Foetus
Thaw

Where is Hole's irony? Where are Nail's grandiosity and manic perfection? Simple, they are dead and buried under 3 meters of earth, making way for an archaic feeling: rage.

This is Thaw, whose fitting appetizer is the flaming hound that graces the cover. With Thaw, indeed, Thirlwell abandons the meticulously crafted richness of his repertoire for harsher and more direct sounds that greatly reflect the experience gained with yet another Wiseblood experiment (alongside his friend Mosimann).

The album opens with Don't Hide it, Provide it and the initial MGM jingle is just a trap that quickly fades to make way for an unrelenting drumbeat and (incredibly!) metal guitar riffs, providing the backdrop for the good James's furious oration: a depraved nursery rhyme that even predicts an unpredictable "Tarzan the rapeman!!!". Asbestos, on the other hand, is a thrilling piece with sharp strings and apocalyptic sounds that draw from the darkest black hole of Klaus Schulze, followed by the formless cacophony of Fin; just a noisy interlude. English Faggot (Nothing Man) continues the multi-genre experimentation, this time featuring a tribal and animalistic rap, devoid of any hint of sarcasm, instead embodying the fiercest invective. Foetus further enriches his sadistic sonnet by pairing his "Squeal like a piggy!!!" with actual squeals of the pink creature. Hauss-on-Fah is the classic foetussian hellish cabaret, which concludes the angriest part of the album, followed by the acoustic divider of Fratricide Pastorale, halfway between the preceding storm and the promise of a calm break. This dualism continues in The Dipsomaniac Kiss, where Foetus seems to wearily take his place at the piano, to bid farewell after a night of excess. However, the subdued tone gives way to another burst of rage, supported by a powerful sound to which the trumpets add a touch of madness. The old madman still has curses to spit. The kaleidoscopic Barbedwire Tumbleweed represents the mutation in progress, which culminates in the mystical Chingada, where Foetus poses as a prophet of the apocalypse, to shout his visions to the world, against a background that smells of curry and the Taj Mahal. The journey concludes with the solid A Prayer For My Death, a metal ride with which Foetus bids farewell like a titanic Wagner on a Harley.

The old Aussie has deliberately left the "roast" in the oven, but the charred and scorching thing that comes out is equally tasty and must be consumed. With generous doses of baking soda and Malox, of course.