slide guitars bringing a weepy darkness to the scene. The pace drives harder as the guitars glaze, muscular pounding causes deep bruising, and the leads tingle before exiting into the clouds. “Meridian” makes your extremities feel numb, melodies bring the hammer, and the guitars rain more gently, all the light points gathering at the center. The playing mashes as the guitars soar into the darkness, the fog thickens, and drums encircle, blasting home.  “Arletta” is more of an interlude, quiet guitars exposing some tenderness, emotions slowly rising before resting on the shore. Closer “Seventh Seal” has drums rumbling and the band thrashing, riffs toughening and scraping, working toward combustion. The tension sizzles as mammoth tempos rupture, the burliness increasing and chewing on muscle, acting as a crashing force that brings a hammering end.

Russian Circles always find ways to adapt and survive, keeping their core musical ethos in tact but always pushing on their boundaries with each record. “Nine” hardly is a massive change of pace, but it has enough frigid rawness and ferocity to keep your mind engaged and your heart racing along with everything. This is music that is thoroughly human through and through, and considering where we appear to be heading, we need even more of this type of thing to get us through.  

For more on the band, go here: https://russiancircles.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://www.hellomerch.com/collections/russian-circles

For more on the label, go here: https://sargenthouse.com/

Every word of this story was written under the influence of marijuana, two different strains as I wrote in in separate parts. You kind of have to when you’re talking about Sleep, the long-running doom legends that have crafted their entire catalog on smoking pot and the adventures you take. We all know this so let’s get into what they’re doing now.  

“Hempispheres” is another ridiculous word warp to make it pot related, which we love, and it’s their sixth full-length (“Jerusalem” and “Dopesmoker” are different records, right?) and second for Third Man, and it signals a major shakeup within the ranks. Of course Al Cisneros (bass, vocals, Moog synthesizer) remains at the head of the ship, but guitarist Bubba Dupree replaces Matt Pike (a lofty goal) and drummer Dale Crover (Melvins, Fantomas) takes over for Jason Roeder, who is back with Neurosis. This record does sound much different than what preceded it. It’s a more laid-back affair, and the approach to guitar is less fiery and more mood-altering, which makes more sense with the new material. It took some time to warm up, but the new terrain is getting more comfortable.  

“Have Spacesuit Will Travel” opens, bass bending through space, riffs engaging and exploring, Cisneros’ unmistakable voice deliberately telling the tale. Doomy licks curl as keys whir, bringing an imaginative and cosmic bend to the mind frame going on here, zapping even more psychedelic. Guitars melt as melodies bubble, the bass clobbers, and the path reaches into beyond. “The Morrisist” is murky as guitars open, the pace trudges, and the singing crawls, the heat spreading its wings. The tempo is lumbering, but the atmosphere expands, the elements liquify, hypnotic tones make your mind spin out of time, eventually draining into a mental sea. The title track stomps in, the singing lulls, and things get crunchier, the keys opening a wormhole into another dimension. Drums go on a run as guitars cut in, adding a sleepy tone that also makes your insides rumble, the singing plotting a way into psychic warmth. The fuzz thickens as the guitars bleed and electrify, sizzling to the end.

“Arrival of the Industry Ships” is the longest track, running 11:11 and immediately setting up a ’70s-inspired static, easing along as the bass flexes, new riffs buzz, and Cisnero calls, “Pterodactyl flies from the east.” A little callback to “Giza Butler” perhaps. The guitars strike and reek of vintage fumes, the singing calms, and the bass trucks, streaming mercury and letting guitars smoke, scratching a trail into the stars. Closer “Whole Wheat Mountain / Well Baked” chugs and drives, bone-dry vocals directing, the guitars heating up into a psychedelic soup, eventually calming as the bass shuffles. The temperature rises as the playing sets heartbeats accelerating, calming into a nighttime vibe that carries you away.

It’s not like Sleep ever were ones for brutality or speed, but “Hempispheres” takes their deliberately paced style to an even more relaxed setting. That’s hardly an issue for a band like this, because the accompanying activity to their records largely is based on following the smoke to the riff-filled land. This is probably their least explosive record yet, one that feels much different with the new lineup, but it’s still a fun, chill journey to the back of your fucking imagination.

For more on the band, go here: https://www.hempispheres.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://ffm.to/hempispheres

For more on the label, go here: https://thirdmanrecords.com/

Doom metal hits a little differently when it’s gritty and angry. Not that we don’t love the type that makes you want to smoke your mind out of your skull or the style that takes you on long droning adventures. We very much do. But when there’s some piss and vinegar involved, it takes things to a different mental level that can feel like a bloodletting.

“Hellward” is an apt title for Veilcaste’s fourth record, and it crawls with menace and stomach acid that churns inside of you. The music is not pulling punches and isn’t here to soothe any wounds. Instead, the band—vocalist Dustin Mendel, guitarist T Garrett O’Sha, guitarist/vocalist John Rau, bassist Gabe Whitcomb, drummer Chris Cruz—forces you to look into the horrors of our modern society with eyes wide open, ears fully engaged, psyche connected to chaos. Plus, their style is a little scuzzier and rough around the edges in the best way, making them a bleeding sore in doom metal’s expanse.

“Embedded” instantly pounds away, Mendel’s vocals (they’re midway White Zombie era-Robert Zombie and Cathedral’s Lee Dorian) spread the grime, and the doomy grit expands generously. Guitars ache and stretch as punches hit their mark, continually throbbing until fading. “Chains” is psychedelic at the front end, bruising as the vocals smash, the pace drubs, and the guitars smolder. The tempo reloads as the stress bubbles over, guitars drip with iron ore, and the howls retch before flies circle the carcass. “Altar of Ecstasy” starts clean with wails stretching, the playing stomping, and the psychological torment setting in, driving filth down your throat. Guitars swell and merge with an eerie soundscape, anguished cries pick at wounds, and the playing lumbers before essentially blacking out. “Vore” stings the senses, the menace takes over, and the pace hammers away, your muscles twisting before a sense of solemnity arrives. Clean singing rings in your ears as the pace thickens, punishment melts bone, and the sludge multiplies, wilting destinies.

“Anchored” emerges clean and airy before growls add stress, and a grisly power bleeds through cracks, pressing down on chests with full weight, growing feral and hellish. Guitars whip into a frenzy, buzzing as raspier singing strikes, crushing to the very end. The title track dawns with wails wrenching, dark and sooty pathways thickening your footing, Mendel calling, “You’re from another world, you don’t belong here.” The heaviness increases as electricity scalds flesh, the playing smearing your mind before fading. “Worn in Stone” is sludgy and scathing, Mendel howling, “Deliver me from this lie.” The bass rises, and a deliberate pace lets your veins relax, warm guitars conjuring smoke, the soloing glimmering and the final minutes killing slowly. Closer “I Am the Guillotine” pounds away, the vocals slither, and the chorus lands and brings melody, a slight shard of light in the grim gray. “Finding a way to kill you over and over again,” Mendel jabs, and the playing blisters from there, drubbing and admonishing, the fires eventually consumed by rustic acoustics.

Veilcaste sound channeled and angry here on “Hellward,” a record that’ll leave scars on your hide simply by getting too close to it. Their sooty style of doom gets in your veins and leaves a little bit of viscous residue behind, leaving you fully aware you won’t be truly clean again. This is another strong chapter for this band, one that should help them find an bigger following if this music hits the right damaged ears.

For more on the band, go here: https://veilcaste.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album, go here: https://veilcaste.bandcamp.com/album/hellward

For more on the label, go here: https://thirdhousecommunications.bandcamp.com/

As much as I love death metal expanding its mind frame over the decades, I also still get excited when a band just takes it to you, no other bigger message in mind. When I say that, I don’t mean bands like that have nothing to say. They often do. But getting absolutely waylaid and enjoying the fuck out of it takes precedence.

“Hell Is Evil” is the punishing third record from San Jose’s Deathgrave, who have a penchant for bludgeoning with punk-fueled, blink-and-you-miss-it death metal assaults. This record is a bit different from what preceded it because the songs are a little more involved and expanded, but it still is a 10-track, 32-minute beating that grinds you in its gears wholly. The band—vocalist Andre Cornejo, guitarist Greg Wilkinson, bassist Fern Alberts, drummer Clint Zane—does delve into our stained and hellish reality and the unspeakable terrors and acts of inhumanity that have become far too common in our world. The music jars you first and foremost, but when they need to deliver a message, they do with nuclear force.

The title track is up first, trudging in before speed takes over, the growling mauling before turning into ear-piercing shrieks. Brutality reigns as a simple, but effective chorus warps, a punk-ish gust takes over, and Cornejo taunts, “Welcome to hell.” “Hard to Swallow” has guitars boiling and death striking, shrieks peeling flesh from muscle, and then the pace slows to a doomy thickness. Yells claw as the pace tears open, screams barrel over the chorus, and the guitars heat up again, sending death rays into space. “I Am Here” is thunderous, landing heavy body blows that bruise lungs, shrieks jarring as the attack multiplies fronts. Throaty screams belt as the pace blends bones, bringing everything to a raucous end. “Born From Death,” which is inspired by the infuriating and inhumane Adriana Smith case, pummels but also tingles your nerves, death growls burble and froth, and grime rubs into your eyes. A colorful fury ignites as shrieks warp, and the band melts brains. “Smaller and Smaller” opens with the bass chugging and guitars spiraling, humidity thickening as the playing wrecks. The playing brawls as the vocals curdle, snarling thrashiness dominates, and the heat spreads fast.

“It’s Only Midnight” smashes and crushes, the growls unhinge their jaws to devour, and everything feels like it’s rambling toward the gutter. A dizzying assault blows you back before Cornejo warns, “In our neighborhood, everybody dies.” “Yaws 3D” is zany and speedy right away, and then growls lurch through the mud, and the playing drills, obliterating your equilibrium. Things turn ugly in a hurry, guitars steam, and another walloping stampedes before finally relenting. “Your Pain Is Ready” is a blinding bolt, fast and relentless, growls and shrieks forming a demolition crew, the drums destroying layers of rock. “Won’t See You in Heaven” fires up with the bass plodding, screams strangling, and the tempo fully unloading, battering with a new level of ferocity. Guitars fry, and your brain gets jolted, screams maul, and everything clobbers to a cinders-filled grave. Closer “27B/6” instantly goes for blood, throaty howls choking, skeletal structures rattled beyond repair. Guitars scuff as the storm disorients, screams retch, and a strange final transmission plays one final trick on your psyche.

Deathgrave expand their arsenal a bit on “Hell Is Evil,” a crusher of a death metal record that isn’t afraid to splash other flavors in for good measure. This is a band that, for the most part, lets you have a blast while destroying you, but they also add sobering edges when the need arises, because shit’s ugly out there. This is a beefier display from the band, but one that maintains their killer instinct and seeks to open facial wounds.

For more on the band, go here: https://deathgrave.bandcamp.com/

To buy the album (LP), go here: https://tankcrimes.merchtable.com/tankcrimes-music/vinyl/deathgrave-hell-is-evil-vinyl-lp/?

Or here (CD): https://tankcrimes.merchtable.com/tankcrimes-music/cd/deathgrave-hell-is-evil-cd

For more on the label, go here: https://tankcrimes.bandcamp.com/