Decaying Form
Chronicles Of Decimation

And what if one day you felt like rewriting all of Brutal Death Metal? And what if one day you woke up with nothing to do but pick up a guitar and start composing nonsensical yet meticulously precise songs? And what if tomorrow the laws of physics changed and we found ourselves in a non-Euclidean world (poor Hume!)? I know I shouldn't start a review with a barrage of questions, and I also know perfectly well that bringing out mathematical-philosophical dissertations to introduce a Brutal Death band will be labeled by the usual four troublemakers as the greatest review exaggeration ever seen. But I am a metalhead, so I don't give a damn and I respond, in a very metalhead manner, that they'll have some right to talk the day they learn to play like these guys. How wonderful it is to be a metalhead, you manage to silence people using tricks that completely elude logic. A bit like the story of the dog and the three hens.

All it took was hearing one song to understand that this record absolutely had to be mine: the reason is very simple, I had never heard anything like it. Considering that I listen to a huge amount of music, I've determined that anything that can still astonish me deserves all my attention.

Decaying Form is an Australian duo (Thomas: guitar and vocals, Linton: drums) that, before releasing this album for the Spanish label Dan's Crypt Records, had only issued the Demo "1921". Though it may seem odd, this is a debut album; however, I must clarify that these are not absolute beginners and they are also members of Corpse Carving and Cranial Devourment (two names that probably mean nothing to you).

Whatever idea of Brutal Death you have in mind, from Floridian to New York, through Californian and Slam, it definitely needs updating when you come across Decaying Form. The only group that comes to mind, even though it surely does not convey the idea, is none other than Cephalic Carnage. Compared to the latter, the duo's offering is less psychedelic and stays closer to Metal. However, this doesn't make it any less hallucinatory: listening to this album in its entirety is like sipping a nice cocktail of codeine, anxiolytics, and Whisky.

The booklet, really barebones due to what is surely a tight budget, reveals absolutely schizoid, nonsensical titles, all composed of two semi-propositions separated by colons ("Putridity In Disarray: With Ruin Comes Rotting", "Worming Existence: A Masticating Monstrosity"). But the hilarity provoked by these unlikely and bizarre titles is immediately broken when you start the CD. The same inconclusive complexity of the titles is found in the music of the songs. The riffs have neither head nor tail and stop when they aren't supposed to, when they finally manage to build a rhythm and you expect them not to end. Reflecting on a metaphor that could capture the idea, I couldn't think of anything other than the image of a limping person running: you don't know how they do it, but they do, in a disjointed and uncoordinated way. Scales with alienating sounds, continuously pursued by others, are interrupted by insanely intense riffs that immediately melt into a flow of psychotropic chords: then silence. One, two seconds, of silence during which the listener has time to wonder whether the song is over or if they're playing around again. Then comes the confirmation that the two, on the other side of the world, are laughing heartily: the track starts again without even reconnecting to the time with which it stopped. Maybe an acceleration, maybe instead a deceleration that doesn't even develop for two measures. Decaying Form plays with Brutal Death and plays with music: they have systematically decided to throw everything into disarray. As if they purposely put sugar in the salt jar and vice versa. And so real musical distortions are born: breakdowns with no rhythm, accelerations that die as soon as they begin, endless song endings, and annoying slowdowns placed where they shouldn't be. And the drumming? Since I don't believe it suffices to know that the drummer also plays in a Progressive band, and since I've never heard anything like it, I'll go into detail. The Blast Beats are of little relevance; after all, there isn't any riff long enough to accompany them. The vaguely "sensible" Blasts are interrupted halfway through, or even before halfway, drowned in rolls that would fit better in a solo than in a song. Then begins the series of odd times, which you don't even have time to identify because they change so quickly; the only certainty is that you must forget four-four time the moment you decide to listen to "Chronicles Of Decimation". Practically continual Stop and Go are the main feature of this album. And when I say "continual", I mean there are at least four every minute, so much so that the compositions seem to be the shards of a broken plate, perfectly matching but totally unusable. Absurd offbeats, omitted snare hits, and a truly creative use of the cymbals make this guy one of the best drummers I've heard lately. But if I gave this album the highest rating, it means that nothing is missing: even the Mood, as strange as it may be, manages to come through. The same restless madness of these songs is passed on to the listener, who, within a few minutes, finds themselves completely anesthetized in a deformed reality. There's little room for violence, serving only to increase the pressure and optimize the lysergic feel of this record. This is also made possible by a production that favors mid-tones and gives a particular "effervescent" sound to the guitar and a very dry one to the drums. It's amusing to think that musicians this skilled managed to compose such complex music practically as a joke, sure of the total failure of their offering. The critics don't care, the fans don't either, and sales are below zero; too illogical for the Homo (in)Sapiens Brutallarensis, too violent for more laid-back Progressive fans and refined Jazz enthusiasts, the only ones who might be able to appreciate such a daunting and complex work. I must admit that at first, it's almost impossible to listen to it attentively; for a fair number of listens, one is so baffled that the desire to understandingly engage in deciphering what these two guys are doing fades away. Ten songs for half an hour of musical ramblings: anyone who comments on "Chronicles Of Decimation" before hearing it can be automatically nominated for the "Babbo di minkia® 2008" contest.