All Pigs Must Die
God Is War

It's Christmas and we're all kinder.

Oh, it's not Christmas?

Then screw the superficial niceties and long live All Pigs Must Die.

"God Is War" is nothing but unrestrained hatred, encrusted on the walls of a room smeared with blood and shit. It's a sonic claustrophobia driven by a single image before the final iconoclasm, that of a Christ, suffering beyond limits, impaled by an inverted cross (already the wolf devouring religious icons on their first EP was quite something) that crowns the post-apocalyptic landscape painted by these 4 sound terrorists in question. 

The specter of a mutant blackmetal creeps in from the very first notes of "Death Dealer", introduced by a menacing guitar, and shot straight in the middle of the forehead, with the funereal blastbeat that ensues, transforming into a vomit-tinted hardcore, fast and senseless, with the thrash ride peeking in through the bridges and hurting the ears. The vocal exasperation of "Sacrosanct" is the zenith of black hatred, the icy black sound returns more bastardized than before, then breaking into a solo that could be half-bred by Entombed and Turbonegro, an incest of monsters from the cold. The title track is the noise of tendons snapping, bones shattering, introduced by a ritualistic drum, which within the piece, pierces the guitar's antimelodies, breaking an already exasperatingly slow rhythm, the voice is the quintessence of pain and refuses to leave the carcass of a religion that has always smelled of death, feeds on its filth, and is a crescendo that never stops, announcing the manifesto of hatred towards the monotheistic promotion of war and pigs that feed on blood. Nervous, crooked, thunderous march of madness is "Third World Genocide", where the circular riffs can't maintain their composition for more than a few seconds, and the phrase introducing the massacre is "Endless refuse in a world of shit", suit yourselves, gentlemen. Reflection comes with the sadism of the mid-tempo death bell tolls of "Sadistic Vindicator" where the guitars are molten lava with no head or tail, a rotten river of sludge that pours into the ears, and where the guitar eventually soars above everything else creating a psychotic melody that's no laughing matter.

The whole thing tailored by the maestro of discomfort Kurt Ballou, no kidding, right?

I can't help but wonder what's stopping a new Slayer album with such caustic people around.