By Octopi Mills
Starting off with some throat singing, this album shoots off like a fast, two handed sexual predator straight from the Italian black metal scene. In some ways it chimps out like the newer MAYHEM but with a fresh coat of paint and you know Billy Anderson himself isn't anywhere to be seen in the production sense or credits. In the background often something attempts to serve as ambience until it is found under the vibrant light to be a hoax and here to be laid on the cold slab of science. Dripping with wet new sound values it seems like a slick robot of chrome with a past history that tastes like car keys in a cyber club scene. Nearly having the mechanical structure of something like disco in tempo, it is supposed to be something that I know I can not find here at this time.
Shimmering guitar passages and timing is tight, to be praised for sure.Somehow I cannot look at its sky without feeling like it is full of vertical lines and wireless signals and feel guilt for the words I am saying here today. Knowing what is ahead is the curse of the knower, that seer who knows by the cover....that gut feeling that's always right, that it will be a long drawl of the same old dead feeling. Like finding a horse dead in a frozen field, I know it is too cold for the insects, those great boys of summer to take it away. This makes for a longer stay, and it hangs also like a frozen meat carcass on a hook. Strange, clinical, and cold on its hook it sways for me to stare into, and divest little to nothing. There are some moments of swirling storm and pace and there are moments of blinding speed towards stars brightly shining, and in this way it somehow tries and might excel to some. But not to me.