From what I understand, there are people who don’t wake up filled with existential dread, just waiting for the world to melt into an ash pit. Those have to be the people so consumed with their own wealth that they don’t care because doing so is bad for their earnings. Fuck those people forever, and our backs are against the wall because of these blood suckers.

Oklahoma City-based bruisers Chat Pile already have made a name for themselves for their down-tuned, sludgy sound, and on their second record “Cool World” (yes, it shares a name with the 1992 film starring human shit pile Brad Pitt), they add more filth and grit to the mix on these 10 tracks. You won’t be surprised to learn things have not gotten rosier since their great debut “God’s Country,” and here the band—vocalist Raygun Busch, guitarist Luther Manhole, bassist Stin, drummer Cap’n Ron—digs into the increasing nightmare that has enveloped this country and the world from our environment actively sold for parts and fascist assholes being a little too horny for power. It’s horror that we’ve seen before our eyes, the band violently reminding us that the dark skies are permanent, and trying to find silver linings is a fool’s mission.

“I Am Dog Now” bathes in synth, and then things turn chunky and blunt, Busch wailing the title over and over before yelling, “And you see nothing!” Guitars stab as your brain spins in its skull case, Busch pushing back, “Remember, everyone bleeds.” “Shame” has a grungy feel, something that is a sort of musical theme on this record, Busch’s talk singing jabbing like a pencil point. Suddenly, growls gurgle, later turning into numbing singing, a darker tempo forming and clobbering, scathing weirdness ending in static interference. “Frownland” has the bass driving aggressively, guitars chilling as the howls mangle and bring you to your knees. Things turn unhinged, the playing clubbing and numbing, tingling and battering, letting you bleed out. “Funny Man” bruises, and the guitars gets warped though remain strangely melodic, Busch wailing, “Outside there’s no mercy.” Riffs snake as the playing digs into a filthy, low-tuned drubbing, the title repeated maniacally as the jolts bury you in a pool of your own saliva. “Camcorder” is punchy and guttural, making you feel the rhythmic gusts in your belly, sober speak-singing building the plot. “I can feel it all,” Busch repeats, a steamy and calculated tempo rupturing, unraveling into a thick mist.

“Tape” bathes in clean guitars before howls and dreary singing mix, an overcast feeling creating unease. “It was the worst I ever saw,” Busch continues to warble, making the panic rise into your throat. Guitars cut through as the vocals slur and then combust, carving away at flesh before melting down. “The New World” dawns in a disarming haze, and then the playing gets speedy, the vocals spitting out rusty nails, zany guitar lines bringing further disorientation. The pace then clobbers as the band thrashes with reckless abandon, vicious screams ripple, and the final moments are crazed yet channeled. “Masc” starts with the drums spattering, more grungy energy creating electrical burns, Busch howling, “I trust and bleed.” The playing gets murkier and then clobbering, Busch continuing to repeat the previous mantra like a mad man, the band mashing digits to the end. “Milk of Human Kindness” slinks in, trickling and slowly pooling, the singing easing you into the picture, and you’re forgiven if you don’t trust the path. Troubling wails scathe, the bass plods with gravitational pressure, and then screams rip, the guitars liquifying and draining. Closer “No Way Out” has the bass thumping, unhinged cries loosening joints, the guitars glazing and blurring eyes. “Feed them lies!” Busch demands before warning, “No escape,” as the playing gets both spacious and thorny, leaving mouths cemented shut.

One thing has not changed from Chat Pile’s eye-awakening last record: The world is fucked, likely permanently, and why mince words and create a positivity that has no chance to exist? “Cool World” is a nice tongue-in-cheek, fuck-off title, and musically they both build on the volatility of their previous work and also add smoother edges and misleading approachability that doesn’t exactly disguise their disgust and despondency. We can’t put a fresh coat of paint over our reality, we can’t clean up the mess, and the more we watch our world devolve, the further the bile pushes up into our throats.    

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

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

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