Loincloth
Iron Balls of Steel

THE REVIEW

In the dazzling eighties, in the hard'n'heavy scene, there was a moment, a lapse, a time-space warp, a black hole from which, defying the laws of conventional physics, a myriad of records by (so-called) guitar-heroes were literally expelled, mostly published by specific record labels dedicated exclusively to the dissemination of such verbose works.

The list of artists (or supposed such) is endless and I won't make it. But if you really insist, I will.
The list.

The absolute protagonist, often inadvertently, was the immortal six-string; people ultra-skilled at a technical/executive level but with taste and sense of restraint equivalent to zero-point-zero: practically, if you weren't devout to applied technique on neck & pick, in the span of a few quarters of an hour, you'd either fall asleep or it would make your spherical/ovoid area grow immensely.

Guitar and rock (and therefore by extension, metal) are phantasmal and indivisible entities like Franco and Ciccio, Chip and Dale, Mario and Pippo Santonastaso.
But when the sense of limit (and ridiculousness) is lost, it’s not good at all.

Generally, besides the onanistic hero, there were two or three honest sidemen whose function was essentially to support and lead in unison up to the orgasmic, endless solo.

Now: thank heaven, in this Loincloth album, there is no guitar-hero flooding the ether with their ancestral talent.
So, in fact, I could have avoided the previous paragraph.

But calm & chalk, boys & girls.

If I spent time typing it (and you reading it), there might be a reason.
Maybe.

First of all, let's specify that we are geologically closer to our days even if in front of what we could define a (so-called) drum-hero: the second category in order of absolute danger after guitar heroes.

The hominid in question is called Steven Shelton, known (so to speak) for having enriched, ravaged, and duly beaten the rhythm section within the Confessor, a challenging American heavy-doom band with the peculiar "trumpet" white vocal style of the frontman.

Steven was, in fact, the true peculiarity of the group, and for those who have never heard him, I recommend giving it a taste; however, while doing an extraordinary job, he had to somehow restrain himself and adapt to the group logic.

In this project, the good Steven is obviously the absolute fulcrum of the issue, assisted by two adequate beaters respectively in charge of guitar and bass. The substantial difference lies in the fact that Steve is not accompanied to the solo but, let's say, is in a perpetual grind of drums, cymbals, and pedals from the first to the last second.

An ancestral grind, you might say.
Perhaps yes, but not necessarily, I would say.

First of all, because the debut of Perizoma consists of extremely fast and gritty tracks, both in duration and execution, of considerable atomic specific mass. The overall impact of this instrumental metallized noise-rock is decidedly rustic, where the tracks are essentially an excuse to mistreat the instruments at their disposal.

One and a half minute/bars/three clatters, para-hardcore in structure but not substance, in which he goes at it hard with his peculiar drumming style: because the virtue of the project is (or should be) precisely this: earth-shattering barrages, jagged rhythms, panic-inducing blows, and off-time tempos.

This in short is the bitter or sweet chalice to gulp down from the first to the last microgroove.

What do I do, say, pour?