Irist
Order of the Mind

My good friend Paolo, an AC Milan fan and expert in Football Manager, technically a poor defender but with leadership qualities and a great expert in football matters, assures me that Andre Silva “… trust me, he’s a crack”.

From the start, I found this statement a bit exaggerated to the point that, after spraying the coffee I was sipping, I was immediately seized by a fit of convulsive laughter.

Our level of familiarity, such that it left an imprint of my golden buttocks on his sofa (the blue fabric walk of fame of a true fan) after countless matches watched together, allowed me to indulge in prolonged mockery and justified lack of respect.

"Bro, the only crack here is the one you've smoked"

The dispute was resolved by setting an expiration date on the daring prediction of the Guru (as He modestly likes to call himself), if within 5 years that half-wit doesn’t reach the levels of Messi or CR7, as likely an event as meeting Mario Draghi at a rave party, he will have to utter the fateful two words “YOU’RE RIGHT”, as difficult to articulate for his recalcitrant vocal cords as they would be for Fonzie.

Now … three years have passed, at best we will remember him as a good striker with Portuguese goal averages, more pleasing to look at than effective.

Stubbornness is not always a virtue.

But you must be wondering why the hell I’m telling you all this.

Because I’m talking about the debut of Irist and, prepare to spray any fluid on your monitors, like certain specialized press I am also convinced that in the medal field they will soon be a “crack”.

Even though no one has paid them any mind despite the repeated listens already posted, an unequivocal sign of the site’s regression into spineless softness, I'm here to perk up your gray pubic hair.

The clues are all there, this Atlanta quintet dedicated to sludge / metalcore, as Georgian tradition demands (Baroness, Kylesa, Mastodon, Black Tusk docet), cleverly contaminates the furious sound shards with cultured and varied elements.

Compressed acoustic edges thrown at scandalous speeds and supported by a brutal rhythm session are skillfully chiseled with decompressions and slowdowns.

The very clean production (too much for the more uncompromising) by Nuclear Blast helps make everything more enjoyable even for the less accustomed.

A certain underlying melodic attitude makes the mid growl of the singing more drinkable, also alternating with clean moments.

Sure, the references are huge: early Mastodon, maybe Gojira and even Dillinger Escape Plan.
The points of contact with the latest Converge are even embarrassing, the riff that starts at the thirty-seventh second in “Insurrection” is practically identical to that in “Reptilian” (1.54), try it to believe it.

Indulgence leads to considering it a tribute, but then the stunningly beautiful “Harvester” starts that begins like a Katatonia track and ends dragging you into a frenetic vortex of High on Fire lineage. Not at all trivial.

In short, even if we are not in front of a totem of absolute originality, we can certainly talk about a well-packaged and unusual product for the genre’s standards, extremely enjoyable even in its primordial energy.

See you in five years when you can easily mock me for my superior divinatory skills, magician Otelma eat your heart out.