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Rating:
If it were only about measuring exaggeration, it could be simplified: Australians. Even the sound can be simplified: an unreasonable gain rate on everything to which gain can be applied. So much so that the drums, entangled in a D-beat launched at the maximum bpm allowed by human muscles and nerves, lag behind a clutch that spares the life of the poor cones only because it is exercised with a substantial absence of bass. These are traits on which Seattle's Iron Lung left their mark in the early '10s, only to become patrons of it and welcome Geld and others into the ranks of their deadly squadron.
The scream is idiotic and electric and mostly death. White noise marked in pseudo-metric.
A weight like this would play the most fetishistic ears with daring, BDSM-oriented, harsh noise electronics from Japan (the other great, perhaps the ultimate, island of excess); if it weren't managed with what one might dare to call intelligence: the intelligence of the fill, to ward off the flat and relaxing anesthetic effect that results from prolonged exposure to such a wattage. Hence the brief but thorough preparation of My Own Most Hopeless Case, by Dripper, to reaffirm that one is listening to hardcore, between one rapid sinister sequence of power chords and another; that there is a defined attitude and a clear intention, a vocation for massacre.
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