Pearl Jam- Backspacer


(J Records, 2009)

by Paul Stephenson

Contrary to popular belief, Pearl Jam have never really been away. Certainly they’ve had periods where they haven’t been as visible as others, but a new album by these once ‘kings of grunge’ is as reliable as people telling you that The Stone Roses were a really important band, while you sit there and try not to bellow obscenities in their face.

Unless their sound has you wanting to run to grab the cotton wool and jam it in you ears (Eddie Vedder is cursed and blessed at the same time to have a voice that makes half the people drawn in by its lush richness, the other half contemplating killing sprees) Pearl Jam are a very easy band to be a fan of. Over the years they have proved themselves to be better than any other band at treating their fanbase as a family, from suing Ticketmaster to lower ticket prices, to their impeccable fan club (which gives away a Christmas vinyl every year which is worth more than the price of admission) to making every gig they do available to download.

This trend continues with this album, which gives you access to two full concert downloads from the website along with lavish packaging. Of course all of this is nothing without a good album at its core, and thankfully Backspacer doesn’t disappoint.

Opener ‘I’m Gonna See My Friend’ sets the stall early. Punkier and more upbeat than the last few albums, it brings to mind the Ramones jamming with early REM. Next song ‘Got Some’ is the kind of song Green Day would be making if they hadn’t decided to morph into U2. ‘The Fixer’ calls to mind Ryan Adams and Springsteen at their most upbeat, a perfect summery pop song.

Every song on this album is a perfectly crafted 3-minute marvel, and over the course of the full 11 songs they manage to cover the breadth of all that is good about rock music, without ever sounding anything other than themselves. ‘Johnny Guitar’ is the most obviously Pearl Jam tune, with its angular riff underpinned by the always fantastic drumming of Matt Cameron.

‘Just Breathe’ is reminiscent of Eddie Vedder’s solo album, a lovely little tune that leads into the sparkling ‘Amongst The Waves,’ before the epic ‘Unthought Known’ dazzles with one of the band’s trademark big choruses. ‘Supersonic’ picks up the energy levels again, sounding like the Who jamming with the Ramones. This movement of moods continues perfectly until closer ‘The End,’ which ends the album as a neat summation in the event it turns out to be their last, a trick they have played for years.

Musically the band are as taut and angular as ever, with Eddie Vedder’s lyrics twisting their way around the tunes to make them vital and exciting. For a band as political as Pearl Jam it was inevitable that the removal of Bush would have an impact, and while lyrically there are nods to hope here and there, it’s in the overall optimism and joy in these songs that this is most reflected.

My only complaint is that too many of these songs have a slightly throwaway nature to them. There is no ‘I Am Mine’ or ‘Elderly Woman..’ here to anchor the album, and as such it’s a little forgettable, albeit eminently listenable. It may win them over a few new fans, but realistically if you didn’t like them before this isn’t going to change your mind. For fans, however, this is a fine continuation of form from one of the most reliable bands around.



Inglourious Basterds


(Universal, 2009)

by Paul Stephenson

I hate film reviewers sometimes. So often you find one that you think is going to match your tastes and then they go and fuck it all up with one review, and you’re left as a reader adrift in a sea of useless, tasteless opinion. I most often realise this around the time that a new Quentin Tarantino film comes out.

According to virtually every film critic out there, the arrival of a new Tarantino film is no longer a cause for celebration. Instead it provides a chance to snipe at that once great-white-hope of Hollywood, to malign the waste of such prodigious talent that it could create the likes of Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, the pity being that he now spends his time making the likes of Death Proof and this, his sixth or seventh film, depending on how you look at it.

Ever since Jackie Brown, which did the very same critics who now hold it up as his masterpiece deride (Pulp Fiction? So passé.) these cretinous fools have been stepping up to maul Tarantino. But to do so is to entirely miss the point. Quentin makes brash, silly, flawed but utterly brilliant movies about nothing. Nothing and everything, wrapped in a big ball of violence. And so it is with Inglorious Basterds, which seems to be Tarantino’s attempt to wrap every type of film ever made into one sprawling western set in Nazi occupied France.

The plot hinges around several plots to exterminate the Nazi high command as they watch the premiere of ‘Nation’s Pride,’ a film modelled as a ‘Triumph Of The Will’
Propaganda flick. Set against this is the Jewish revenge fantasy played out by Brad Pitt’s death squad of Jewish American ‘Basterds’ who scalp their way implausibly through half the Nazi army.

For all their efforts though, it is not them at the core of this film. This fate is reserved for Jewish cinema owner Emmanuelle Mimieux, played with delicate restraint by Mélanie Laurent, and the German ‘Jew Hunter’ SS Colonel Hans Landa, played perfectly by Christoph Waltz, in what has to be the best cinematic bad guy since Heath Ledger plastered himself with white make up. His character is so utterly real and horrifying, and yet charming and subtle and funny. You cannot help but root for him, even knowing the horrible things he is capable of.

Throughout the film the utterly preposterous plot is anchored perfectly by the kind of dialogue scenes that we have now come to expect as standard from Tarantino. One bar-set scene in particular may his most natural and yet otherworldly writing since Hopper and Walken faced each other in True Romance. And as for the violence, it’s certainly there, an ever present threat that occasionally tumbles out in scenes that are stomach churning and yet hilarious at the same time.

There is no doubt that this is a flawed film. The plot is ridiculous, and given its author, surprisingly simplistic. The characters, while perfectly formed and fleshed, are all rather unsympathetic, and the ending is, in a word, daft. But then it’s the rule of a reviewer to point these things out. The problem is that when you focus so hard on the faults, you miss what is otherwise glaringly obvious, which is that this is two and a half hours of undiluted and uncaged lunatic brilliance, which if you let it will keep you hooked in from start to finish.

Realistically, what you need to ask yourself is this: Do I enjoy the works of one Mr Quentin Tarantino? If the answer to this is yes, then make sure to get this DVD, it will not disappoint. The man is clearly utterly unconcerned by how his films are perceived, and throughout this film you get the sense of a man feeding his own imagination, and we all get to see the utterly unhinged results.


Silly Billy

billy corgan is a mentalist

by Paul Stephenson

It’s fucking hard work being a Billy Corgan fan. Younger readers out there may only be able to identify him as that crackers bald fella who ruined Leeds and Reading a few years back, but for those of us who can remember hearing ‘Siamese Dreams’ for the first time and being bowled over with what Billy had done with the ‘grunge’ formula, it has been a disheartening decade and a half watching one of rock’s true titans slip into irrelevancy quicker with more inevitability than an old person falling over in a shower.

First there was the way he declared rock music to be ‘dead’ and released an album of electronic rock that was supposed to show his more experimental side, but then Radiohead did the same a few years later and proper showed him up by actually being experimental, and not just replacing guitars and drums with their automated equivalent. So then he returned to rock, and showed on the band’s last album that he couldn’t really do that properly any more either, trading instead on some kind of clichéd version of his own former glory.

When the Pumpkins finally split in a wave of acrimony, nobody was particularly surprised, and despite shit side projects and occasional messianic proclamations all went quiet, or at least it did until Corgan wanted to get the old Pumpkins bandwagon back on the gravy train.

He reformed of the band without any of the members other than himself, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing as lots of bands have gone down this route, and we all knew that it was him who played most of the parts on the albums anyway. But then he released a terrible album under that name and then refused to play old songs when they toured, even though the tour was billed as a 20th anniversary tour.

Next came more wacky behaviour. When the band were getting bad reviews he called a fan onstage at a show to ask him what he thought (in itself a bit weird) and when the fan told him the show sucked he responded “Oh yeah? Well what songs have you written? Take Your Dick Out Of My Ass And Stick It On My Mouth?” If he had at least been erudite in his response then he could have gotten away with it, but that has to be the lamest comeback since some inbred hick first uttered ‘Talk to the hand on the Jerry Springer show.

Then he proclaimed there would be no more albums, because “we found with Zeitgeist that the alternative audience isn’t alternative anymore. They’re a pop audience that listens to Nickelback. So doing a 10-minute song, nobody will listen to it.” Billy, to be honest I listen to a lot of ten minute songs, but as Metallica found out with St. Anger, there’s not a fucking point in the world playing for ten minutes if the song stays the same for the whole duration.

Then he slagged off Radiohead for giving away their ‘In Rainbows’ album, saying it put out the wrong message to young bands. Then, just to confuse matters further he announced that the Pumpkins would be giving away a 44 track album, totally free. There are politicians who would be staggered by this level of U-turning.

The latest from camp Corgan is that he and his now girlfriend Jessica ‘I’m the dumbest fucking blonde on the planet but hey, let’s distract from that with my perky tits’ Simpson, she of the blandest of all bland pop music, are entering the studio together, presumably so she can grab what precious little talent Billy still has and autotune it until he sounds like a guest on the last Chris Cornell album.

But if this comes as shocking, and you are wondering how low this man, once a God of alternative rock can go, then you obviously haven’t been over to Billy’s blog. For even the merest perusal will confirm to you that the man has well and truly gone totally shitting-your-own-pants-and-smearing-it-on-your-belly mental, and thrown his hat in with the very worst and idiotic sides of spiritualist nonsense on his blog ‘Everything From There To Here.’ For example;

“God doesn’t get tired. God never stops. God keeps going. God has tons of patience. God never wakes, for God does not sleep.”
“I went to see a channel once a few years back. We were discussing the nature of divinity here on Earth, and how I was having trouble staying connected to my body. He said to me, “What most people here don’t understand is that finding God is not about going up and meditating on the top of some mountain for 40 years. You are here IN THE BODY for a reason, to experience the limitation of that lower vibration, and therefore learn how to integrate WITH IT, and also find Holiness in the process. The way OUT of the box is to get completely IN the box, and make the most of your time HERE.””

Yeah, thanks for that Billy. Again, fair enough, I don’t have to like it or agree with it but the man is entitled to write his childlike musings on the world. That’s what blogs are for. I’m doing it right now. But far worse than this, he has also decided that Swine Flu is a giant conspiracy cooked up by, amongst others, Barack Obama.

Come again? In his post Health and A Well-Being he states:

“I would suggest however that it is possible the virus is not a naturally occurring virus. I have read reports from people who say (as doctors) that there is evidence to suggest this virus was created by man; to call it Swine Flu is then a misnomer, as it really is Swine Flu plus some other stuff stitched together. These doctors said such genetic mutation was impossible in nature.”
“Our American President Obama has declared a national emergency about this virus, which he in his own words said was, at this point, a preventative measure. So, why declare an emergency if there isn’t one?”

Perhaps, Billy, it’s got something to do with more measures being able to be more easily mobilised to combat the spread, once the emergency has been declared. And as for this point about swine flu being some kind of man-made genetic hybrid, this is from Doctors, eh Billy? Not, perhaps, from holistic peddlers who want to see you start ranting and raving about the evils of immunisation? Because surely even you cant go as far as that, eh?

“I for one will not be taking the vaccine. I do not trust those who make the vaccines, or the apperatus behind it all to push it on us thrufear. This is not judgment; it is a personal decision based on research, intuition, conversations with my doctor and my ‘family’. If the virus comes to take me Home, that is between me and the Lord.”

Right, so there is no swine flu, it’s all a big panic, but on the possibility that it is real, you’re just going to use it as a kind of DIY rapture? Fair enough, at least it stops the possibility of another terrible Pumpkins album. There is more of this sort of gubbins on his site, and I highly recommend it if you are interested in seeing just how unravelled a mind can get. The post about dreaming of Johnny Cash is particularly unhinged.

So how low can an icon go? Just one look at Billy Corgan will tell you, pretty fucking low.

Garth Ennis & Darick Robertson- The Boys


(Dynamite Entertainment)
by Noel Oxford

Time to face up to it, lads. Superheroes are shitheads. They just are. They’re cunts.

That – that right there – is the singular realisation that has sailed over the head of almost every hack who ever dreamed a dream of crafting the definitive grim-n-gritty ‘realistic’ take on the superhero genre. It doesn’t matter if you reimagine Superman but give him a frown, or if you make Batman a panty-sniffer who swears, you’re still writing about daft childrens’ characters who raid their wardrobe at random in order to go out and punch evil. There’s nothing in reality that even remotely resembles a superhero – and a good fucking thing too. They’re cunts.

Perhaps it’s not the premise that’s wrong though. Perhaps it’s just the viewpoint. Let’s not forget that ‘Rising Stars’ and ‘The Dark Knight Returns’ et al stick pretty much to the costumed version of events, so is it any wonder the heroes have been whitewashed? These superpowered pricks, they want to pretend they’re just ordinary schmoes, people like us, and so that’s the way the story’s been told. Well, they’re not ordinary, and they’re not like us. They’re cunts.

That’s the genius of ‘The Boys’ by Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson. They’ve crafted probably the most realistic superhero narrative ever committed to panels, and I don’t think they were even trying. All it took to pull it off was to reverse the point of view, and embrace the idea that – in spite of our inexplicable love for them – superfolk are all massive, pulsating, smegma-beflecked bell-ends.

In the Ennisverse, superheroes are pretty much rock stars, along with everything that entails: bloody-minded greed; exploitative commercial cynicism; arrogance so towering it’s visible from space; debauchery that could get a stiffy out of even the most jaded Roman praetor; and above all, gross, criminal, genocidal incompetence at anything approaching dealing with reality. You wouldn’t put Ozzy Osbourne in charge of Homeland Security, would you? We’d be at DEFCON 1 every time Ronnie James Dio broke cover. But in the pages of the Marvel/DC funnybooks, that’s exactly the situation. Nikki Sixx is in Washington DC snorting down line after line of chop, with one thumb jammed up a Playboy bunny’s bumhole, and the other planted firmly on the nuclear button. No wonder it’s always kicking off apocalypse-style.

If superheroes are cunts – and they are – then it’s necessary to find a way to keep them in their place. That’s where the titular Boys come in. They’re a CIA-backed heavy mob of five trenchcoated misfits led by a wideboy named Billy Butcher, all of whom either love violence, hate superheroes, or both. Our surrogate in this tale is Wee Hughie, a Scotch conspiracy theorist freshly recruited to the cause after the love of his life is pulverised into collateral jam during a fight between a negligent speedster and a fur-collared miscreant. Her death is of as much consequence to the bloke who caused it as it is to the sinister men in black who visit an utterly devastated Hughie shortly thereafter to buy indemnity and silence on behalf of their super-powered charge.

It’s that kind of nasty, pitch-black cynicism that typifies ‘The Boys’, and it’s a perfect antidote to the seam of boss-eyed, shouty morality that runs through comics as a whole. In short order, we meet The Seven, the world’s premier satellite-based superhero society, and bear witness to their unwholesome recruitment and vetting techniques. We’re introduced to Tek Knight, an amalgam of Batman and Iron Man who’s battling an unerring compulsion to fuck things – robots, cars, chinchillas, his butler – an uncomfortable state of affairs as far as his blissfully oblivious teenage sidekick Laddio is concerned. And we get front-row seats as Teenage Kix, America’s pre-eminent after-school hero club, come apart at the seams when Butcher starts dropping paydirt on them from a great height, in the form of indelicate photographs.

But ‘The Boys’ is not solely concerned with the hero-of-the-month being battered back into subservience, there’s a bigger narrative unfolding that hints at great catastrophe yet to come. Ennis has indicated that, at issue 36, we’re barely half-way through the story he envisions, and as such, it’s the longest original series he’s done since ‘Preacher’. So far, ‘The Boys’ looks likely to at least match that piece of work for quality.

Sure, there are complaints. For the life of me, I can’t fathom the jarring decision to model Wee Hughie’s appearance on Simon bloody Pegg. Occasionally, Ennis seems to lose sight of the fact that less is often more when it comes to black comedy, laying it on perhaps a tad thick at times. Meanwhile, although the ultra-violence is almost always kinetic and vividly rendered, I’ve seen faces divided from skulls so often in Ennis’ work by now that it’s become a trademark bordering on a cliché. Overall, I’m finding myself wondering how well the superheroes-as-twats gimmick is going to spin out across 70-odd issues.

But then again, it’s Garth Ennis, one of the sharpest and funniest writers working in comics today, alongside Darick Robertson, whose crisp and expressive pencils lend the cynical bleakness of this world a shred of genuine warmth and humanity. And if nothing else, it’s refreshing as spring fucking rain to see the decree nisi that finally divides superheroes from the übermenschen pedestal that mainstream comics writers have fawningly and pathetically bestowed upon them, like submissives gagging for the gimp mask.

If you like your humour dark and bitter, and if you ever felt suspicious of the improbably perfect, unaccountable and arrogant archetypes typifying the rest of comicdom, then ‘The Boys’ is for you.

Monster Magnet/Karma to Burn

Nottingham Rock City 05/12/2009
by Noel Oxford

Without wishing to sound rude, while none of us are ageing gracefully, the tolls of the rock ‘n’ roll existence seem to weigh heavier on some than on others. On Dave Wyndorf, apparently, they weigh quite heavily indeed. But then, it’s pretty easy to forget that he’s a man whose mid-50s are rapidly coming to meet him, especially when he opens his singing mouth.

The night began with a bourbon-infused set of instrumental roof-raisers from West Virginia’s cult heroes Karma to Burn. Arithmetic was never my field, so the final numerical tally of the support set’s integers went over my head, but ‘Nineteen’, ‘Twenty Eight’, ‘Thirty’ and ‘Twenty’ all definitely put in an appearance. So that’s 150, at least, by my crude calculations.

Chats with crowd members outside seemed to indicate that many people had come out specifically to see Karma to Burn, an impressive response for such an idiosyncratic band, and doubly so for one that’s been seven years split up. But the knot of appreciative witnesses that crowded the stagefront made jolly good sport of the brawny, red-blooded riffs they were tossed, even if the set did seem to careen to an end all too quickly. Cock on.

By constrast, Monster Magnet’s set seemed about 20 minutes too long, in spite of comprising only 13 songs, with half that number split evenly between matter from ‘Dopes to Infinity’ and ‘Space Lord’, and, surprisingly, only one song released later than 2001, the basically anonymous ‘The Right Stuff’. ‘Dopes to Infinity’ launched the headliners nicely enough, and that jolt of energy remained alive during ‘Crop Circle’ and ‘Powertrip’. Yet while ‘Third Alternative’ was anthemic enough to sustain crowd volume, the sense that the set had already peaked seemed apparent to me, and the middle songs appeared to sag under the weight of the loose spacey jams buttressing them. Indeed, it wasn’t until closers ‘Negasonic Teenage Warhead’ and ‘Space Lord’ loomed up that the upbeat groove appeared to come back.

For their extended encore, Monster Magnet had dug a fair way back into their storied history to unearth ‘Tractor’ and ‘Cage Around the Sun’, but by that point I found myself distracted, busily compiling a list of songs I wished they’d played, and marvelling at the effects of Wyndorf’s portable wind tunnel, which might have been installed to give us the thrilling impression of him performing from the back of a very fast racing car. Or perhaps it was to keep him cool seeing as how he’s a bit fat nowadays. Who knows?

In truth, he looks somewhat mismatched with the rest of the band, and almost nothing like the cooler big brother of Dave Grohl that he used to resemble in the 90s. Clad in some sort of grey leather bomber jacket, and more or less rooted to the spot, the stuff he strutted was markedly less than energetic, or even impressive. In the interests of slack-cutting, however, it bears repeating that the guy is 53, and what’s more, he’s had a rough couple of years, bless him.

But if the toll shows on his appearance, it has yet to make any impact on Wyndorf’s voicebox, which is betraying virtually no signs of decrepitude, and deployed repeatedly the trademark threadbare scream that has woven itself through the band’s oeuvre.

Monster Magnet are one of those bands who I’ve never quite managed to go and see before, despite having a great fondness for their work. Now I have, I’m glad I did, but it seems clear that, as a unit, their best days are behind them, and it’s a shame that such a great beginning petered out so sadly. In the end, Monster Magnet could have done with taking a leaf out of Karma to Burn’s book – always leave ‘em wanting more.


Portal- Swarth

portal swarth

(Profound Lore, 2009)

by Dan Cairns

First things first, I must stress this very clearly; I hate the majority of death metal. Which doesn’t make sense really. In principal it should be my favourite thing ever. I like horrible detuned guitars. I like blastbeats. I like lyrics where people get stabbed up good. Yet I hate it. Hate it hate it hate it. And I don’t know why.

So it was with a little bit of trepidation that I listened to Swarth by Portal. I’d heard that it was meant to be amazing and that but you know, pegging’s meant to be amazing too, and I certainly don’t want to fucking try that. Anyhoo, I gave it a listen… It is the musical equivalent of being sodomised by a fucking bulldozer. Seriously. ‘Swarth’ is flat-out stunning. I’ve listened to it four or five times today already and I will listen to it a couple more times before I go to bed, doubtless to drift into an ethereal reverie about Danzig. It’s in listening to ‘Swarth’ that I realise just what is wrong with so much modern death metal. It’s so overproduced, so focused on trying to sound ludicrously technical or brutal that it all pulsates into one gelatinous unwashed mass. I mean, Origin for instance. I bummed their last album ‘Antithesis’ to death on another site. After one listen it sounded stunning. Halfway through the second listen though, it became ‘Antithesizzzzzzzz.’ There’re only so many times something technically proficient can make you cum in your pants. Nile as well. They’re on album number 6 now. That’s 6 cd’s filled with nothing but Egyptian based guitar wanking. They haven’t even had the good sense to cover ‘Walk like an Egyptian.’FOOLS. Portal are different. The opening few minutes alone sound like a tank revving up (courtesy of a grimy, gruesome guitar tone). It’s when the drums kick in though that shit goes off. These don’t sound like songs in the traditional sense, and the riffs don’t sound like conventional riffs either. Cyclical bends and dissonant buzzing sounds are the order of the day, and the songs don’t bother to follow any conventional pattern. They have this tendency to make the guitars sound like the roars of dying elephants, if that gets you off. It’s such a refreshing change from the br00tal licks and riffs that permeate death metal and its bastard offspring subgenres.

The record is pulsating with something that so much death metal lacks; atmosphere. As good as Cannibal Corpse are, their brand of horrific death metal is pretty much grand guignol. It’s something to stick on if you have friends around and you are getting hammered, as you piss yourself laughing at Corpsegrinder’s nonsense. Portal are different though. There’s something wrong with Portal, and I like it. If Cannibal Corpse are the ‘Saw’ movies, Portal are the works of Dario Argento. It’s artier, purer and dripping with genuine evil. Naturally, being a pretentious wanky bastard, I dig that a lot more.

Many will not like ‘Swarth.’ But those who get it will reaaaally get it. Portal remind me a bit of Deathspell Omega, in the way that they’re both fiercely esoteric, intelligent, and light years ahead of their dunderhead peers. Most death metal bands when they aren’t on the road, probably do things like ‘hang out’ or watch sports. I get the impression Portal don’t do that. I think Portal are the kind of chaps who tuck their penis’s between their legs and dance in front of mirrors like the fella from ‘Silence of the Lambs’ in their downtime. I dunno about you, but I’d rather hang out with them. No, not their penis’s.


Converge- Axe To Fall


(Epitaph/Deathwish, 2009)

by Dan Cairns

(Editor’s note: You may be able to sense that Dan wrote this review for another site, but that for some reason it wasn’t used. So I thought we’d use it, because it made me giggle like a Twilight fan in Robert Patterson’s bedroom)

Hey, you know all the albums that the other writers are spaffing on about? Amorphis, Novembers Doom and Marduk and that? Well, fuck them, because the new Converge is out, and it’s just huffed and puffed an elephantine shit on them all from a great height.

Yar. It’s another album of the year jobbie, which is beginning to piss me off to be honest. I much prefer writing when I’ve got something utterly woeful to rip the piss out of. Fuck, maybe I should start listening to your demos again. I’d do it more regularly, but it’s just such a pain in the arse waking up, checking the old inbox, and finding over nine thousand emails from a load of precocious little bellends wanting you to listen to their utterly woeful, not at all derivative attempts at ‘brootal.’ Seriously. You lot make me fucking sick. I used to wonder why I could never make any of my bands last at Uni, but I realise now that it’s because I couldn’t be arsed tolerating the 99% of people who want to make music because quite frankly they’re utterly fucking embarrassing wastes of the flesh that God gave them. Well done you pricks. You’ve killed any chance I may have had in the industry by being a bunch of dense fucks with the creativity and imagination of a mongoloid child with severe palsy.

Oh and also, no other fucker really gets the chance to review any of your excrement anyway, because a certain reviewer snaps EVERYTHING up. He must stay in all day, listening to music, wanking his brains out, feverishly refreshing his browser to respond to every music request we get. Even Lita Ford man. You think a dude who listens to daft kvlt nonsense is going to give poor old Lita Ford a fair chance? Is he fuck.

God, I’m such a cunt.

Anyway, Axe to Fall. It’s the most immediate kick in the balls Converge have provided since Jane Doe. Most of you will probably hate it, because it’s actually good. You’ll be turned off by the fact it’s hardcore, even though it’s heavier, more passionate and more intense than anything you like you twats. Folks from Cave In, Ghengis Tron and Neurosis are on it. Again those are all amazing bands. It’s like the guest roster on a Soulfly album, except Converge and their guests don’t dress and act like wiggas, write shit music or sing about muthafuckin’ Hootie and the Blowfish. It’s actually a hell of a lot more accessible and groovier than previous Converge records though, but they’ve lost none of the intensity thOH FOR FUCKSSAKE WHY AM I BOTHERING. I’m far too fucking ill and tired to be sincere. I’ve had a rough weekend and I have a case of redeye that would terrify Jus fucking Oborn. I’m only writing this now because I can’t fucking sleep. You fucking fucks.

Basically Axe to Fall is ace like every other thing they’ve done. It’s probably my record of the year. I said that about Agoraphobic Nosebleed and Mastodon too but you know, I write here and you don’t, so place your chapped kissy lips around my festering sphincter you frenzied wankers.