While No Peace manifests many upgrades from their (admittedly good) debut, the biggest win might be that No/Más firmly institutes their identity. The change isn’t drastic, and No Peace is a natural progression from Consume/Deny/Repent, but the sophisticated onslaught supplied on this sophomore sweep oozes with sneering confidence. Following in the footsteps of Nails, No/Más balances grindcore, death metal, and hardcore/crust tendencies with playful intelligence, weaving together Full of Hell’s caustic bite, Napalm Death’s thuggish simplicity, and Jungle Rot’s warped melodicism into a densely packed third of an hour. And if those touchstones aren’t enough, No/Más unleashes Sepultura-informed grooves and a slow leak of Pro-Pain into their secret sauce. Not to fret, though, because despite all the influences, No Peace presents as a unified vision, and one that will rouse languid listeners into a frothing fancy.

No/Más’ instrumentation on No Peace sets a high bar with energetic performances, snapping necks with whiplash-inducing riffs and a license to thrill. Joe Vasta’s bass bounces and chugs with in-your-face rumbles throughout No Peace (“Abolition,” “Cycle of Sacrifice”), wielding a thick, surly tone that’ll rabbit punch you into head-banging if you’re standing still. Drummer Henry Everitt wallops the skins hard enough to rattle your ear bones, battering with furious fills (“Abolition”) and dropping to half-time backbeats (“No Peace”) as songs demand. It’s not all about the beatdowns, though, as No/Más injects a welcome helping of melody into No Peace. John Letzkus’ guitar slices through the faff to drench the album in a satisfyingly saturated buzz (“Act of Killing,” “Spineless”), though he also takes the reins and dazzles with efficient, arpeggiated leads (“Leech”) that I wish appeared more. Vocalist Roger Rivadeneira rounds out the quartet, shouting, growling, and screeching in a varied attack that demonstrates a willingness to experiment that was largely absent from Consume/Deny/Repent. In total, No/Más fires on all cylinders throughout No Peace, and never gives you a moment to come up for air.

With only twenty-two minutes on tap, No/Más leaves no room for inessential slop. And besides the half-minute intro flush with wall-of-sound static and indistinct yelling, they wildly succeed. As you’d expect from any decent grindy endeavor, no song pushes past its distilled essence, staying just long enough to rip and bludgeon before getting the fuck out of the way for the next track to exact its toll. No song eclipses the three-minute mark, and each exudes a rabid savagery that seethes with conviction. Additionally, No Peace sounds great—sure, the dynamic range scores low, but it’s exactly how this brand of overstimulating ass-kicking should sound. It’s well-mixed, abrasive, and highlights the rhythm section without sacrificing the sparse six-string fortitude. I wish there were a few more songs like “Leech,” partly because No/Más excels with the tunefulness, but also because I think it would address the biggest opportunity with No Peace—the compact composition allows little room for songs to establish unique flavors, leaving them to sometimes blur together. In the end, though, this is only a minor quibble, and there are many great moments to appreciate.

No/Más hasn’t redefined the DNA of deathgrind with No Peace, but they have contributed a worthy addition to its annals. Corrosive, pummeling bangers streamlined with minimal frills sum up to a blistering platter I’ve quite enjoyed. While I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing No/Más live, this crew boasts the hallmarks of a band that whips a crowd into a frenzy and ends with a broken bone or missing tooth. With twelve tracks running so lean, No Peace is helplessly easy to spin again and again. If they keep pumping out tunes this good, I can’t wait for what comes next. No más? No. Más.

Rating: Very Good!
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Redefining Darkness Records
Websites: Bandcamp | Facebook
Releases Worldwide: March 13th, 2026

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The short answer is…yes. Divided We Fall is a shockingly spry, punchy outing with catchy writing and enough testosterone to power 4 Cam Skattebos. It’s basically the album that could have followed Urban Discipline, with a collection of short, angry anthems about staying hard no matter what life throws at you. Opener “Fuck the System” sounds exactly like you’d expect. It’s enough like classic NYHC to conjure memories of Madball, Agnostic Front and crossover acts like Pro-Pain. They keep that rowdy, pissed-off tone going on bruisers like “Forsaken,” and the uber rugged “Eyes on Six,” which is one of their most catchy and entertaining tracks ever. This one stinks of BO and malt liquor, and it will hit you a pipe and dump you in the Gowanus Canal.

Slower cuts like “Death of Me” blend well with the bouncy, classic hardcore urgency of “Words to the Wise” and “The Fight to Be Free,” and at no point does the machismo drop below mega-toxic levels. There are a few missteps though. “S.I.T.F.O.A” is too rap-centric and ends up sounding like a cross between Anthrax’s “I Am the Man” and one of the godawful raps by SNL in-house comedy act The Lonely Island. Closer “Warriors” mostly works and has cool parts, but Evan Seinfeld singing “the warriors” oh so seriously doesn’t really help. Still, 9 out of 11 tracks landing and delivering more or less vintage Bio-sounds is quite a shocker. And the band smartly keeps every song in the 3-minute window so everything motors by in a sweaty fury. The sound is what you’d expect from this kind of band, and production is credited to Jonathan DeMaio. I’ll assume that’s actually Joey DeMaio from Manowar because that’s way too fucking funny.

Both Billy and Evan sound fine vocally. I’ve always preferred Billy’s rough bellowing, and he still sounds like he could beat your ass. On tracks like “Eyes on Six,” he sounds angry, mean, and murderous, and that’s essential for this kind of music to get over. Evan sounds like Evan, not better or worse, and he only irritates me when he tries that rappy-metal bullshit or tries to sing too much. The guitar work from Billy and Bobby Hambel is sharp and recalls the glory days quite clearly. You get a collection of very NYHC-inspired riffs designed to get you pumped up and into the pit leaping over pizza-rats and comatose hobos. The minimal embellishments work well in the songs, and I even hear traces of Prong at times, so that’s a win. This ain’t prog, folks. It’s simple, fugly noise for the mouth breathers and lunkheads, and that works just fine for me since I’m both.

Divided We Fall has no business being as good as it is, and it’s close to the stuff Biohazard were churning out during their peak. That means you get rough, confrontational meathead metal for those with fatty beef in their brain, and there’s a demographic for that. I can’t say I will be blasting this one way into the future, but I already moved select cuts to the gym playlist for maximum gainz. Maybe I still needed a few good curb stomps. Maybe you do too. If so, Biohazard want to say hello from the gutter.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: NA | Format Reviewed: Fucking STREAM!
Label: BLKIIBLK
Websites: facebook.com/Biohazarddfl | instagram.com/biohazarddfl
Releases Worldwide: October 17th, 2025

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Don’t get me wrong. There’s a loveably troglodyte reliability to what Jungle Rot deliver, and the opening title track is an enjoyably dumb slab of dodo death. It’s ham-fisted and brain dead, but damn if it won’t get your head bobbing as that Sacred Reich on bath salts sound erupts anew. It’s the exact same song the band’s been flogging forever and believe it or not, it still kinda works. It’s pure 90s death-groove and it’ll make you want to slam your head against the wall and throw your buds into a wood chipper before you buckle down to that deadlift routine you read about on Roidrebels.net. What else can we really ask of a song of this ilk? And there are a few equally thyroid-harassing anthems in store for the rotted. The extra urgent “Beyond the Grave” is like Pro-Pain doing death metal after a few too many boilermakers, and “Asymmetrical Warfare” is a surprisingly spry cut that will absolutely pulverize fools in a live setting. The rowdy punch drunkness of “Genocidal Imperium” is also hard to turn up your nose at because sometimes dumb is good fun.

In all honesty, it isn’t until the album’s halfway point that the quality starts to wobble. After the last chugs of angry chug-runner¹ “Vengeance and Bloodlust” fade into the distance, the Jungle Rot juice begins to show its age and inherent limitations. It’s not so much that cuts like “Maggot Infested” or “Haunting Future” are bad, but there’s only so much of this style one can take before it all starts to sound the same. It’s fair to say that whatever 3-5 cuts were randomly placed in front would fare best, as there’s a real fatigue factor in play when Jungle running. Luckily, A Call to Arms is a scant 33 minutes, which alleviates wear and tear and should allow the average knuckledragger to blast through the album before terminal mind rot sets in. It won’t be the most original 33 minutes you’ve heard, but it will jiggle your brain Jimmies plenty.

The thing that always strikes me when I hear Jungle Rot is how much Dave Matrise sounds like Sacred Reich’s Phil Rind. Sure, Dave’s bellow is meaner and more deathy, but the Rindness is ever-present and I’m forever expecting him to start screaming about the “American Way.” Chug meisters James Genenz and Geoff Bub shake their groove makers with fervor, injecting massive doses of beef and brawn in lieu of grey matter. They are masters of the bro-groove and they plow that field with admirable zeal. Some of their minimalist little flourishes are fun and stand out too. Their playing reminds me of Pro-Pain and long-forgotten 80s battle thrashers, At War, and that’s probably why I have a soft spot for their never-changing schtick. It ain’t setting any trends or breaking new ground, but it’s better than disco and it will get you modest gainz on leg day, brah.

Twenty-five years in, it’s clear that Jungle Rot are the Sodom of death metal, but with much less evolutionary potential than their German brethren. I’ll admit to having low expectations coming into A Call to Arms, and what I got is a very predictable but mildly entertaining platter of caveman death splatter with a few standout moments. It’s not likely to convert many into Jungle Rot fiends, but by their own standards, the writing here is solid enough. I doubt I’ll be spinning this much in the unknowable future, but I didn’t hate being shellacked by these neanderthal tunes and I don’t feel significantly dumber now than I did going in. Small victories.

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Unique Leader
Website: facebook.com/igotjunglerot
Releases Worldwide: May 13th, 2022

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Opener “Crawling” is about as suitable a tune for a march of the Iron Walruses as there ever will be, and the simple, beefy riffs mix well with the richly raspy death roar of frontman, Aufi. The sheer weight of their style makes you feel like the titular mascot is sitting on your lap after you’ve indulged in too much Thanksgiving revelry, and I mean this in the best possible way. Lunkheaded but effective and definitely enjoyable. “Take Care” sounds like The Truth Hurts era Pro-Pain, albeit slowed down a scosche, and how that smacks your gob depends on your relative tolerance for Pro-Pain’s “deadlift day” style of weight lifting metal. As someone who likes to lift things up and put them down, it brings a smile to my face.

The album’s biggest surprise is how aggressive and propulsive it is. Much more so than you’d expect from a so-called sludge act. “Control” is a relative dynamo of speed, achieving a lethal mid-pace rumble full of vitriol and piss-angst. Everything is so basic, but the parts slot so well together that the song ends up elevated well above its rudimentary design, and “No More Reason” dials up both the sludge and death factors for a big ole’ slab o’ nasty with a few memorably vocal hooks.

As fun and engaging as the album is, it’s somewhat front-loaded, with later cuts like “Fools” feeling a bit less refined. At a tidy 35 minutes, A Beast Within doesn’t wear you down, feeling like a crisp dose of sludgy death, and the short song lengths make a big difference. The lyrics are a bit goofy, but hey, the band is called Iron Walrus for reef’s sake.

As you might expect, this is a guitar first, second and third kind of album, and axemen Ingo and Bene deliver the sludgy goods with a collection of simple but effective leads. They rarely do much in the way of complex harmonies and the solos are minimalist and short, but the burly force of their playing keeps things oppressive. Aufi has a fun vocal style, sitting midway between Kam Lee (Massacre, Bone Gnawer) and Gary Meskill (Pro-Pain). He rasps, roars and rips like a good walrus should and helps keep the crush quota above minimum flair at all times.

Iron Walrus has the best name, album art, band photo and video of 2017. Maybe their style is a one trick walrus and maybe there isn’t anything truly groundbreaking going on here, but damn if this little platter hasn’t been rocking my world from dawn to tusk. If you want a more dynamic style of sludge in your life, hit the beach, but watch your step and fear the flipper. Now, where do I get my very own walrus mask?

Rating: 3.5/5.0
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: Redfield Records
Websites: facebook.com/ironwalrus666
Releases Worldwide: December 15th, 2017

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If you’re like me, you already skimmed over the above tags, curious of Darkhaus’ origins, the style of metal they play, and the clickbaiting that awaits you in today’s review. And, perhaps, you noticed a few tags that stood out. You know, those couple of tags that made you want to rip your eyes out. By the way, you can stop refreshing your browser. You and I both know you’re here at angrymetalguy.com and those tags ain’t going anywhere. Darkhaus many not meet the Kronos Stamp of Brutality, but they don’t seem to care. It may appear from the tags and references that you stumbled upon a Pro-Pain/Hoobastank collaboration, but it’s not as bad as it seems. Sure, I’m about to flush my metal cred down the toilet with this one, but I regret nothing!

But… I’m not gonna lie. Upon first listen, I wanted to hate When Sparks Ignite so bad. Hell, just typing that album title makes me wish Steel had allowed me to post this review under my alter-alter ego, Mr. N.A. Greer¹. No matter how hard I try, I seem unable to bury this album where it belongs: under the forgotten Linkin Park T-shirts at your local Hot Topic. Worse than that, I haven’t been able to stop listening to this damn thing since I got it! Its simplicity is its greatest asset and its dark-rock platform has a good balance of cheese and groove. When Sparks Ignite may not be everything I desire from a melancholy-riddled rock album, but this Gary Meskil (Pro-Pain, Crumbsuckers) project is fun as hell.

Dragging fellow Pro-Pain guitarist, Marshall Stephens, along for the ride, Meskil constructs rocking rhythms dripping with melody and painted with Kenny Hanlon’s whining pipes. Thankfully, his whining isn’t so bad. And his strong voice does a great job of distracting me from the pitiful use of “totally” on “The Last Goodbye” and the lost-love topics of “Tears of Joy.” While the former does nothing for me, “Tears of Joy” is actually quite good. I may have cringed the first time I heard it, the piano is soothing and those early ’00s MTV vocals are, somehow, hypnotizing. It’s possible I may be coming down with pneumonia, but this thing works.

For those cowering in fear, “Tears of Joy” is unique for When Sparks Ignite. For the most part, the framing of the album is dependent on its “tougher” tracks. Songs like “All of Nothing,” “After the Heartache,” “Devil’s Spawn,” and “To Live Again” deliver some toe-tapping riffs that I just can’t ignore. They all use catchy choruses, hooking verses, and touches of synthy melody, but do it without abandoning their edge. Though “Devil’s Spawn” wins for Slickest Riff of the album, the deep-throated gruff of “All of Nothing” and the borrowed Volbeat punch of “To Live Again” provide just enough variety to warrant repeat listens. You won’t find neck-breaking Riffs o’ the Year or RotY memorability, but these licks rock.

The remaining songs on the album (“Feel My Pain,” “Helpless,” “Oceans,” and “Lonesome Ride”) add balance to the pendulum that swings between ballady and crunchy. Without the sappiness of “Tears of Joy,” these ditties deliver the melodic goods akin to synthy, dark-rockers Unzucht and A Life Divided. And it’s during these melodic tracks that we get the most from Hanlon as he explores the peaks and valleys of his range. Even hiking through the canyons inhabited by the likes of Roy Kahn (ex-Kamelot) and Kjetil Nordhus (Green Carnation).

Though the dynamics are no great achievement, and songs like “The Last Goodbye” and closer “Bye Bye Blue Skies” are weak, I can’t help but enjoy this record. And when compared to their 2013 debut, My Only Shelter, this album is the band’s high-water mark. So, if you like some melodic rock, and are willing to take broomstick chastising from your colleagues, be sure to grab a copy of When Sparks Ignite. But, for the love of god, don’t tell anyone.

Rating: Good!
DR: 6 | Format Reviewed: 128 kbps mp3
Label: SPV GmbH
Websites: darkhausmusic.com | facebook.com/DarkhausOfficial
Releases Worldwide: September 30th, 2016

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Brutopia embraces a very modern form of hardcore that borrows heavily from the almost djent-y elements of modern The Acacia Strain, but The Hell are much more focused on fun tunes than complimenting pseudo-nihilistic rants with something dark. They’ve changed a bit since last year’s Groovehammer by incorporating some hard rock influence into the mix, but still sound pretty much the same. Like Gloryhammer’s use of intentionally poor English to compliment ridiculous fantasy tales, The Hell mix rap’s braggadocios boasting with hardcore’s sense of brotherhood, tough love, and general anger, ending up giving myriad shout-outs to themselves exclusively and having a positive opinion on nothing but their own music. All of this is delivered by vocals that remind of Lou Koller (Sick of it All), Katherine Katz (Agoraphobic Nosebleed), and various angry British men (the pub when England loses at something on the telly) with the addition of gruff clean vocals as well.

While The Hell focuses on being as outwardly obnoxious as possible, their material is legitimately clever; much like Space 1992, Brutopia is elevated from a one-trick pony to worthwhile, fun, and sometimes hilarious parody. Applying the carefree silliness of pizza thrash to hardcore, “One More Time” spends its duration layering energetic vocals concerned solely with the fact that The Hell is “back-er than ever” and “spitting hot fire like a dragon who’s back” over catchy staccato riffs, making for a strong and funny first impression. “Sick” toys with an arena-ready version of hardcore, merging a massively hooky hard rock chorus with choppy hardcore rhythms to great effect that succeeds in being a great bit of fun. The Agorapocalypse-meets-Meshuggah pounding of “Just Curious” suits the takedown of modern tech-death well, but the most satisfying lyricism appears in “I’ve Got Loads of Money” among its throbbingly hooky chugs. Mixing rap’s over-the-top financial posturing with hardcore’s have-not sentiments makes for some very funny stuff, and the purposeful butchery of Pink Floyd’s introductory “Money” bass riff is just icing on the cake.

While Brutopia is generally a blast to listen to, it loses steam in the middle. “Gather Round” is a spoken word interlude that lacks replay value which leads into the straightforward hardcore of the title track before going into “DH1 Classic Album” which is another standalone interlude. It divides Brutopia in an unappealing way and makes it seem lighter on content than it actually is. This means that it comes across as a lesser record than last year’s Groovehammer even though it has better material overall. It’s hard to deny the sheer entertainment value of The Hell’s music, but at the same time it can satisfy your itch for this stuff (provided you have one) within a few songs, and given that Brutopia has four of its best songs right at the beginning, that further exacerbates the loss of momentum in the midsection. While the post-middle comeback “Painiac” is fine, it doesn’t provide an exciting enough second wind to lessen the damage done by being one of Brutopia’s weaker cuts.

Brutopia’s production values are outright sterile, but this works with the sound The Hell is going for. Drums sound almost entirely replaced, bass pops up to do some cool licks but mostly plays second fiddle, providing more low-end to the chunky and clinical guitars. Trimming a bit of fat and better sequencing would’ve earned Brutopia a higher score, but as it stands The Hell have managed to release the best hardcore record of 2015. The songs are catchy and fun enough to stand on their own apart from the humorous lyrics, and the jokes are good enough to withstand repeat listens and retain their appeal. Brutopia probably won’t find a spot on my year-end list, but it’ll definitely find a spot on the ol’ stereo when I get an urge to hear something loud, obnoxious, hooky, humorous, and, most importantly, entertaining.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Prosthetic Records
Websites: thehellbandcamp.com | thehellofficial | facebook.com/thehell
Release Dates: EU: 2015.10.30 | NA: 11.12.2015

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This is a typically aggro outing, and the opening title-track is a true gem of steroidal vitriol. It has the classic heavy hardcore swagger and a punky bounce that belies the oppressive crunch of the riffs. The oft-repeated refrain of “consider this a warning shot, motherfucker” virtually guarantees it will become a staple for heavy dead-lift day playlists at gyms nationwide and it’s hard to resist its knucklehead street thug charm. I’ve been spinning it way too much and feel a bit dumb blasting it in my truck since I’m too old to be this fucking gangsta.

“No Fly Zone” opens with a gritty rap that sounds a lot like Ice-T (who did in fact grace their The Truth Hurts album back in 94) before going all NYC on you with thick, crunchy riffs and testosterone-riven bellows from our man Meskill. It’s so simple in delivery, but the drumming and solos are surprisingly technical and the complete package hits the reptilian spot in the brain that craves “tough guy” anthems. The brass knuckle hits keep on coming with stormers like “Take it to the Grave,” and the extra catchy “Belle Morte” which could have appeared on their debut. “Blade of the Cursed” almost sounds like Rob Dukes era Exodus, but Meskill is much more convincing as a vocalist. “Hellride” stands out for the wild guitar pyrotechnics running over the top of the caveman riffing and it makes quite a potent earbomb. And let’s not forget the dainty nuance of closer “Fuck This Life” which could be the musical companion piece to S.O.D.’s “Kill Yourself” when you’ve had a truly shitty day.

With fourteen tracks on offer, they’re bound to be lesser moments, like the somewhat throwaway rumble of “Crushed to Dust” and the mindless fury of “Enraged.” These aren’t bad songs per se, but they don’t particularly register or hook you in either. The bigger issue is the tendency of the songs to bleed together into a raging stew of machismo and bicep flexing, and by track 11 or so I have no more fucking hostile to give the cause.

Production-wise, this thing is a hammer. The mix is big, burly and bruising and the guitars have enough force to ruin your sheet rock and drive off even the most loyal girlfriend. Despite the low DR, it sounds surprisingly balanced and satisfying and exactly as this kind of music should.

As always, Garky Meskill’s vocals are a one trick anger pony. His raspy bellow conveys all the displeasure one could want and for whatever reason, I never get tired of hearing him shout, scream and blather on about injustice, unfairness and inequity. Unlike many bands of this ilk, the cuffs are off guitarists Adam Phillips and Marshall Stephens, and they take full advantage with wild solos that sometimes seem out of place amid all the mob mentality rhythmic destruction. This gives Pro-Pain a little more identity and along with some interesting drumming by Jonas Sanders, keeps the relatively simple songs from getting boring.

Voice of Rebellion is a big, pugnacious slab of New York attitude, ready to climb off the disc and bully you into a corner. It’s pit-ready, parent unfriendly and has enough breakdowns to send Dr. Fisting into hiding for a month. Listen to it and get all Long Island on your neighbors.

Rating: 3.0/5.0
DR: 5 | Format Reviewed: 320 kbps mp3
Label: SPV Records
Websites: pro-pain.com | facebook.com/pages/PRO-PAIN-OFFICIAL-PAGE
Release Dates: EU: 2015.06.22 | NA: 06.23.2015

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Salvation’s recipe is a familiar breed of hate: take the big simple riffs of To Mega Theiron, amplify their kinetic force, and further simplify them until they’re huge and obnoxious, add a healthy dollop of 90s New York hardcore a la Madball and Merauder, and garnish with vocals that rarely, if ever, deviate from a vein-bursting shout. It’s ludicrous to expect innovation when listening to hardcore, but that’s not the point of the genre; hardcore’s ultimate goal is to be a musical sledgehammer, and Salvation gets this aspect mostly right on Resurrect the Tradition with riffing that never strays from chugging and breakdowns (even the faster riffs are double-time chugs), and Resurrect the Tradition’s consistently punishing mid-tempo nature keeps the majority of the album at MOSHCON 1.

The downside of this consistency is the lack of an obvious highlight on the album, and the pervading “one trick pony” feeling of a band so relentlessly pursuing one narrowly specific sound. I’d be lying if I said Resurrect the Tradition entirely justifies its 35 minute runtime, as being assaulted with non-stop chugging and breakdowns does grow a bit tiring, but the inevitable monotony never manifests itself into outright irritation. Even with these criticisms, Salvation’s music more often than not satisfies a primal urge for no-frills, no-nonsense musical beatings, which almost makes said monotony enjoyable in spite of itself. It’s obvious Salvation wants to play nothing but Frosty traditional hardcore, and their strict, self-imposed adherence to staying inside their rigid stylistic box has its own charm.

Resurrect the Tradition’s production is big, burly, and fairly dynamic, fitting well into its natural sonic habitat: volume dial at “too loud” and bass boosted for maximum impact. Vocalist Kimbo Reichard dominates the proceedings, with Mike King’s chunky rhythm guitars not too far behind in the mix. Reichard is an entertaining frontman, but having his vocals so high up in the mix really emphasizes the lyrics: “See Thru the Lies” features the gem “here it comes, straight to your dome,” and my personal favourite track, “By Any Means,” sees Reichard shouting “this ain’t no place for the weak to represent” over some huge chugging that’s basically a sped-up version of Monotheist’s “Progeny” (bonus points for a verse riff that’s literally “Legion of Doom” mixed with vintage Celtic Frost). Sure, it’s ridiculous on paper, but Reichard sells it on record, making his nuanced-as-a-shotgun-blast lyricism fun instead of grating .

Resurrect the Tradition is a bit of misnomer, as both newer blood (Terror) and old blood (Madball, Sick of it All) are still churning out quality traditional stuff in the genre, and chances are you’ve already heard a better version of Salvation’s core sound. I won’t call it a comeback (the style’s been here for years), but I will call it a decent, if sometimes monotonous, release that sometimes feels like one long song. Thankfully, that song ain’t bad [No ragrets! – Steel Druhm].

Rating: 2.5/5.0
DR: 7 | Format Reviewed: 192 kbps mp3
Label: Mighty Music
Website: Facebook.com/Salvation
Release Dates: EU: 2015.01.26 | NA: 03.10.2015

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Nothing but the Whole is intensely claustrophobic. And ill. I’m not sure I’ve heard music that felt so thoroughly diseased. Imagine being trapped in a plague-ridden quarantine zone in an inhumanly overcrowded, dystopian city [AKA New York City around Christmas. — Steel Druhm]. In the future. This record would be the soundtrack. Even during the opening of the title track – a riff that would sound triumphant in any other setting – the ambiance, mix, vocals, and dissonant harmonic touches leave you unsettled. Yet the atmosphere is far from one-dimensional. Sometimes Emptiness go for groove (the main riff of “Behind the Curtain” or middle of “All is Known”), managing to be both oddly danceable and deliciously sinister. Other times they almost out-Godflesh Godflesh with grimy, industrial hammering (“Tale of a Burning Man”). They are masters of both the slow build and the in-your-face blast (“Lowland”). And it’s all somehow tied together into a uniquely ugly but cohesive whole through excellent arrangements and performances. The deep growled vocals are a particular highlight, sounding otherworldly as they echo around the mix.

If I were in the mood to pick nits, I might complain (half-heartedly) that, despite the excellent songwriting, the album feels a tiny bit on the short side for a record of such grand scope. Comprising seven tracks in 39 minutes, Nothing but the Whole doesn’t outstay its welcome, instead leaving you craving further punishment as the dark emotion of closer “Lowland” is cruelly cut-off mid riff. The mix is appropriately thick, with surprisingly strong bass and a crushing but cold guitar tone. The limiting is heavy handed though, so the already dense heavy passages are made almost uncomfortable. But as with Voices’ London, that’s sort of the point.

Nitpicking aside, this is a surprisingly varied, intense, and unique contribution to extreme metal that is highly likely to muscle its way into my top 10 for the year. If combining the sickly atmosphere of Altar of Plagues with the industrial grit of Godflesh and ominous evil of Evoken sounds up your alley, this should disturb and delight you in equal measure.

Tracks to check: “Nothing But the Whole,” “Behind the Curtain” and “Lowland”

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Having never been a supporter of Six Feet Under and their caveman, cartoonish take on death metal, I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of a few songs on their 2012 album Undead. While the album as a whole was pretty rancid, there were tell-tale signs of a band maturing a bit (finally). When I heard they had another album ready less than a year out from Undead, despite line-up changes, it didn’t seem to bode well for continued maturation and the marination of musical ideas. Well, it shows what I know, because Unborn is a shockingly big step forward for these guys in terms of writing, playing and all things death related. The addition of Ola England (Scarpoint) on guitar was apparently just what the witch doctor ordered and SFU has never sounded more serious, badass and listenable as they do here. The riffs are light years better and more convincing than ever before and the songs are more consistent and enjoyable. Hell, even the dreaded Chris Barnes gives his “One Man, One Cup(ped Mic)” schtick a rest and showcases some much-needed growth and versatility with his roars and grunts. While SFU will never be a band I consider elite or essential, they really had me doing double-takes with some of the material here.

Opener “Neuro Osmosis” starts out with acoustic plucking before lurching into slow, grinding death. The big shock comes when they start incorporating beautiful, melancholy trill riffs that smack of Insomnium or Rapture. It works as an effective counterpoint to the mega rasps of Barnes and the song ebbs and flows in a way you’d never expect for these guys. They keep the quality rolling with the simple, but straight ahead Slayer-esque stomp of the title track and as the song spins, it sounds more and more like Pro-Pain during their The Truth Hurts era. It’s still as neanderthal as death metal gets and runs in the same vein as Jungle Rot, but it’s an engaging, heads-down, groove-based ditty and it works. The same goes for “Zombie Blood Curse,” which reminds me of the first Denial Fiend album. The mixture of aggressive, simple and hooky riffs and overblown death rants results in a mindless, but fun romp without a trace of innovation or progression. Other above-average tracks include the vaguely Bolt Thrower pummel of “Incision,” the pounding, Prevail-era Kataklysm fury of “Inferno” and the nifty, corkscrewing riffs throughout “Psychosis.”

Sure, some of the songs like “Decapitate” are more like typical SFU, but even these seem more convincing and impressive than ever before. The only songs that truly fall short are “Alive to Kill You,” which is just too generic to leave much impression, and “Fragment,” which never really goes anywhere despite a few cool .

The huge difference between Unborn and older SFU material is the guitar-work. Ola Englund brings a whole new dimension to the band and his playing takes the songs to the next level. While a lot of the riffing is still simplistic and rudimentary, Englund and Steve Swanson add newfangled melodic flourishes and unusual phrasing that really captures your attention. Be it the Finnish doom/death flavor in “Neuro Osmosis,” the ominous buzzing, insectoid effects in “the Sinister Craving” or the blackened riffery in “The Curse of the Ancients,” there’s a whole new feel and power to the music that was never there before and man, it helps a lot. Add to that, Chris Barnes pulling off his most tolerable performance to date, and things just had to improve! I’ve always hated his trademark echo chamber growl and always thought he sounded like an overloaded garbage disposal. While he still lapses into disposal mode here and there, he mixes it up with more traditional death shouts, screams and grunts. Yes, he still sounds like he recorded his vocals from inside a dead cow’s ass, but at least this time the mic is outside the ass. I also appreciate the limited use of his uber annoying little piggy squeals.

Another factor working in their favor is the shortness of the songs. Most are about three minutes, so they hit and go without ever getting tedious or bothersome. That and a decent production job with ample guitar power makes Unborn a snappy little morsel of caveman death.

While the front half of Unborn is significantly better, this is still a respectable release by a band I just never liked or got into. If you liked SFU in the past, you’ll be impressed by their growth. If you hated them before, you may be pleasantly surprised by how much better this stuff is compared with their past junk. Barnes made a decision to steer his band away from quasi-parody and I admire the results. Still not a must hear, but they’ve definitely risen above serviceable. Leave your brain at the door and thrash.

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