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/
Meat Mead Metal 