Music Review: Godflesh - "A World Lit Only By Fire"

Reviewing comeback albums is an absolute minefield. Do you criticise a band against their previous work relentlessly, or allow for the time that has passed and what that has wrought on them as people? The art they create will change, skills may grow rusty and the zeitgeist evolves around them.

It’s a difficult one to answer, even though the obvious response is to snort and claim that a discography should always be judged as a single continuum, despite the relative lengths of time that may elapse between releases. I think that’s an oversimplified view and the easy way out. But luckily for me, it is an approach that can be comfortably adopted with Godflesh’s first album for 13 years.

Because this is Godflesh being no-one but Godflesh. The tools and methods are the same, the end result is unmistakeably Broadrick and Green doing what they do. And what they do is punishing.

Previous Godflesh albums have been violent, but the violence was always that of a scalpel. Admittedly it was a huge, diabolical scalpel, wielded with tremendous force as well as precision. But the violence of “A World Lit Only By Fire” is that of a mailed fist. Four fingers and a thumb, clenched together inside a rotting iron gauntlet, driven home hard into soft tissue, organs and bone. A martial full stop, with no apologies or mercy.

More than ever before, these songs are driven by Broadrick’s tortured riffs. They boom over the top of the other instrumentation, a detonation cracking overhead as you cower in the ruined monochrome slums. At times it actually threatens to swamp the mix - this being the greatest weakness of the album, in that the rhythm section is almost reduced to a drowned metronome in the background. It seems odd to say that of a Godflesh release, especially Green’s usual subterranean bass – here an echo in a nearby cave rather than the faultline-cracking explosions of previous releases.

It isn’t jarring enough to impede the casual listener, but hardcore soundheads may find it a mild irritant – especially given Broadrick’s record for consistently putting out music that sounds as if the mix has been pored over with a fine steel toothcomb to produce exactly the required levels to conjure up hell and brimstone in the human forebrain. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure that is exactly what has happened. I’m just not convinced that I appreciate it in comparison to how I think the album could have sounded with a more textured approach.

“How I think the album could have sounded”. The sheer arrogance of criticism at work.

Sound issues aside though, this is a rock solid entry into Godflesh’s monumental catalogue. The likes of the unbelievable organic avalanche of ‘Carrion’ and the closing industrial-thrash riffage of ‘Curse Us All’ are as convincing and brutal as any other metal that has seen the light of day since the last Godflesh release. The pure vastness of the rolling riff thunder at times swings firmly into stoner/doom groove territory, which is a land the duo have thoroughly explored before but never on this scale or with such consistency.

Where subtlety can be discerned in the neutron-dense mix, such as the hip-hop turntable whistles sunk into album highlight ‘Shut Me Down’, glimpses can be seen of the blended experimentalism of the past. This is a rarity throughout though. I imagine there may have been a conscious effort to segregate this release from Jesu (Broadrick’s beautiful and expansive post-metal child), so anyone coming to it expecting the occasional more melodic Godflesh song may be sorely disappointed - with only the occasional soaring vocal on display.

To be frank, in a world lit only by endless cash-in band comebacks, disappointment is a word I struggle to associate with this album. To a certain degree it is Godflesh-by-numbers, and while it pushes metal to the forefront in the same way as “Songs Of Love And Hate” or “Hymns”, it lacks the bombast of the former and the minimalist defiance of the latter.

That’s not to say it is better or worse than either of them, merely more straightforward – if you are called upon to recommend a Godflesh album to a resolute metalhead, this is now undoubtedly the place to start. Ranking albums next to each other is a mug’s game anyway, especially with an act so vital and pioneering. What matters is this: Godflesh are back. They are convincingly Godflesh. And they are as fucking vicious as they have ever been.

NU-METAL SHOWDOWN: A CAUTIONARY TALE

It seems so long ago now that I sat down and wrote this statement of intent on various social media sites:

“So many nu-metal vocalists shout that they're going to beat someone up, yet so few of them are credible physical threats. The eternal paradox. If a skinny dude with hair twizzles, a scrappy long chin beard and bad tattoos comes at me I'm unlikely to feel fear. That's all I'm saying.

Well, what I'm actually saying is that you should all fund my new Patreon project, a blog where I tour the world and fight nu-metal singers against their will. It starts small - slightly good-natured, grubby dust-wrestling with David Draiman - but leads up to a grand climax where I kick the absolute fuck out of Chester Bennington.”

Oh, the wild elegiac fancies of youth. What strange desires and misguided intellectual wanderings led me to this fever dream, and could I have strayed from the path laid down by these words even if I could have known the Stygian depths to which I would fall?

As reported by reputable news sites the world over, my Patreon campaign broke several records and resulted in beautifully-worded tributes from both celebrities and the general public. I'll include some here, since it is vital to your understanding of this whole affair that you understand what led to the proud swelling of my chest as I strode forth to my Herculean task.

And then, of course, this infamous missive. Only later would the full significance of these words be felt, but at the time all I knew was that a gauntlet had been laid down. Would I rise to this challenge? Could I?

Fight #1 – David Draiman

Since I had named my first and last targets online, I was aware that they would know I was coming. It was possible that they would have prepared a welcome for me in the form of traps, bodyguards or simply through intense last-minute physical training. With that in mind, I knew that for my first fight I would have to strike fast and hard.
Perhaps Draiman foolishly believed the online sensation of #numetalshowdown to be an idle threat, or perhaps he was simply overconfident. Whatever his reasoning, he made a tragic mistake the moment he chose to set foot outside his house that hot summer morning. Tracking him by scent and spoor, I followed him as he bought breakfast from a street vendor and strolled away. Sensing that the moment was now, I leapt out on him from the bushes and tackled him to the ground. We rolled through some plastic netting and down an embankment onto the dry earth of a construction site.

“I have come for you, David Draiman!” I roared, though the last three words were somewhat muffled as he thrust into my face the breakfast bagel that he was still clutching desperately, not yet ready to abandon sustenance in the presence of a fierce rival. It's entirely possible that he intended to consume it for a mid-fight energy boost, though this half-formed plan was left in tatters as his blind panic forced the dense bread and cheesy egg treat into my mouth.

I bit down hard on his fingers, causing a shrill “OOH AH AH AH AH!” to erupt from his fear-curled lips. This was to be the calm before the storm however, for swiftly Draiman lifted me bodily off the ground with bear-like strength and slammed me into the dirt. We rolled apart, got to our feet and circled each other with menacing intent. My memory is somewhat clouded with the pure adrenaline thrill of nu-metal conflict, but I believe I slammed my fists into my nipples in inarticulate simian rage.

The rest is a blur of body hair, flexing muscles and animal grunting. Suffice to say that four hours later we were drained and broken, clad only in sweat and the roiling heat haze. A huge crowd had gathered, screaming and cheering in equal measure whenever one of us would pitch the other face-first into a cement mixer or swat our opponent down with a brick hod. Some observers would tell me later that they experienced a homoerotic thrill from this incredible scene, despite the fact that Draiman and I were only partially erect.

In the end this first titanic conflict came down to stamina, and years of bellowing onstage had left Draiman capable of sustaining his savage defence for only so long. We both knew when the end had come, and after one final belly-to-belly suplex he stayed on his knees. Eschewing eye contact, Draiman simply nodded once, silently and stoically. His weird chin-piercing things glittered under Helios' harsh gaze.

I returned his nod, and raised my arms to silence the suddenly ecstatic crowd. Several of them ran forward to towel me down, and I instructed them to see to my fallen opponent first as a mark of respect for both his resilience and his noble acceptance of fate.

Casting my eyes to the midday sun, I whispered a single name to the still air. A name that had mocked me in my weakest moments since the dark hour when I first read that accursed tweet.

“Fred Durst. Freeeeeeeed Duuuuuuuurst...”

Looking back upon it now, that first soil-caked encounter with David Draiman was where it should all have ended. A decent victory, a pure victory, with the loser left able to hold his head up high with pride. A fight lost honestly to an alpha beast, with a body left battered but intact, is not a cause for shame.

It is to my detriment that this went further, and deeper, into abyssal chasms of grave destiny.

Fight #2 – Jacoby Shaddix

While my immediate desire was to engage my nemesis Fred Durst in direct open combat, I felt that I had to grant the pantheon of nameless gods that had invested me with such potence another sacrifice before I was worthy enough to transform the Limp Bizkit frontman into a gasping, broken wreck.

The crowd that had gathered to see me hammer Draiman into exhausted, glistening meat had given me a taste for spectacle, and I felt the need to ensure this second matchup also took place in front of a baying mob. My plans were laid down, and executed flawlessly. There was only bliss and thunder in my mind as I stepped out from the wings onto the stage of a prominent metal festival. The vast crowd immediately fell silent. I suspect Shaddix had felt my presence scant seconds before this ominous omen, and wheeled on the spot. He nodded once, in grim acceptance, then made an almost indistinguishable gesture with his free hand.

At this signal, his bandmates leapt to the fray. Cowardly perhaps, but also a sound tactical decision. No doubt he anticipated that I would be slowed and exhausted so much by the auxiliary Papa Roach onslaught that I would succumb to his scheming follow-through assault. But it was all for naught, as I slammed aside the henchmen with ease. A sickening crunch of bones followed, as one by one they all fell to the wayside. Horton gave me the most trouble, his straight-edge powers infusing his fists with enough strength to strike home not once but two times on my weaving frame.

But in the end Horton was tossed fifty feet into the crowd, who closed around his weakly struggling form with a great howl. I am told that hours later, after the area was cleared with gas, all that remained of him were bones cracked open for the sweet marrow within. I turned to face Shaddix, who was pale with the realisation that his gambit had failed.

In the sudden quiet I spoke.

“Coby Dick, this is your blackest hour.”

In a flash, enraged by this use of a defunct stagename, Shaddix leapt towards me. Borne aloft to the height of several men on a crest of black lightning, he spat incantations in the language of forgotten U'lakri, where the first men and women were doomed by their own damned hubris. As he came for me, one hand was curled into a frenzied claw to focus his forbidden magics. With the other he bashed his microphone into the side of his head in mock angst, just hard enough to appear sincere but not enough to do any permanent damage.

It was a feeble last resort. All his bleak sorcery availed him not. The black lightning broke apart upon my shining brow, I caught him by his neck in one coiled fist and bore him to the ground. He passed out then, partially from terror but also likely from a great deal of internal bleeding.

The crowd gave off a single ululating cry and began to copulate wildly in celebration. They became one single mass of bad eyeliner, baggy jeans and those chunky multicoloured bracelet things. It was a true horror, and I fled the scene as soon as I stopped quivering in glory.

Fight #3 – Fred Durst

The time had come. Energised by the defeat of the ghastly being that had come to dwell in the form of Coby Dick, I decided to face Fred Durst. For days I stalked his friends and family, to no avail. Clearly, he had decided that he would choose the time and place of our forthcoming battle. With this realisation, I waited. Hours later a messenger arrived, clad in the red cap and slack jaw of one of Durst's disciples. He held in his malformed hands an elegantly embossed card, upon which was printed an address and a single sentence.

“Come if you dare, y'all.”

I dared. Dear reader, I dared too much.
Arriving at the address within the hour, I beheld a seemingly innocent office building. Knowing that there must be more to this everyday scene, I entered through invitingly askew glass doors that swung gently in the breeze. But I had underestimated the resourcefulness of my opponent! With a crash trapdoors opened beneath me, spilling me into a metal chute through which I plunged into his subterranean lair.

Of the perils there I will not speak, but suffice to say that there were ingenious traps and hungry beasts aplenty. I suspect I will permanently bear the surface burns earned by carelessly leaping through a web of contracting laser defences, though the sharkbite on my upper thigh is fading day by day.

Finally I stood on a high metal platform, facing Durst on his throne of irradiated steel and ragged photos of famous girls he has claimed to have fucked online. Cracking my knuckles, I told him that his diversions had failed him.

“It don't matter, son. Ya gotta have faith.” he cackled.

And with that, it began. We stood but a foot apart, trading identical blows. The cold green glare of his tactical weapon displays shone on our strangely calm faces as each strike hit home. Later, in the eerie silence that follows battle, I would examine these and discover that he was mere days away from a devastating biological assault on the United Nations.

In the end, a moment of distraction was all it took. I had realised that we were an even match, and I would need some kind of psychological edge. I planted one final gargantuan punch to his sternum, before choosing the words that would bring me the victory I sought.

“You're a shit rapper, mate. Well shit. WELL shit.”

He hesitated for a second, appalled at the sudden clarity this truth afforded him. In that moment I grasped him and lofted him high above my head, before bringing him down and shattering his spine on my knee. He dropped to the floor, broken. I had won, but even then, in my majesty, shadows began to eat at my soul.

I had destroyed not only his pride, but his body. Was this what I truly wanted? Grimly, I went forth to end this. On a scrap of paper in my pocket, names had been scrawled hastily in crayon and then smudged out with my own ecstatic juices. Only one remained.

Chester Bennington.

As I sit in my study, only regret sits inside my heart now. These final words will be as an epitaph for me, even though I'm actually still alive and fine and quite looking forward to the Game Of Thrones season finale tomorrow.

Fight #4 – Chester Bennington

Chester had known I was coming since all this began. But with no will to resist, he simply awaited the inevitable. No preparations had been made, no allies sought and no deceptions prepared.

I found him alone on a wild windswept cliff, looking out to sea under an azure sky dotted with clouds. I stood beside him for some time. Eventually he murmured “Beautiful... so beautiful.” under his breath, then walked a few paces away from me. He mustered as competent a martial arts pose as he could, and waited for me to initiate our conflict.

It was clear within but a few exchanges of fist, foot and elbow that he stood little chance of resisting. But he had an innocent resolve that I now find far more honourable and princely than any of my actions through this sordid campaign. Moments later I stood over him, holding his fragile form up by the hem of his bloodstained wifebeater vest. He gazed at me then with terrible understanding.

“I tried so hard...” he began to speak, with the voice of a doomed angel. What the rest of those words were, we will never know. For I was overcome with a dogged bloodlust that had sunk its roots deep into my pounding heart. I closed one fist tight and with a single blow, struck into his babylike face and through the back of his head.

There, stood on the edge over the swirling waves, with seagulls crying out for my vanquished foe and his brain matter dripping softly from my knuckles, I was struck by two thoughts.

Firstly, that I had irretrievably wounded my immortal soul.

And secondly, that perhaps my Patreon campaign had gone a bit too far.

I let Chester Bennington drop from my grasp, over the edge of the cliff. I have visited there since in quiet contemplation, and on the very spot where those last moments played out there now grows a patch of white flowers previously unknown to sage or scientist. I will leave you to draw your own conclusions on this fortean occurrence.

Unsure of what was to follow, I turned, expecting only the birds and the silently judgemental spirits of the water and sky. But instead a figure stood upon a nearby hill, clad in dark robes and patiently waiting for me. One final opponent had sought me out. I had not come to the end of my fall yet.


Fight #5 – Chino Moreno

A single katana was impaled in a large boulder ten feet from Chino. He drew back the silken hood of his robe and indicated towards it with a tilt of his jaw. It was one of those times where he's lost loads of weight, so there was no wobble.

Inflamed at the audacity of one who would seek me out, I drew the sword from the granite. It emerged with a rasping groan, and my enigmatic opponent pulled an identical blade from the folds of his robe. We stood in a guard position, as thunderclouds rolled in overhead and rain began to pour from above like the veiled tears of mighty Apollo.

We remained there for several days, locked in a mutually evaluating stare so blinding that it seemed that we smote the air between us in twain.

Then we both struck.

We dashed towards each other, twisting our bodies and swinging our blades. We reached ten feet apart again and turned in the crashing downpour. I glanced down to see the trace of a shallow cut along my flank, then looked up to see Chino fall to the ground, practically severed in half.

Driven by an impulse I did not yet understand, I ran to him. I held him in my arms as he passed far away, knowing too late that he had come to teach me a lesson. I clutched his cooling body to mine and wailed impotently.

“But the Deftones are fucking quality! They started out as really good nu-metal and now they're something else that doesn't really fit in any genre but are always consistently innovative and excellent! Noooooooo! CCHHHHHHHHIIIIINOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

And with that, it was all over.

There is nothing more to tell.

I hope that reading this has proved instructional for you, since as a legacy all I can now dream of is that others will heed my warnings to never imperil all that they are by entering into a musical genre-specific crowdfunded vendetta of bloody combat.

Therapy? - A Rough Guide

If you didn't go through your teenage years in the early-to-mid 1990s you probably don't know who Therapy? are, and that's a real shame. Let's just take a moment to reflect on how remiss you have been getting through life so far without them.

Here's a belt. Feel free to flagellate yourself thoroughly.

All done? Lovely. Now while you're mopping the blood off the walls, have a listen to the following tunes.

Therapy? started as a threepiece in Belfast at the sodden arse-end of the 1980s, fuelled by industrial punk nightmares and feverish European electronic sensibilities. Their first two mini-albums, 1991's "Babyteeth" and 1992's "Pleasure Death" are obviously influenced by the likes of Big Black and The Jesus Lizard - but they manage to be somehow denser and more claustrophobic, melodic punk whistled through a serial killer's broken front teeth. Andy Cairns' vocals are a death threat overheard on a busy street, while Michael McKeegan's pulsating bass underpins everything else like a twisted disco beat.

Therapy? - 'Innocent X' - 1991 - from "Babyteeth"

Their first full album followed soon after, and loosens up the metronome drum patterns ever so slightly, letting the songs breathe out in the open. Raw buzzsaw guitars and distant wailing vocals are still the formula, but the end result is ever so slightly more friendly. But the unhinged dementia is still waiting in the wings, a squealing mental breakdown all the more terrifying for being hidden in the open.

Therapy? - 'Teethgrinder' - 1992 - from "Nurse"

And then everything changed. A series of EPs and singles were followed in 1994 by "Troublegum", which might just be the greatest pop-punk record ever recorded. Packed to the gills with melody, soaring choruses and infectious riffs, all of the torment and nihilism here were embedded firmly in the lyrics rather than edging their way clear into torturous music. At its heart, it isn't any lighter an LP than Therapy?'s early work. It's just better at covering the scars with brightly coloured balloons and manic smiles. Modest chart success followed for the likes of 'Screamager', 'Nowhere' and 'Die Laughing', and some high profile festival slots and tours put the word around that the band were maybe going to make it bigger than one could have expected from an oddball industro-punk squall from Northern Ireland.

Therapy? - 'Screamager' - 1994 - from "Troublegum"

So they changed everything, pretty much. Why not? Stagnation is a killer. The very next year "Infernal Love" hit the shelves, and while many of their newly acquired fanbase were put off by a record that slotted in an uncomfortable art-rock wet dream for every summer-bright pop tune, it is a record that stands firmly as their second best work. With the benefit of hindsight from the salty shores of 2014, it's a classic. But back then, the fickle UK music press and even more fickle alternative rock fans met it with a lukewarm response at best. But it's the sound of a band maturing and undergoing massive nihilistic trauma at the same time, and who doesn't want that in their life?

Therapy? - 'A Moment Of Clarity' - 1995 - from "Infernal Love"

Changes followed, as they often do in the midst of turbulence. Founding drummer Fyfe Ewing departed the band, taking his staccato rhythms with him. As well as replacing him with Graham Hopkins, they also incorporated Martin McCarrick on cello and guitar. A fourpiece for the first time, this more traditional rock band lineup resulted in a more traditional punk rock sound. 1998's "Semi-Detached" was to lay down a blueprint for the many variations in their sound that have followed since, as a raw garage vibe was laid across most of the tracks. Less pop, more punk.

Therapy? - 'Church Of Noise' - 1998 - from "Semi-Detached"

This raw punk aesthetic was pumped up even further for 1999's "Suicide Pact - You First", which was a fuzzy battleground of growling cynicism sprinkled with the occasional melancholy escape hatch - such as the superb 'Six Mile Water', which is solid proof that they should write an alt. country record at some point. The LP also seemed to mark a turning point in Therapy?'s career, which shifted inexorably towards a lack of interest from the press and survival primarily through a ferociously loyal (though smaller) fanbase. That's the story for the UK, in any case. I suspect they still make new sales in Europe, where folk seem less concerned about what haircut a lead singer has.

Therapy? - 'Six Mile Water' - 1999 - from "Suicide Pact - You First"

2001 saw Therapy? record what I consider to be their only stinker of an album to date, the ironically titled "Shameless". All the deities created by mankind love you if you can hack it, but a couple of singles aside I find it thoroughly underwhelming. So moving swiftly on. 2003's "High Anxiety" was a return to form of sorts. Not a groundbreaking work by any means, but definitely carrying on the legacy established by "Semi-Detached" in its packaging of punk rock tempered by the band's ongoing talent for a soaring chorus hook. Neil Cooper also arrived on drums, and has marked his place in the band with a penchant for a rolling punk rock percussive assault that suits their later material well.

Therapy? - 'If It Kills Me' - 2003 - from "High Anxiety"

Martin McCarrick departed soon after, which is a shame for him since the last great Therapy? record to date, "Never Apologise Never Explain" followed in 2004 and came as quite a surprise to most of their fans. A scuzzy hyperactive bullet-train of rumbling intensity, it is packed end-to-end with the sound of a rock band creating the rockiest rock they can rock. ROCK.

Therapy? - 'Die Like A Motherfucker' - 2004 - from "Never Apologise Never Explain"

I've always got the sense that Therapy? are uncomfortable following up an album with one that carries the same sensibilities as the last. I don't have a problem with that whatsoever, but it does make it really difficult to predict what direction on their ever-flailing trajectory the next recording will take. "One Cure Fits All" hit in 2006, and was in a sense the final entry in the melody/fuzz fusion trilogy that began with "Semi-Detached" and "High Anxiety". Said trilogy got patchier as time went by, but it still had some quality tunes on it.

Therapy? - 'Dopamine, Serotonin, Adrenaline' - 2006 - from "One Cure Fits All"

"Crooked Timber" followed in 2009, and was a slightly directionless mess of rock tunes that tried to pitch in every adjective I have previously used to describe their music. As a mish-mash of everything with songwriting that is below par for veterans of this caliber, it's not a must-have despite a couple of cracking songs in the middle. Their most recent LP is 2012's "A Brief Crack Of Light", and it comes across like a version of "Crooked Timber" that had a hell of a lot more work put into it. Or maybe a lot less, resulting in greater immediacy. Either way, the tunes are more tunely and the punch is more punchtastic. And it also proved that despite having been going all these years, they can still put out a killer single in the form of 'Living In The Shadow Of The Terrible Thing'.

Therapy? - 'Living In The Shadow Of The Terrible Thing' - 2012 - from "A Brief Crack Of Light"

Listen To A Whole Load Of Therapy? On Spotify HERE.

Essential Records: Babyteeth, Troublegum, Infernal Love, Never Apologise Never Explain

The Overlooked - 10 Damn Fine Rock & Metal Bands That You Should Have Listened To

Another year, another sporadic ATCB update where I proselytise about music. Today I'll be rounding up some excellent rock and metal acts who you probably missed the first time around. All of them are either defunct or active post-resurrection, all of them are awesome and all of them prove that I have better taste than you.

Let's crack on. In no especial order.

Liberty 37 - 'Oh River' - from "The Greatest Gift" - 1999

Straight-up rock with grunge elements and a soaring vocal delivery, Liberty 37 were one of the seemingly hundreds of bands swarming the UK live rock scene in the late 1990s. I suspect they would probably still be going if they had been American.

Cyclefly - 'Supergod' - from "Generation Sap" - 1999

Irish/European sparkling glam punk-ish rock. Mix Placebo with vinyl catsuits and a heightened sense of violent aggression, season to taste. I can guarantee that this will be the only band I ever list on the site who collaborated with Linkin Park's Chester Bennington, unless the new Godflesh album has some REAL surprises on it.

Onedice - 'Know Your Role' - from "Life" - 2001

Thrash-tinged metal assault, with both ferocity and precision in the delivery. My overriding memory of these guys is slamdancing in a large tent at a small Exeter festival while a French man punched me repeatedly in the kidneys. My girlfriend at the time told me not to say anything or he'd beat me up. Those were supportive times.

The God Machine - 'Painless' - from "One Last Laugh In A Place Of Dying" - 1994

Like Swans colliding with Alice In Chains in a darkened underpass, The God Machine's two albums may be the most profoundly depressing and oddly uplifting music I have ever heard. Oh yeah, descriptive contradictions baby. That's how you know I am an amazing music hack.

  

Engerica - 'Roadkill' - from "There Are No Happy Endings" - 2006

Demented threepiece punk rock with the melodic nous of Therapy? and the acid-etched lyrical bite of Steve Albini. This tune is even straightforward enough on the surface that it could appeal to the teenage emo crowd. And chart. As long as they didn't pay too much attention. 

Will Haven - 'I've Seen My Fate' - from "El Diablo" - 1997

Reverse metal riffs chugging at you from the ultradense heart of a neutron star, while the vocals howl in your forebrain. Part of the Sacramento scene that also birthed Far and Deftones, and it shows. Will Haven are undoubtedly both the heaviest and least immediately successful of the three, though they have proven to be highly influential - which is the same thing, only without any money or groupies.

Aereogramme - 'Indiscretion #243' - from "Sleep And Release" - 2003

Genre-wise Aereogramme laughed and spat in your face playfully, with elements of post-rock, indie, folk and metal jostling around for attention. No song was the same as another, nor one album akin to its predecessor. Follow-on acts include similarly excellent The Unwinding Hours and indie/electro sweethearts du jour CHVRCHES.

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness - 'According To Plan' - from "Fear Is On Our Side" - 2006

A lot of bands swarmed around the feet of the pseudo-post-punk renaissance in the middle of the last decade, but these guys did it bloody well. If you absolutely need a comparison, think Interpol but swathed under layers of atmosphere and therefore better.

Psycore - 'Medication' - from "Your Problem" - 1998

The more cerebrally satisfying of metal acts have traditionally not been the best-selling, Tool aside. Here's just one example from Swedish mentalists Psycore, who were like Helmet playing a jazz club where everyone just fucks and eats each other instead of applauding.

earthtone9 - 'Tat Twam Asi' - from "Arc'Tan'Gent" - 2000

Hey, speaking of cerebrally satisfying metal. These guys are back in action these days and are still a formidable live prospect. Back in the day their tribal intellectual roar was without peer, and they have produced some of the finest metal albums ever made.

This will undoubtedly become an ongoing series, by which I mean I'll knock out another one then get bored with the concept of exhaust my stock of bands. JOIN ME FOR THAT GLORIOUS MOMENT.

Game Review: The Bureau - XCOM Declassified

Format Played: PC

The Bureau was hard-wired from the start to receive a difficult reception among critics and gamers.

Nervously sheltering under the XCOM franchise umbrella, it came across as a desperate turnaround from the first-person investigative shooter initially touted to the raging screams of a million neckbeard fanboys. More independent observers such as myself though that original vision looked like an interesting, creepy blend of The X-Files and L.A. Noire, but instead we have been delivered a more tactical third-person cover-based effort with some very light RPG elements slathered on top.

A good decision to have made? A big old "Nah" with some caveats.

With the re-emergence of XCOM as king of the turn-based strategy planet, a more immediate game in the XCOM universe seemed less of a sacrilege-fest for fans. But The Bureau ends up straddling so many fences that it forms a far less than coherent whole. Its setting is the ace in the hole in many ways, as 1950s small-town America is cracked open by towering (if generic) alien architecture and strewn with high school-jacketed corpses and infected humans. If there isn’t a body hidden somewhere who has been designed to look like The Fonz, the developers have missed a trick. Graphically it impresses as well, lush and complex environments unfolding ahead of you with nary a glitch to be seen aside from a somewhat odd framerate hit that some PC users (including myself) have reported.

The gameplay is split between combat missions and the central hub – in the former, you roll forward into setpiece arena after setpiece arena, splatting aliens with a range of satisfying powers and weapons. Time can be slowed significantly while you pass out orders to the two agents accompanying you, which allows for tactical decisions while remaining under the hammer to a certain degree. It’s a fine balance which the game just about achieves – and when it all comes together, it can feel very satisfying to pop your agents into flanking positions, slamming down turrets and airstrikes as you do so. A hefty flaw is that the targeting reticule for positioning or powers cannot move through cover – a bizarre decision that wastes your time by navigating the inevitable chest-high walls just to tell your agents to do the same. Enemy AI is fairly competent and will ruthlessly flank you if given half a chance, though the same compliment cannot be paid to your team members who have a tendency to try to incubate grenades flung at them by sitting on them and producing a less-than-pleasing explosion baby.

Unfortunately by the end of the game the satisfaction in combat has dulled through repetition, with no new alien types showing their faces after about one-third of the way through. Given the variation available from both the older games and the reboot, it’s a shame only 4 or so different aliens actually make an appearance. It’s justified in the backstory somewhat, but you get the impression throughout that said backstory has been constructed to limit the amount of work needed rather than to fit any kind of overall writing decision. Perhaps even more unforgivable is the amount of time you spend running onwards between encounters – some worldbuilding is attempted in these sections with dialogue and scenes of devastation, but more often than not you are just running through empty corridors or woodland clearings. Not since Space Marine has one game made you rack up the cardio so much for no obvious reason beyond padding.

Agents themselves have some levelling up within very limited skill trees, with a paltry 5 levels handed out to them while your protagonist rent-a-gruff William Carter has 10. There’s not a tremendous amount of variation on show and they're mostly standard powers veteran gamers will have experienced a thousand times before, with the likes of criticals, healing, aggro buffs all showing their faces. All four agent classes are fairly distinctive and have some use on the battlefield, though I found my favourite two fairly early on and stuck with them throughout. Much has been made of the agent permadeath in an effort to evoke the main franchise, though it’s hardly much of an imposition on anything but the hardest setting.

Which leaves us with the between-mission central hub area. Oh, the dull horrors of this. The hours spent strolling (since running is turned off inside your base) around corridors to have a boring conversation with a non-character in order that they can send me to talk to someone else. Or, occasionally, on a mini-mission that will likely involve strolling down further corridors to find something of little-to-no interest. For a completionist like me, it’s torture. For more normal human beings, you will escape some of this but are still railroaded through enough monotonous chats where Carter animatedly pounds his fist into an open palm so often that he seems to be punishing it for horribly onanistic crimes committed during his sleeping hours.

In short: these bits are awful tepid shite, and they should in no way have made it through to the finished game. It’s not often you’ll read a gaming writer clamour for cutscenes, even an amateurish one like myself, but all of this could be achieved with two minutes of inter-mission exposition. Said exposition would be drab however it is presented, since the story is largely not even worth mentioning. Aliens, protagonist with a haunted past, fighting back, this is our independence day, blah blah blah.

In fact, I get the feeling that the hub was inserted intentionally to break up the repetition of the combat. If this was the case, then they succeeded only in wedging deeper monotony into the middle of some light monotony. ‘Grats.

So what are we left with? Chunky combat that slowly exposes a lack of depth throughout the length of the game and interminable inter-mission sections. It looks pretty, it has a unique setting and towards the end manages to have a bit of narrative fun with the concept of third-person control within gaming. But none of that is ultimately enough to recommend a purchase above bargain-price. There are the bare bones of a decent game here, but the whole experience comes across as a polished rushjob.  

Gig Review: Infest 2013

I just checked, and it has been 3 years since I last attended Infest. That is moderately appalling, considering it is my favourite UK electronic festival. Still, I went this year and now you get to read all about it. You are truly blessed.

I headed down to Bradford in good spirits if not rude health, almost perishing of dehydration on a train that was running the heating in the middle of one of the warmest British summers on record. I realise to any overseas readers that seems like borderline Arctic conditions, but you must remember that my genetics have gifted me with the equivalent of several walrus-hide overcoats in terms of body hair. Ladies.

Currently Infest retains the same layout as on its return to the revised Bradford Union venue a few years past, and while it maintains the same issues – stairs leading down to the front rows of the audience, a somewhat rambling multi-room layout – at this point I am detached enough from my nostalgic love of the old layout that I am beyond grumbling. Additionally it seems somewhat gauche to do so, since every other aspect of the festival is managed superbly. Copious bar and (non-intrusive) security staff, excellent timekeeping and a joyous compère in the form of Mr Tails all lead to a warm atmosphere quite unlike any other festival I have been to.

The Friday was launched in style by Metal Tech, a self-confessed 'kissdustrial' act who take on a '90s industrial rock sound before slathering it sexually in glam stomp and silly. They came, they threw out glowsticks and party poppers and they conquered. There are some serious musical chops going on with the construction of tunes, though the beats backing them could do with a bit of sophisticating. But maybe they don't want to. Maybe they just want to put on makeup and masks and make bitter muso twats like me grin, just a little bit, despite ourselves. Metal Tech closed with a German language number called 'Hammstein' that, if my Deutsch is standing up from GCSE, contained the chorus line “My little dancing pig”. That's worth the price of entry alone.

Long-running UK act Inertia followed. I have seen these guys a few times over the years and each time they strike me as almost getting close to attaining their own identity beyond borrowed beats and synths. This is the best I've seen them, but I still can't in all honesty recommend them. These days they come across as a bronze medal-winning Mesh, which could be fine if you don't have anywhere else to go. But before they are inevitably claimed by their eponymous emotional gravity well, it'd be nice to hear what just being Inertia sounds like.

Dive

Next up was Dive, solo project of Dirk Ivens – and this blew me away. One man, contorting on stage to a minimalist old school industrial/EBM fusion with noise elements. That sounds like a total grab-bag, but in practice it slots together so perfectly. The performance being centred entirely around vocals – all music was 'on tape', as they'd say back in the day – lent it a slightly surreal performance art vibe as Ivens beat his chest and addressed the audience via microphone and loudhailer. Constant slow white strobe accompanied the claustrophobic beats, flickering independent of the rhythm and helping to build what was undoubtedly an intense but approachable performance. Excellent musical construction, exquisite delivery.

Friday's headliners were Pride & Fall, a band whose futurepop/darkwave crossover material has never particularly grabbed me. This night was no exception. They seem to be trying for a melancholy poetry with their material, but for me every single stanza rhymes with 'boring'. It comes across as overwrought and self-indulgent, which is perhaps a criticism-by-numbers for a band who arguably fit under the incredibly broad umbrella of goth. But they just leave me rolling my eyes, despite an obviously professional live presence and an enthusiastic reception. More power to you if you still have the teenage flights of fancy to appreciate this stuff.

Two things were hammered into place by the first day of this year's Infest – firstly, this may have been the best sound I have ever heard at a festival. Aided by a superb sound setup, most of the weekend's bands (with one exception, noted below) were crystal clear from the front of the stage to the back of the crowd. Kudos to the engineers. Get out there are work every other festival I attend, please. Secondly, the second real strength of this festival year on year (after atmosphere) is the variety. Other alternative electronic festivals haul a bit of pick and mix on stage, but typically there is still an overriding sense of whatever is fashionable that year. Not so Infest. If you don't dig a particular sound, there will undoubtedly be something very different along in a minute.

And just to illustrate this, Saturday began with Manchester's AAAK – As Able As Kane if you like your capital letters spread out a bit – who come across as an energetic, defiant blend of old-school industrial and grebo. It's always a thrill to hear live guitars and drums as festivals such as these, and this year we were spoiled for them. A political kick wrapped in proto-Madchester punk sneer, AAAK 'ably' prove they 'kane' hold their own in good company. Punnage, motherfuckers. This is what life has driven me to.

Wieloryb are this year's contingent from veteran art noise label Forms Of Hands, and they play a blinding set of techno-tinged noise soundscapes, leveraged by a dynamic and infectious songcraft that pushes through the somewhat willfully difficult barrier many of their peers lurk behind. The end result is a dynamic, infectious and danceable set that stood out as powerfully unique to ears that are too often bored by the 4/4 crunchy beats of live noise acts. A melodic underpinning was provided on many tracks by what hacks like me tend to summarise as 'Eastern' vocal samples, which is about as effective a description as one would get describing every singer west of the Prime Meridian as 'Western' vocals. Still, you know what I mean, don't you? Yeah, you do. We're all going to hell. Except for Wieloryb, who are awesome. A mixed-gender duo also highlight something that struck me as extremely positive from this year's festival – a much higher number of women on stage who aren't there simply to dance or look pretty in uniform. This is a good thing, and laughably overdue. It's not a historical problem with Infest specifically, but one with the scene – and hey, the music industry as a whole – that can only have passed you by if you are either utterly ignorant of these things or an MRA asshole. If you are an MRA asshole, stop reading and pollute some other site. We don't like your kind round these parts.

Chrysalide

Next up are French trio Chrysalide, who stride onstage blackened and raw to deliver a festival-topping set of early '90s industrial power tempered in a crucible of 21^st century sounds and howling screams. Many comparisons have been made to Skinny Puppy, and while that is entirely accurate it struck me when watching how much these guys also sound like a gnarly, pissed off version of ohGr's solo work as well. Making comparisons seems somehow to undermine what Chrysalide do, since the shrieking violence of their performance comes as a breath of fresh air even over a weekend with as many quality acts as this one. It's all sweat, contortion and closed-eye bellowing over a bedrock of beats and synths forced open wide with a bloody, rusted ribcage spreader. If you can stand another band comparison, they come across as Mindless Self-Indulgence only created for rabid adults instead of attention-deficit-afflicted toddlers. Vital. Get yourselves on the bandwagon before it builds up full speed.

Typically after a set that explosive, the following act would struggle to build up a head of steam. But for new wave veterans Click Click, it's a chance to infect the entire venue with their slithering, creepy melodies that sneak softly inside your skull and perform unspeakably horrible, but consensual, sexual acts with your psyche. Frontman Adrian Smith - a withered Lex Luthor in Lennon glasses whispering secret things to the rodents under your bed – occasionally brings out random instruments to play into the microphone before tossing them over his shoulder with disdain, while his brother Derek pounds drums with stone-faced glee at the back of the stage. It's powerful and disturbing and oddly majestic. It has inspired me to raid their back catalogue thoroughly, and I would be surprised if many others watching were not doing the same even now.

Click Click

Controversial opinion for pretty much everyone else at Infest 2013: I didn't enjoy Da Octopusss much. European hard dance with pseudo-dubstep bits performed by two guys in gimmicky Cthulhu masks, their recorded material struck me as interesting enough with a degree of horror creep to it that at least somewhat justified the Lovecraft angle. But live... well, with a sonic/visual experiment that will blow your tiny minds, let me attempt to replicate the set for you.

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS 

BASS BASS BASS BASS BASS

BASS BASS BASS

Seriously, have a bit of non-telegraphed dynamism. Was your father betrayed and murdered by treble? Have you sworn revenge? Are you even now polishing a dagger in a run-down Eastern European hostel room, weeping as you anticipate the joy of plunging it directly into the stomach of the cymbal unwittingly waiting for your violent attentions in a backalley absinthe bar populated by human traffickers and government informants?

Probably not, is the answer.

But of course everyone except me and a few others are left ejaculating with joy on the dancefloor. It's my own fault. I can't just like things for being things. I need some kind of existential reasoning. 

Fuck it.

Saturday's headliners were Imperative Reaction, a band I am most enthusiastic about on record. They peddle a distinctive brand of driving electronica that comes across to my ears as almost identical to '90s American industrial rock acts – the likes of Gravity Kills and the criminally forgotten Machines Of Loving Grace – only sacrificing traditional rock instrumentation for pulsating beats and synths. However, live they chose to represent their sound with limited synthwork and vocals backed by guitars and drums. This was, to my ears, an absolutely critical error. By translating your work into another genre framework, you really risk exposing the weaknesses of your songwriting within said framework. Imperative Reaction write great heart-pounding electronic anthems. They do not write great rock songs with added synth. It also highlighted that as a live rock act, they simply do not cut it. I'm sorry – and many rivetheads and cyberwhatevers might be left frothing in fury at this – but the standards are simply higher for live performance. Them's the breaks.

In the end it all reduced itself to a mushy mess with drums riotously pounded over the top, like someone a few seats away on the train listening to anonymous German techno while your earphones are pumping in metal-lite. The sound itself struggled to maintain it's weekend-long clarity, and I was left listening to my favourite song by them – the brainmelting asskicker 'Judas' – and shaking my head at the unrecognisable mess before walking away. A shame.

Autoclav1.1

Sunday opened with Yorkshire's own Autoclav1.1, whose live performances I have in the past considered to be sub-par to the recorded output, with too much emphasis on big beats and noise elements. OH GOD HERE YOU GO AGAIN, you think. Well, wrong. Dead wrong. Focusing far more on the strengths of the often disturbingly melodic and ambient elements of the sound, the performance was a lesson in the fragmented destruction of elegantly-weaved industrial soundscapes. Colourful and vivid visuals only served to augment the dreamlike quality of the music. A lack of sleep on my part doubtlessly helped provoke this, but Autoclav1.1 annihilated my brain-based cobwebs with aplomb. More of this, please.

Future Trail are next, functional but comfortable EBM traditionalists who are unafraid to mix their 1998 blueprint with 2013 sounds. Some elements of synthpop breaking through, but mostly a sound we have heard before and will hear again performed with workmanlike precision. Nothing spectacular, but potentially an act to watch in the future if they can find their own voice a little more.

It wouldn't be a UK alternative electronic festival without a spot of electro-industrial to make me swear under my breath and barely tolerate long enough to gather fuel for the review. And so I bring you XMH, who I suppose don't do anything wrong with the formula laid down by other acts. It's Suicide Grendel Tactical Commando Sekt, and they are here to goblinise your vocals and go UNK UNK UNK SQUEAL UNK UNK RAARGH. I shouldn't complain too much. They are certainly competent at what they do, and the frontman is undeniably energetic and providing a focal point for the crowd to get enthusiastic about. It's just a sound that is so ubiquitous as to be utterly irrelevant for me. Plus I am getting a bit sick of men standing on stage and screaming about bitches, sluts and whores like they're the next Andy LaPlegua. Issues much?

Sono

Sono are pretty much the opposite of electro-industrial, as a synthpop act with the emphasis on pop and a significant investment in huge quantities of melody. They seem pro as it comes, as well as delighted to be on stage – always a great combination – and frontman Lennart Salomon spreads his friendly enthusiasm to all corners of the crowd as they Depeche Mode it up with the best of them. There's some minimalism and hypnotic sensibilities at work that are enough to lift the songs up from merely fun pop tunes, and the end result is a more than solid addition to the lineup.

Cervello Elettronico are a surprisingly leftfield choice as the penultimate act of the weekend, and they reel out a set of refreshingly old-school glitchy techno sounds. While my bass-based criticisms over the weekend are mainly aimed at Da Octopusss, it's good to hear a beats-centered act that knows how to layer its material right up the scale to provide a sparsely lush experience. Slightly trippy, a bit evocative and ever-so accomplished.

Covenant

And then Covenant rolled on stage to detonate the venue. With their unique take on a synthpop/futurepop crossover they are an act that carry elements to appeal to most of the varied audience, and are one of the few acts who can get away with performing a festival set remarkably laden with more obscure tunes – including no less than three from their debut album “Dreams Of A Cryotank”, which I can comfortably say probably does not sit in the music collections of many folks in the crowd. I find myself in the odd position of not having much to say about Covenant. They are solid gold headliners, and they know it and play accordingly. A storming 'Call The Ships To Port' comes off the blocks with astonishing energy and only ramps it up in the now well-established blood-pounding instrumental kick that follows the chorus. The entire venue levels up and bursts into life. Light flashes, sound solidifies and a short time later everyone wipes themselves down and agrees that yes, that was A Very Good Thing.

I achieve approximately zero sleep that night (for no fascinating or controversial reasons) and rise at dawn to wend my way home. Somewhere nearby there is a wobbling, grinding beat of a party still going down. A few seconds later I realise that it's a broken extractor fan breathing its last.

And that's why I love Infest.

Bands Who Receive The Bastard "At Least 50% Of The Set" Live Seal Of Approval: 

Metal Tech, Dive, AAAK, Wieloryb, Chrysalide, Click Click, Autoclav1.1, Sono, Covenant

STANK II

For anyone who didn't get the drill from the first entry of these beautifully-titled series – songs that many of us danced to back in the day* that don't get much dancefloor play nowadays, because nostalgia.

On with the show.

If there is one thing modern music needs more of, it is gruff men shouting KILL EAT EXPLOIT THE WEAK along to bouncy industrial metal. Enter Pitchshifter, stage right.

For me, the first Rival Schools album has that perfect nostalgic blend of rose-tinted glasses, youth, a thematic link between sound, time and place, and a gutwrenching level of self-loathing. Woo!

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds have never really specialised in pumpin’ dancefloor-fillers, but it is possible to creep around looking like a suitably sleazy maniac to a few of their tunes. My overriding memory of this particular track is repeatedly bashing my head against a low, sloping ceiling while grinding my hips sexily along to it in the old venue for a night of ill repute named The Wendy House. The swearword-laced barks this provoked only helped to sell the song to anyone watching.

People tend to view the ‘90s as a time of unlimited optimism and positivity these days, but it’s important to remember that we had to deal with tragedy as well. Such as liking nu-metal acts with awful hair and beards against our will. Coal Chamber: the 9/11 of the ‘90s.

Addendum: for some reason everyone at the metal club I grew up at danced to Coal Chamber while staring at the ceiling. Like, with their eyes looking up but not their faces. It was only Coal Chamber they did this to. Weird. Some kind of doomsday virus at work.

Given the current trends within the games industry, I’m surprised no one has yet adapted this song by The Cranberries into a multiplayer survival-FPS. If they really wanted to be edgy they could incorporate elements of what the song is actually about, too. Pro-tip for this song: try singing along to it without an Irish accent. It sounds so fucking wrong.

Sometimes, when no-one is listening, I make the weird AUUUUW noise from this song. I’m not sure what purpose that serves. It just happens, like gravity and love and magnets. I have to include the unedited non-official video here, because the song is approximately 2,000,037 times better with it.

Before they split into two bands, each approximately half as good as old Sepultura, the original Sepultura were the fucking tits. Example? Example.

I’m not even sure why this ended up on the vaguely alt.ish dancefloors of sweaty York rock clubs. It’s a good tune, but not an obvious rhythmic hipswinger and even back then hardly anyone knew who VAST were. Still, this list is what it is and now we just have to buckle up and deal with it one snarky entry at a time.

I miss this Sisters track getting significant dancefloor airplay, partly because it’s a great track but mostly because it isn’t over an hour long with three-quarters of the entire length spent repeating the same chorus line over and over again. HEY NOW HEY NOW NOW PLEASE STOP.

People who don’t like the final song for this edition of STANK should be rounded up and dropped onto a tropical island with some basic supplies and rusty weapons to eke out a harsh survivalist lifestyle, carving out territory in a lawless land where warlords can live as tyrannical god-kings.

A loudspeaker system would be set up so that this song is broadcast island-wide on repeat, interspersed only with wild, shrieking abuse from the condemneds’ loved ones – denouncing them for having let them down and betrayed them on every conceivable level.

And the whole thing should be filmed and broadcast on television 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with commentary delivered from a team of existential philosophers and nihilists under a banner partly comprised of Ant & Dec’s swollen bloody corpses.

You know it’s the right thing to do. The campaign starts here.

See you next time for more of the same. Just the same idea repeated, over and over again. Until we're all gone.

* "back in the day" to be defined as whenever the hell I say it was.