Ah, that’s beautiful… We got a lot of little teenage blue eyed groupies who do anything we say…

Title from Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show“The Cover of ‘Rolling Stone'”

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I want to start a one man “band” making loud, angry, destructive heavy music. This is going to be quite a process:

1.))) Dust off my guitar and start jamming.
2.))) Dust off Stacy’s old keyboard, and our Grandpa’s fucking bad-ass electric organ, and relearn how to rock out on keys.
3.))) Procure a drum set and start banging on shit, freaking out like Animal and generally annoying everybody into submission.
4.))) Soundproof the basement (just kidding, sister…)
5.))) Record a shitty demo, transfer it to tape, and hang out in front of record stores in a crust punk jacket begging for donations.
6.))) Talk to anyone who will listen about all my plans when we get our big break, man. We’ll be on tour overseas with Sleep and you’ll still be stuck here baking your fuckin’ homemade gluten free scones, bro…

All this seems very involved, so I better start slow and just focus on settling on a band name for now. Uterine Betrayal and Death Stench Creeps are both already taken…

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Released from Hell in Ecstatic Frenetic Suffering: An Evening with the body and Full of Hell

Original Image by Keith Coombes

Original Image by Keith Coombes


The dreary, morose mood hanging in dense, foreboding clouds over Cheyenne yesterday was ideal to set the day’s tone and prepare this sleepy town for the deceptively inconspicuous arrival of two of heavy music’s most devastating forces.  For a few frenetic hours, downtown Cheyenne’s Ernie November store was home to the cataclysmic DOOM of Portland’s the body and the schizophrenic grind of Maryland’s Full of Hell, a rare and intimate record store appearance on the two bands’ current swath of decimation across the States.  While the style and tempo of extremity offered by the two groups paints a jagged brush stroke across several of heavy music’s varying subgenres, both groups are equally mired in themes of misery, rage, internal conflict, cathartic suffering, and exploration of the darkest recesses of human consciousness.  As such, their disparate sets provide a glimpse of both sides of the same desolate, leaden coin, and hint at what we might expect from their planned upcoming split album, anticipated for release later this year.

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Watching the body set up their deceptively simple-looking gear, those not prerequisitely attuned to the sonic terror and devastation offered by the duo of Chip King and Lee Buford might be tempted to underestimate the suffocating aural intensity that is about to be unleashed.  All assumptions are quickly compressed and obliterated by the first impossibly heavy notes to fill Ernie November’s space, as King’s thundering guitar rig and Buford’s gargantuan drum kit unleash psychosis-inflected hell upon the unsuspecting hordes.  King and Buford are merely tuning in their instruments, tweaking sound levels, but this is enough to draw the loitering masses in from the street.  As corpses begin to crowd into the record store’s tight back room, there remains a conspicuous barrier of space between the masses and the body, as though some shared unspoken dread is coursing through the crowd, urging us to keep a safe distance from this feral beast.  By the time the duo have waded midway through the sludgy, panicked insanity of their first song, however — with King’s trademark shrill wail cutting through the murky depths of sonic hell like obsidian — the sheer weight emanating from their very cores has consumed us and drawn us all close, mutually aggrieved lost souls marinating wearily in the aural intensity of our suffering made corporeal.

the body

Throughout their roughly half hour set, the pained severity and combative, introspective vehemence of the body never lets up.  Individual songs bleed into one another in walls of chaos and noise.  Split seconds of apparent reprieve are quickly subversed and subjugated, the air at once purged from the room just as one gasps for a desperate breath.  While the brand of extremity offered by the body is not designed nor intended to get the psychopaths in the pit churning, the sheer gargantuan and suppressive ambiance and tone of internalized fury created is enough to leave the languidly headbanging crowd prostrate once that last piercing bit of feedback and grinding distortion fades out.

the body vignette

In ironic comparison to the initially timid gathering before the body’s set, the throng congregates dangerously close as Full of Hell complete the set-up on their equipment of destruction — ironic because the experience offered by Full of Hell is the one more likely to result in potentially inimical confrontation.  Indeed, the entire place erupts into a teeming mass of flailing limbs and furious headbanging at the first lunatic sound emitted from the instruments of this demonic four-piece.

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Full of Hell ringleader Dylan Walker meticulously builds a monolithic wall of chaos and noise before his cohorts rip brazenly into their opening track, a method he will repeat at points throughout the set, providing the band and the crowd both with fleeting moments of schizoid sublimity in which to catch their breath before charging headlong into the next phase of exorcistic fury.  Walker flings himself around the room in erratic frenetic purgation, blurring the line between performer and participant as his feral shrieks and grating, raspy explications blend with the manic insanity of sound created by his bandmates.  Dragging around a broken leg in a cast, bassist and co-vocalist Brandon Brown weaves the low end of his instrument through the jagged, chugging riffage and feedback-laden madness emanating from guitarist Spencer Hazard’s wall of Orange, alternately bent over in rhythmic deliberation between bouts of guttural vocal scorn.

Original Image by Keith Coombes

Original Image by Keith Coombes


The true psychopath of the bunch, however, proves to be drummer Dave Bland, whose enraged, loathsome punishment of his kit leaves one keen to avoid becoming the object of his wrath.  I’m not sure how much money that drum kit owes him, but Bland is intent on collecting the balance in blood and suffering — whether plodding headlong in thunderous, leaden exultation, or charging furiously with frenetic, manic rapidity, there is no question of where the tortured, pulsating heartbeat of this group lives.  Dude is a goddamn madman, and yet by the time the final caustic note fades on Full of Hell’s set, he is likely the least exhausted carcass in the room.

Original Image by Keith Coombes

Original Image by Keith Coombes


Having moved to Cheyenne only a month ago, this show served as my personal welcoming party to the great Wyoming outback, and I couldn’t ask for a more potent, affecting, or purgative greeting.  Perhaps single-handedly injecting life into what might otherwise be a non-existent live music scene in this area is local Ernie November proprietor and savage beard tamer extraordinaire — not to mention recently annointed “Janky Promoter” — Keith Coombes.  As is the case with most other acts hosted at Cheyenne’s musical mecca, the show tonight was funded through donations from those in attendance, a refreshingly DIY approach in today’s live music world, where music fans are more accustomed to dealing with price-gouging promoters and ticketing agencies.  It seemed everyone was only too happy to kick in whatever they could, be it a few loose bills or the product of several hours skilled labor.  After all, touring ain’t free, yeh fuckers!

dylan close

To further fund their trek across the Mother Land, the body and Full of Hell brought plenty of choice merch to the party, as well.  Particularly impressive was the vinyl selection offered by the body, which nearly covered their entire prodigious discography (saved for a wealth of rare 7″ and EPs that one must in turn scour the earth for).  Full of Hell also had their studio discography on display for purchase in vinyl or compact disc format, along with a band logo patch, ball cap, and several fashionably filthy t-shirts.  Before the show, I was able to snag a copy of Full of Hell’s recent collaborative LP with Japanese noise god Merzbow (aka Masami Akita) from Dylan himself, along with a much coveted copy of the body’s 2014 collaborative EP with Louisiana’s Thou, entitled Released from Love.  (Read my review of their 2015 collaborative full length, You, Whom I Have Always Hated, by clicking here.)  

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I nearly nut in my pants upon seeing that this album was available for purchase, as I had thought the initial limited pressing was out of print and now unavailable for purchase outside of collector trade circles — needless to say, I snatched that burdensome bitch up quick!  Not content with my haul, however, that good post-show glow found me sacrificing the rest of this week’s sustenance fund to also snag a pressing of the body’s Master, We Perish, one of the remaining few outliers to their discography I lacked in possession, along with a patch from each group.  My only regret is that I didn’t try to trade a kidney, or bring more money, though a parting fist-bump and bit of fan-boy adulation with Chip King helped dull my suffering.

However, seeing as how Keith is still holding the latest release from psychedelic voyagers White Hills for me, which he was kind enough to special order, perhaps this extra kidney will still come in handy…

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The best experiences in life are often those which find one left wanting, and such was certainly the case by the end of this night’s celebratory rage party.  For the ride home, always a somber affair post-concert, I plugged in the body’s recent self-released CD-R rarity, an EP entitled The Tears of Job, which was issued to backers of the group’s recent “Help the body get a van” Indiegogo campaign.  A striking shift in style from their customarily overpowering compositions, the tracks that make up this EP are much more sparse and spacious, a fitting denouement to the evening as I drove through the ethereal fog and gloomy, rain-drenched streets of languid Cheyenne, a lonesome drifter reluctantly returning to the “real world.”

streets blue

© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

streets grey

There’s more than one way to pleasure the beast…

Image by Bill Smith

Image by Bill Smith


Whilst pursuing various “scholarly endeavors” today, I’ve been listening exclusively to Converge’s entire discography — including splits (no fucking demos, though) — in chronological order. The experience is akin to masturbating furiously and then punching oneself in the dick just before climax, over and over again, with fluctuating intensity. And I mean that in a good way.


Les 3 Meres by David Nebreda

Les 3 Meres by David Nebreda

Of all the DOOM in all the World…

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“…and you had to spin this one…”

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Nothing but fucking nothing helps soothe the gaping, largely self-inflicted wounds of loathing and scornful suffering like this split LP, from two of underground metal’s most leaden and caustic purveyors of DOOM.

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Denver’s PRIMITIVE MAN serve up three blistering, misanthropic tracks of seething, tumultuous rage, while St. Louis’ Fister fill in the flip-side with two suffocating, polar quakes of acidic, cynical torment.

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PRIMITIVE MAN on Bandcamp

This is the essential soundtrack to my descent into madness, and often it is the only thing that brings me back to the surface. I do not say this lightly — this album has kept me from slitting my own fucking throat on more than one occasion.

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GET IT NOW from A389 Records!

Some of us need to be immersed in the darkness to remember why we should bother to seek the light.

Fister on Bandcamp

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Need more hype?? Read on here!

© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

All Mike wanted was a Pepsi…

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If ever there was a tale to illustrate the need for widespread reform in how mental illness is handled in our society, it is the story of Mike.  All Mike wanted was a Pepsi. Just ONE Pepsi.

Next thing he knows, poor Mike is locked away in an institution.  Experience a first-hand account of Mike’s trials and tribulations below…

Sometimes I try to do things and it just doesn’t work out the way I want it to.
I get real frustrated and I try hard to do it and I take my time and it doesn’t work out the way I want it to.
It’s like I concentrate real hard and it doesn’t work out.
Everything I do and everything I try never turns out.
It’s like I need time to figure these things out.
But there’s always someone there going,

Hey Mike:
You know we’ve been noticing you’ve been having a lot of problems lately.
You know, maybe you should get away and maybe you should talk about it, maybe you’ll feel a lot better.

And I go:
No it’s okay, you know I’ll figure it out, just leave me alone I’ll figure it out.
You know I’ll just work by myself.

And they go:
Well you know if you want to talk about it I’ll be here you know and you’ll probably feel a lot better if you talk about it.

And I go:
No I don’t want to I’m okay, I’ll figure it out myself and they just keep bugging me and they just keep bugging me and it builds up inside and it builds up inside.

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So you’re gonna be institutionalized
You’ll come out brainwashed with bloodshot eyes
You won’t have any say
They’ll brainwash you until you see their way.

I’m not crazy!
(In an institution!)
You’re the one who’s crazy!
(In an institution!)
You’re driving me crazy!
(In an institution!)
They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy — myself.

I was in my room and I was just like staring at the wall thinking about everything.
But then again I was thinking about nothing.
And then my mom came in and I didn’t even know she was there she called my name.
And I didn’t even hear it, and then she started screaming: MIKE! MIKE!

And I go:
What, what’s the matter?

And she goes:
What’s the matter with you?

I go:
There’s nothing wrong mom.

And she goes:
Don’t tell me that, you’re on drugs!

And I go:
No mom I’m not on drugs I’m okay, I was just thinking you know, why don’t you get me a Pepsi.

And she goes:
NO you’re on drugs!

I go:
Mom I’m okay, I’m just thinking.

She goes:
No you’re not thinking, you’re on drugs! Normal people don’t act that way!

I go:
Mom just give me a Pepsi, please.
All I want is a Pepsi, and she wouldn’t give it to me!
All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn’t give it to me!
Just a Pepsi.

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They give you a white shirt with long sleeves
Tied around you’re back, you’re treated like thieves
Drug you up because they’re lazy
It’s too much work to help a crazy.

I’m not crazy!
(In an institution!)
You’re the one who’s crazy!
(In an institution!)
You’re driving me crazy!
(In an institution!)
They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy — myself.

I was sitting in my room and my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down, they go:
Mike, we need to talk to you.

And I go:
Okay what’s the matter?

They go:
Me and your mom have been noticing lately that you’ve been having a lot of problems.
You’ve been going off for no reason and we’re afraid you’re gonna hurt somebody.
We’re afraid you’re gonna hurt yourself.
So we decided that it would be in your interest if we put you somewhere.
Where you could get the help that you need.

And I go:
Wait, what are you talking about, we decided!?
My best interest?! How can you know what my best interest is?
How can you say what my best interest is? What are you trying to say, I’m crazy?
When I went to your schools, I went to your churches,
I went to your institutional learning facilities?! So how can you say I’m crazy?

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They say they’re gonna fix my brain
Alleviate my suffering and my pain
But by the time they fix my head
Mentally I’ll be dead.

I’m not crazy!
(In an institution!)
You’re the one who’s crazy!
(In an institution!)
You’re driving me crazy!
(In an institution!)
They stuck me in an institution
Said it was the only solution
To give me the needed professional help
To protect me from the enemy — myself.

It doesn’t matter, I’ll probably get hit by a car anyway…

Suicidal Tendencies released their ninth studio album, 13, in March 2013. “Institutionalized” can be heard on their self-titled 1983 debut full-length.

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Schizophrenic Listening Habits

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I’ve just gone from spinning an album called Rudiments of Mutilation by underground power violence psychonaughts Full of Hell to listening to Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. with absolutely no segue or transition of any kind. That’s weird, right?

But, actually, having experienced this dichotomy of aural tone and theme first — before recognizing and then analyzing the apparent strangeness of the situation — I have to say, the two albums compliment and play off of one another more than you might think. Give it a try!

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

…art reflects life reflects art reflects life reflects…

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…art reflects life reflects art reflects life reflects…

Experience shows us the objects of our obsession are reflected back at us from all corners. I have been consumed with feeling tossed aside, abandoned, of being failed by those I once felt closest to. So I see that in everything.

Watching last night’s episode of Better Call Saul thematically recalled this decimating track from PRIMITIVE MAN, which itself is a reflection of the tone of that current self obsession…

“all
will fail you
your family
will fail you
give up/fuck up
all this sorrow
consumes
all I love
life’s blood
is bound
chained down
to a finer grave
lined with shame
that is all mine
may their names
rot away
and turn to dust
in hell…”

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LOATHE

Yes…YESSS… Let the seething, broiling hatred wash over and consume you…consume you like maggots on bath salts eating the face of all existence. #BrutalPoetry

PRIMITIVE MAN are about to embark on an epic tour of the United Kingdom and Europe with Sea Bastard and Fister that will no doubt leave the whole of the continent in crumbling, desecrated shambles. I feel like I should have hitched a ride over as some kind of doomy fanboy stowaway, all part of my clever plan to become a bitter American expatriot gypsy madman, touring the European underground in my wanderlust caravan and spreading the word that not quite all Americans are inbred narcissistic fucktard right-wing religious extremist women-haters. Just the best of us. #Sarcasm

The Lash of Gloom

I got a lash stuck in my eye today. It wedged impossibly between the lowest part of my eyeball, just where it meets the lid. To reach was insurmountable. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

A Catastrophic Purge of Torment Into Oblivion: The Body & Thou Lay Burden Upon Existence

The Body Thou Hatred Collab CD Cover

I awoke this morning with a powerful craving for fresh vinyl. I knew not why; I knew not for which specific piece of pressed wax I was searching. I knew only that there was The Calling, and that I needed to, once again, comb through my personal back-catalogue of music and film, identify some long-suffering hangers-on with which I could be convinced to part, and run that shit on down to the local Zia Records. STAT. This was a mission from the gods, that much was certain — but WHICH ONES?!

As it would turn out, the answer to that question had been heralded by the semi-apocalyptic swath of late winter/early spring storm weather to blanket the landscape of our scattered and scarred homelands. For our purposes here in SoAz, that storm manifested itself in a weighted, churning torrent of DOOM clouds, oppressive blankets of humidity, and the merciless, cleansing deluge brought down in tears from the heavens. So. Much. GLOOM. The relatively sunny disposition of the morning which greeted me this day would belie the terrible discovery I was soon to make.

Though guided by the hand of Beelzebub himself, no sooner had I dropped of my trade items to be reviewed and processed than I found myself standing before the looming magnificence of Zia Oracle’s “New Vinyl” stand. There she was, the Virgin Mother of our Megalomaniacal Saviour Herself, Mary “Joe’s Girl” Christ, in stunning portraiture. In one of those innumerable moments of chance and destiny, I nearly turned away disinterested to go peruse some dusty, forgotten corner of the used albums section, when a loathsome, sickly feeling in the very cockles of my loins urged me to halt.

The Body Thou Hatred Collab Front Cover

I had missed something.

There, in the upper left-hand corner of the LP I had glazed over cursorily, just above the Blessed Mother’s somber profile, an unassuming annular adornment.

The Body Thou Hatred Collab Sticker

The Body
Thou
You, Who I Have Always Hated
Thrill Jockey

MOTHER OF GOD.


TheBody-Band

Since their accursed formation in 1999, Portland by-way-of Boston experimental DOOM-sludge titans The Body have been steady straight dropping split LPs, collaborations, EPs, and full-lengths at a frighteningly manic pace, with no less than four massively dense albums released since the dawn of 2014 alone. It was late Summer 2014 that I first became aware of the terrifying, savagely introspective, soul-scarring music that heavily-armed duo Chip King and Lee Buford create. I was researching several bands unknown to me in preparation for an upcoming weekend of riffage and torment at Tucson’s own premier extreme metal festival, Southwest Terror Fest. My expectations were appropriately heightened by the information I had gleaned from online articles concerning the corrosive brand of punishment offered by the impossibly weighty pair, and I have no problem admitting that I was physically and psychologically terrified as I pressed play on that first track.

My expectations were NOT disappointed.

The Body’s primary goal as evidenced by the music they create would appear to be complete psychological catharsis and cleansing through anguish. Vocalist/guitarist Chip King does not “sing” or “scream” in any of the traditional metal, or otherwise musical, senses. Instead, he emits desperate, agonizing wails like those of a feral, tortured beast in the final, bloody throes of a savage death. After looping his guitar through an intricately arranged network of sample machines, processors, and vintage Sunn amps, the final product emitted from his monolithic stack of speakers is the biting, burdensome wall of tone and distortion of metal fragmented, deconstructed, pounded unrecognizable, and then reassembled as something wholly new and terrible. Drummer Lee Buford rises to the task of not only matching but accentuating this indescribably dense patchwork of misery and toil by pounding his percussives with the calculated ferocity of an ironworker forging weaponry from the very molten core of existence. Every seismic beat serves to propel the already catastrophic purge of metallic fury into utter oblivion.

Thou band performing live

I am, admittedly and unfortunately, quite a bit less versed in the history and lore of Southern-Fried, NOLA-bred warlords of DOOM, Thou. This is an oversight that will most assuredly be remedied post-haste. However, hailing from the birthplace of such legendary names in the world of miserable, loathsome, down-tuned riff-laden DOOM-sludge as EYEHATEGOD, Crowbar, Soilent Green, and Goatwhore, the scornful bastards that make up this modern-day harbinger of destruction have clearly paid attention in class, and have most assuredly benefited from rolling up and smoking their homework. Similar to their comrades in Hatred, Thou is likewise prone to a dizzying pace of sonic proliferation, having put out an impressive assortment of DOOM-product since their 2005 inception to rival that of The Body.

Illustration by Megan Acosta, unceremoniously ripped from Meat Mead Metal!

Illustration by Megan Acosta, unceremoniously ripped from Meat Mead Metal!

The Body and Thou first came together in collaboration early last year on the deceptively titled Released from Love EP. This four track work was discreetly birthed into the world as a vinyl-only limited edition album, and is now being included with the digital and compact disc releases of You, Who I Have Always Hated for the first time in those formats. While not a necessary requirement for anyone approaching these two bands with fresh ears, Released does serve as an outstanding introductory work or companion piece to this new full-length. The remaining six hereto unreleased tracks that make up Hated stand fine enough on their own, but the immensely cathartic if exhausting experience will certainly leave any proper extreme metal aficionado parched for more, and Released will do well as a small but welcome offering to that void.

As for Hated itself. There is NONE heavier. Nearly as soon as my turntable stylus touched down between the freshly-pressed grooves of side one, I was overcome with the crushing, monolithic wall of leaden sound that is “Her Strongholds Unvanquishable.” FUCK SAKES. My chest hurts, and I can’t BREATHE… While the four tracks on Released certainly provided worthy evidence of the terrible power at hand through the unity of these two savage forces, it is clear that their horrifying tools of battery were honed to maximum barbaric supremacy for this record.

The Body Thou Hatred Full Artwork

From the very beginning, it is evident that the collaborative energy conjured by the unity of these two forces of subjugation serves to push both entities together into wholly new, more extreme, and ultimately more savage and unrestrained territory. The demon hordes called forth by Thou, in their sluggish, plodding might, at first may seem to overpower and bury the more atmospheric, expansive framework for which The Body is known. To assume this would be a mistake. More attuned ears will have no trouble hearing The Body’s maelstrom of nihilistic desperation weaving serpentine throughout the massively thunderous plodding surge set forth by Thou.

Throughout most of the album’s six gargantuan tracks, it is clear that the whole is by far greater than the sum of its parts. Even an initially stumbling foray into “covers” territory results in a transformative, revitalized section of creativity that does well to turn the original — NIN set-list mainstay “Terrible Lie” — into a new and largely unrecognizable permutation. While the re-imagining does not quite hit with the same sparse weight of “Coward” (the final track on Released) — itself a complex, forlorn retelling of an emotional bit of songwriting by the late Vic Chestnutt — it nevertheless gives the record a welcome draw-spring for the industrial metal undercurrent that The Body bring to their creations, smoothing the stitches between the two entities welded in hatred on Hatred.

Elsewhere, the two bands make effective use of dissonance and forced coalescence to accentuate their brand of torment on the thunderously severe “He Returns to the Place of His Iniquity,” and make up for the perhaps intentionally pretentious title of “Beyond the Realms of Dream, That Fleeting Shade Under the Corpus of Vanity” by imbuing that track with the ruinous, cataclysmic rage of a vengeful scourge unloosed. By the time we reach the apocalyptic final refrain of “Lurking Fear,” we are so thoroughly pummeled, worn and threadbare, that whatever lurking beast to come next can only be greeted with welcoming arms — if only they had not already been torn from our torso and used to mercilessly beat us into submission.

The Body Thou Hatred Collab Back Cover


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.