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Rating: What do you expect from a band called Intestinal Disgorge and that releases an album with such artwork (little Art and a lot of work)? What do you expect from a band that titles an album "Drowned In Rectal Sludge"?
More or less what I expected when years ago I got another one of their LPs, the subsequent "Whore Splattered Walls" (2001); a madness beyond limits. And if you just can't resist the call of madness beyond limits, then this album is for you, provided you're strong-stomached enough to read through a tracklist of about thirty songs. The album in question, like the aforementioned one, can be described as a "concept album" based on defecation, toilets, clogged bathrooms, and what a human being is capable of expelling from the anal orifice. Now, I would say to put democracy aside for a moment and gag all those who think this is a brilliant idea, because this, my dear Des Esseintes, is anything but a brilliant idea: this, I repeat once again, is madness beyond limits. So I don't want to read comments saying "great Intestinal Disgorge" because there's nothing great about them apart from their imagination in using the word "shit" and its derivatives.
The band began as a quartet in the late Nineties in the United States (California, if I'm not mistaken), but due to progressive departures and lineup changes (all of this, I must specify, in a genuine garage band dimension), it soon reduced to a One Man Band; our man (also the author of a hilarious autobiography) then decided to recruit Pissy, a friend of his tasked with screaming as if she were being assaulted throughout the songs. In the background, a profoundly deep growl accompanied sometimes by something that can be called a riff, but most of the time by the wailing of a guitar that sounds as if it were being assaulted throughout the songs. Our man cannot play the guitar, yet he plays it anyway, and the result is predictably a disaster in which, to cut it short, only the low E is played. The drums are programmed in pure Mortician style, meaning they're practically inaudible and what's heard is blasted to the max without reason: very fast and clearly artificial blast beats constitute a truly pathetic rhythmic section. The bass, much like the guitar, seems played with a screwdriver and sounds like two paint cans clashing against each other: and it couldn't be otherwise with a production that makes everything, and I told you it's a concept album, sound like a flushing toilet.
Intestinal Disgorge make noise. When I heard the first five songs, I was quite satisfied because, in the end, the idea of Pissy screaming like a lunatic was quite original, but when you get to the twenty-eighth, you realize such an idea can be exploited very little. Aggravating the situation are the lengths of the songs, not always contained within sixty seconds but often exceeding even one hundred and twenty: the result is that you'll hear about fifteen songs and, having realized they're all the same, you'll put away the disc only to bring it out to show your friends madness beyond limits (sorry for insisting). Obviously, it's not at all pleasant to hear such horrifying screams, but in a silly context like this, they're less annoying than if put in a Brutal Death record that takes itself seriously. In short, Intestinal Disgorge's Grind Gore is stupid, disgusting, and musically awful, but it makes you laugh and perhaps best represents what playing this genre has become today; like in 1986 when Napalm Death and Reoulsion tried to shock the world with "Scum" and "Horrified," then in 1988 with Carcass's "Reek Of Putrefaction," and in 1990 with Impetigo's "Ultimo Mondo Cannibale," today Intestinal Disgorge carry on with their obscene and vomit-inducing proposal. I cannot give this album more than one out of five, although the temptation to add a point is strong; because Intestinal Disgorge are (word of Aniel) their own fake, they make fun of themselves, they intend to make shitty music (and titles like "Intestinal Collapse And Melting," "Face Down In A Toilet Full Of Vomit," or "Toilet Paper Stuck In Grandmother's Ass" should be enough for you to grasp the concept). But if this was a breakthrough element in the Eighties, perhaps it is even more so now, where the music business has even gone so far as to lay hands on breakthrough bands (just think of Cannibal Corpse, Deicide, or Morbid Angel).
No one will ever lay hands here, if only out of disgust; since there's nothing to gain, Intestinal Disgorge are a waste of time, effort, and money.
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