Saturday, May 19, 2012

The Hounds Of Hasselvander

"The Ninth Hour"

BloodRock Records 2012

Black Widow

At this point, I had fresh paw prints beneath, beyond and around me, but the moment I fell knee-deep in the epitome of Doom's savage, unknown marsh pit, The Hounds Of Hasselvander's"The Ninth Hour" engulfed me in it. I had searched long, endless, and sleepless hours to only find Joe Hasselvander sleeping lightly on the verge of immortality. How does one soley, sit awaiting with patience, the moment to strike out at the last Doom's Metal Day album quite possibly in our generations and century? He hikes and tramps solely thru desolate, unearthed weed fortresses and doomed, earth ruins in his New England hometown, and US Doom territory without a complaint or worry. Winding down into the first song took as much effort and technology as a mortician's asssitant needs and longs to check for a heartbeat. Long enough to beat every soul into a new casket-caged awakeneing, and ample enough to crop every circle in two using only precise calculated, antique masonry, Sir Joesph "Hound" Hasselvander, renounced 'Godfather Of Doom' has this 62:93 seconds album down for the blood cell count . Many have argued, however, Hasselvander has inaugurably stood to outlive many fainted and tainted Doom Metal bands non-existent along the Doom Metal's dateline. You'll now find him fishing for your doomed remnants using a natural ,raw, eco-friendly, non-jaded electical guitar mass and matter of existence before scaling and schooling it. I refer to Restless Souls  as "recyled" Doom scrap-metal he resurrects Doom with antiquity and diligence using his axe-ridden vocals with an edgy, cathredral-like, Rennaissance underlining to clean, orchestrating guitar riffs amid organs and vital signs  of predominace resulting in significant miffed and stiff attitudes by all surrounding retired Doom Metal veterans, who lay bleeding and wounded on his tearless warpath. Amply and righteously solid, Hasslevander's second Doom Metal solo album doesnt lose a lick of consistencely, along the escavation site of his toiled, unspoiled Doomworks, resembling his Doom Age ancesters of yesterday. His royal crown and throne sits semi-crooked with all the toil and Doom-Folklore and records untold, yet no significant signs of deterioration in his musical talent show any signs of erosion have according to my own carbondated forensics.  As for all who have tresspass on Doom's royal lawns without warrant, Salem blasts everyone's life and forehead a new direction, as Joe Hasselvander admits enough faults and failures, as much as, he can spot any failing faultlines. If you havent bought this album, yet, theres enough time to change your mind, and turn back the 'Hand of Doom' and count on the song, Coming Of The King once and for all to take back the Holy Lands, or at least set it to 'pause' to prevent its happening. As for The Ninth Hour released on Black Widow and Bloodrock Records, and topping all astrological Doom charts to date or record, we can also count on it topping all space, length, time, and capacity measurements along with the Black Hole's inevitable, electromagnetic vortex pull of gravity.







The Smut Of Strutter






Advanced Demonology Podcast episode 6!

This month on the Advanced Demonology Podcast: Maximum Fruit Jams!

Just in time for your springtime bacchanals, Ken/Sleazegrinder and Swilson offer up a four-hour cornucopia of fruit-themed/related tunes, hand-plucked at their ripest to keep your Okkult Rock weekend blow-out raging all night long! It's our juiciest episode yet!

Listen/download HERE! 

And please remember to keep fruit evil! 

Friday, May 11, 2012

The Monsters - Pop Up Yours
Voodoo Rhythm

VR's director of diabolicalism Beat-Man's very own band vomit V2's copiously over any traces of vanity project. Celebrating a quarter of a century of 'Chainsaw Massacre Garage Punk' they pretty much draw, then doodle all over, the blueprint for the label's roster from the asylum of the ludicrously off-kilter. Rudimentary one-riff fuckstorms may appear basic, but these boys know what they're doing rearing these psychotic creations, there's a craft behind the face-shafting front, the way they ebb n' drift then get dragged back to the ditch to splutter from the gutter. They mostly stampede over The Sonics collapsing teeth, kick The Cramps into The Kinks' kidneys (oh yeah, they missed the time-travel bit out of their bio), lysergially linking the Legendary Stardust Cowboy to Lemmy, Ramones-ically rattling the red-o-meter into an intergalactic garage galaxy governed with Guitar Wolf n' generally rendering your every cringeing cell to slivers of jelly. You can wonder why to the lords of goo goo muck such rumblings from the supposedly temperate Swiss fields get ignored - if that - and the Jim Jones Revue get lauded like they're one of a kind but fuck philosophy, get fucked by this, get 'em to your hometown (take note, self-ed) as most of all it's pretty damn fun, which seems fair game, no?
Stu Gibson

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Roy & The Devil's Motorcycle - Tell It To The People
Voodoo Rhythm

And so we turn, or twist, or downsright slide and swivel spinsomely, to the Roy riders' new album. Not the skronk-strewn melee of that debut (below) but hell, that was 15 searing years ago, so it's no displeasure either that it's a touch calmer if not more considered, but still defiantly touched and not constrained or sedate. Alongside further embellishing their tradition of taking choice covers to uncharted heights (see the filthily shimmering 'Johnny B.Goode' on BECAUSE OF WOMEN') with Furry Lewis's 'casey jones' there's also the catastrophic proof - if it were ever needed - that they're no simplistic Spacemen 3 apists with a sixteenth of weed but no skins, a runaway reverb account and barely a vintage tremelo pedal between 'em (though they seem to share a similar stylistic knack for knitwear judging by the cover of this & Spacemen classic 'THE PERFECT PRESCRIPTION' - incidental twat-ed). Sure, the Spacemen's pulsating drones and driving surges are an intrinsic element of their mesh of noise and enchantment but more than the homage to 'Suicide' of 'i'm allright' is the anguished soundscraping cover of 'will the circle be unbroken' which transcends itself way higher than the Spacemen's version, and possibly many others too, wading deep into purgatory's dark waters Elsewhere, like 'cristina', they can still summon many erstwhile spirits from the gentle, laconical tidal lapping of early JJ Cale to the manic possession of Jeffrey Lee Pierce and voyage around shifting stratospheres but retain in reserve a knack of the unexpected gear-shift to propel us along into shamanic-mantra realm with them.
Stu Gibson
Die Zorros - Future
Voodoo Rhythm

Well, what more can you say, 'cept that the latest release from voodoo's rhythmical lunatic asylum finds Die Zorros sandblasting a monstrously trash-matic mish-mash of kitschy B-Movie organ-grinds pebbledashed with surfy guitars in wide-open wondrous perma wipe-out mode, creating a sort of malfuntioning Kraftwerk elevator music of the kind some future physicist may find careering round Cindy Wilson's head, should she leave that cosmic delight to science. I aren't usually one for plundering the cheat-sheets but the band's own description of Farfisa Organ Fiasko kinda consummately rams the nail right through the collective heads of several shopping arcade's full of customers (a song titled 'Meek The Joe' is rather apt too). Wonder what they give by way of change? Or a receipt. Anyway, wander in, leave your senses (no doubt forever) outside the door and give them over to splendidly zonked covers of 'Black Sabbath', a bad-trip so-good-you'll-be-consuming-Roky Erickson / Julian Cope-quantities- and-needing-more account of 'Paint It Black' and a pointedly short snapshot of 'Nights In White Satin' nestling scumfortably amongst their own bonkers broadcasts from the surf stroll vs garagey-stomp of 'The Shark' and 'Good Bye Baby' to the very much all at, or all over, the sea, jazz of 'Streets Of Baltimore' (definitely NOT the country song it shares a title with - the japers, eh!), then settle back for a comically queasy nightcap/mare to the strains of 'Sailing'. Yes...that one. Maybe not catering for all occasions but certainly cocktail lounge bar music for quack-heads. All seating arrangements unsuitably supplied.
Stu Gibson
Roy & The Devil's Motorcycle - Forgotten Million Sellers
Voodoo Rhythm

Well, if anything was ever gonna get me to commence battle in the decrepit-computer desert and start scrawling again then it was only really ever gonna be the backlog building up from this label, eh? And what better way to trigger things than this reissue of not just the Swiss psych-stewards long-unavailable first full-lenghter, but the labels too - coupled with the delightful boast that it makes 'Jon Spencer sound like Joni Mitchell'. All too tantalising. As us cynical scribblers know all too well, such things are usually ridiculous slurry largely revealing such statements to be the musical equivalent of a particularly un-inventive mollusc.
So, yarse, I'm quite fucking ecstatic to announce it does indeed make the somewhat at times over-rated Blues Explosion sound like a band simpering beneath slaps from irate fish-wives. Open this unassuming garden gate and you're immediately (kind courtesy of one of the best racket screeches of an 'Intro' ever) sucked into a vortex of skewed country-blues (starting their trend of taking old chestnuts on a ride round the Roy's own asteroid belt with 'Train I Ride') casually chucking cows'n'trees every which way into the caterwaul and merry cataclysms they conjure then dismiss to their destruction chambers - shruggingly redefining the meaning of gonzoid - interspersing the rippling drones and rickety reels with snatches of samples, spoken word, erm, insights, screams n' hollers, feedback and chord squalls like earthquakes resembling snippets of Red Crayola's FreeFormFreakouts, all the while hammering it ragged into the red so far your eyes almost leave your head to see what the hell's happening to your ears. A stunning madcap melange that'll make meringue out of your mincemeat.
Stu Gibson

Tuesday, May 01, 2012

Bible of the Devil
"For the Love of Thugs and Fools"
Cruz Del Sur

Bible of the Devil are the real deal. They talk it. They walk it.
Not only is Chicago's most metal institution flying the flag of New Wave of British Heavy Metal meets Thin Lizzy rock 'n' roll, but they're doing it in America by way of Italy's Cruz Del Sur imprint. The midwest region of the United States isn't exactly known for its plethora of support towards more recent hard rock and heavy metal bands which makes Bible of the Devil's tenacity and unwavering approach all the more admirable.
In their highly anticipated follow-up to 2008's "Freedom Metal," which saw the group strip down its sound and style for a more raw and personal approach, that sentiment is taken a step further with "For the Love of Thugs and Fools."
While the band could sometimes get lost in far-flung concepts on past efforts, "Fools" is as personal a record as they've ever done.
It's got all the stamps you'd expect — twin guitars, "British Steel" pounding, Lizzy/Iron Maiden vocal/guitar/bass breaks — but is also far more widely accessible without sacrificing any of the bombastic metal assault that garnered Bible of the Devil attention in the first place.
It's less filler, more rock, more to the point.
It starts with the moody and building "Sexual Overture" ala Turbonegro before launching into the scorned onslaught of "While You Were Away."
"Out For Blood" rocks with Trouble-esque and Motorhead speed, while "The Parcher" and "Anytime" rank as some of the best material Bible of the Devil has ever done — the former a soaring anthemic rocker, the latter as close to a radio song you'll ever get from the group and coming off so Phil Lynott it seeps into The Hold Steady territory.
The whole thing has harmony, has hooks, and a shit-ton of fist-pumping passion.
Bible of the Devil may not completely be reinventing the wheel, but they sure as shit will run you over with it. — 8/10, B.J. Lisko
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