Pestilence
Doctrine

The debates about the actual benefit of historical comebacks in the metal scene are quite a thorny issue. Practically all the bands that disbanded during the '90s (or even the preceding decade), perhaps with only one cult full-length as their résumé, have gotten back on track in the new millennium to the delight of those who, in those golden years, were unable to witness the phenomenon that saw them as absolute protagonists. But what might be the motive that drives all these comebacks? To effectively answer this question, a separate review (or a single word) would be needed, so it's better to focus on analyzing the quality of the products released by the bands in question, at their (but maybe more my) risk and peril. I say this because in the case of the Italian-Dutch Pestilence, everything seems to go wrong, thus entering the prestigious circle of the ''reunion farce.''

Indeed, from the historic band that took its first steps with the Slayer-like ''Malleus Maleficarum'' and then with the abominable death beast ''Consuming Impulse,'' later gifting us with the symphonic interludes of ''Testimony of the Ancients'' (a masterpiece par excellence of the band and Death in general) and the cosmic chaos Fusion-Death-Jazz named ''Spheres'' (an album so ahead of its time that it was snubbed by the public, captivated by Grunge melancholy), only the two guitarists remain alive; everything else has turned to dust.

They had already tried again, after 16 years, in 2009 with the fierce ''Resurrection Macabre,'' astonishing in a thoroughly negative way those who remembered them as the pioneers of a certain way of interpreting the genre. Two years later comes the follow-up to that messy musical abomination: ''Doctrine,'' an embarrassing work light-years away from the talented past compositions. Departing from the ''brutalization at all costs'' exercises introduced in the last comeback, here they seek, on the contrary, the paths of the most cavernous and unhealthy mid-tempo, trying in some way to put the technique back at the forefront, which unfortunately soon turns into a jumble of often confusing dissonances that will not take long (let's say a couple of listens) to become annoying and detestable for the listener.

Tony Choy is no more. In his place, the virtuoso Jeroen Paul Thesseling of Obscura has been recruited, inexplicably destined for either too predictable bass lines (''Divinity'') or overly invasive ones (''Absolution,'' ''Deception''). Also, behind the skins sits a new element compared to Resurrection; Yuma Van Eekelen, an unknown drummer pulled out of the hat after months of auditions, who, despite the sound of his snare leaving much to be desired, proves to be one of the very few interesting notes of the platter. But the most disgraceful and disconcerting ingredient of today's Pestilence is, without a shadow of a doubt, the acidic and annoying vocal performance that Mameli delivers without a break; a sort of hybrid between a Eurasian mallard in heat and the sound a pig makes before being slaughtered. Unlistenable.

Leaving aside the overly abused anti-Christian concept that nowadays wouldn't impress even those who have been listening to Deicide and Morbid Angel for two days, it is legitimate (and painful) to note the monotony of a tracklist never so flat and devoid of ideas, that flows (but perhaps it would be better to say ''drains'') without leaving the slightest mark, in complete banality. Pieces like ''Amgod,'' ''Dissolve,'' or the title track should be enough to understand how the Dutch have reduced themselves in this 2011: a sixteen-year-old cover band trying for the first time to engage in their own songs. Out of ten proposed episodes, only the squared ''Malignant,'' ''Sinister,'' with its good guitar and bass solos, and the conclusive ''Confusion'' (thanks to a well-executed, Thrash school riff) are worthy from the first to the last note, although they are irremediably ruined by Patrick's voice which, as irritating as a hen singing at dawn on a Sunday, does nothing but repeat the song's title for four minutes.

What remains after these 39 interminable clock turns? An insolent dose of boredom, much bitterness in the mouth, and the certainty of seeing Pestilence at the lowest point of their career. The most technical Death metal, if it really wants to be even minimally appealing, cannot be satisfied with putting on the table complex musical scales, indecipherable chords, and various show-offs; it must skillfully mix and unleash concreteness, dynamism, aggressiveness, and inventiveness. Pestilence, compared to what they represented for their graying fans, have brutally strangled themselves, violated themselves, and stripped themselves of all their grandiloquence, throwing away years of immense, decadent metal art.

Despair.