Church Of Misery
Thy Kingdom Scum

The showdown, the donkey’s bite, the free demonstration of domination. "I’ll break you in half," "my bird is twice the size of yours," "...and who was this Jimi Hendrix anyway?", "I billed 800,000 euros last month... how much did you make?". Watch how I score, my SUV is more imposing than an aircraft carrier and pollutes as much as a power plant during rush hour, I’ve got balls as big as watermelons and I just sodomized your grandfather. The anorexic DJ with the yellow-purple striped shirt making out with the girl you've been trying to hit on for ages.

“Thy Kingdom Scum” is the musical embodiment of the most annoying and full-of-himself bully who would steal your lunch at school and humiliate you to tears during recess. If it were a dish, it would be the dreaded penne alla calabrese from Fra (enough with ‘nduja, please...). If it were a car, it would be a '67 Mustang with a fiery red hood in a random spot between Arizona and Nevada with a shotgun resting on the passenger seat. If it were a book... well, I don’t know... after all, everyone knows that metalheads are ignoramuses who barely buy fantasy comics and then also complain about the lack of punctuation in the captions. If it were a penis, it would be that of the black guy caught the other night on Chatroulette, complete with deerskin there, next to the sofa, just to beat the drama of excessive perspiration these days. It rather resembles a porn film edited like Memento or perhaps more like the Heroic (no, Beethoven has nothing to do with it) with 1939 bikes whose brakes harden downhill on the second descent and gulps of dust that not even the Cooperativa Cavatori Canalgrande, with the difference that here it is all damn more interesting and you can stop to pee without the terror of being considered a wimpy daddy’s boy who should have stayed home reading Il Manifesto pontificating on the new electoral law.

Compared to the previous "Houses of the Unholy," the guitarist is new, plays better at being Iommi, and is even uglier. The rest is the same: heavy stoner/doom in a permanent Sabbath trip, scattered smears, blue inquietudes from body heat, various thrills of naughty psychedelia with filthy people like Saint Vitus, Boris, Cathedral in the background, horns (and bongs) to the sky; plus a bass that punches holes in tungsten and a babelic voice as if Neil Fallon and Mike Williams sang drunk at a Black Sabbath karaoke (and it's not said that it hasn’t really happened). All animated by a charge of testosterone that not even a fleet of truck drivers in a brothel after a six-month Kazan/Lisbon trip. Get ready with the chillums, in short.

The lyrics, then, for those who understand them, have now become a trademark of the Japanese: necrophiles, torturers, serial killers galore. Andrew Nilsen, Gary Heidnik, Peter Kurten one by one, tossed around like lava masses in zero gravity, in the midst of rugged paths of big fat distortions. Gruesome stuff. Stuff that would send a shiver down the spine even of Salvo Sottile and his notorious furrowed brow. Unfortunately, the model with all the crime scenes, in the end, they couldn’t manage to include and it’s really a shame; not because they didn’t want to, mind you, but for the simple reason that all the materials were needed by the good Brunone Vespa to faithfully reproduce the Santiago De Compostela-Madrid route... what can you do! He has to eat too! There is instead space for a cover by such Quatermass, an English progressive rock band that I, honestly, never encountered; I don’t know what their original piece was like, I imagine it smelled nice, but this one has stuck in my head like a varicose vein on the leg of an old prostitute.

Volume to the max, please...