New Lows
Harvest Of The Carcass

I find myself laughing. It's a nervous laugh. I can't believe what I'm hearing and its heaviness. I laugh again.

While the world, media-driven or not, of nerdalcore covered in tattoos up to their ears, is busy "believing in Bring Me The Horizon" (to quote the clown, in name and in fact of Slipknot), or enjoying the plastic rage of The Devil Wears Prada, or the ridiculous "electronic" mixtures of Enter Shikari, or waiting for the "new" album by Devildriver, or the mystic crises in scream of Underoath, or (omission, I could go on for hours with boring examples), the New Lows, quietly, underground and under the skin, release (and guess for whom? mam Deathwish Inc.) one of the most ferocious, virulent, senseless, bastardiefiglidiputtana albums I've ever heard. "Harvest Of The Carcass" is a monstrous urban hybrid that devours the asphalt from under your feet only to vomit it straight into your eardrums. 

The sludge flow introducing "Stagnant Strides" feels like a swamp, a swamp that emerges overnight in a fully operating foundry, the guitars have an inhuman thickness, the drums are made of cast iron, the snare is a press that crushes the notes (what notes?), and the spirit guide Cro-Mags is ready to launch, only to be shattered on the final mid-tempo, which crushes to the ground and makes you eat the tiles. I still can't comprehend the amount of hate and fury and more hate and fury that pours out like molten steel mixed with crap from my speakers when the senseless "Born And Razed" starts, with a double bass drum glued to guitars that explode with pain, with a dynamism inconceivably devoted to mere acoustic nonsense, a track overflowing with tension, mercilessly the singer PBoy violates his throat in a limitless primitive monotone scream. The sludgecrap returns in "Plagegrounds" with a bass that instead of strings has exposed cables encrusted with putrid sludge, and a dynamic seesaw gives the sense of a swing overlooking the void. The old-school primitivity of the title track is an electric and dangerous jewel, HC in a state of disgrace and "Anguish" is an orgy of riffs in hyperbolic intolerance towards human life. The lyrics are nightmares of post-urban nonsense, monsters coming out of the windows of abandoned buildings of a finished civilization.

To the barbeque sauce of Bring Me The Horizon, I much prefer the greasy and electric vomit of this war machine from Boston. Bon appetit.