Toadliquor
Feel My Hate, the Power is Weight

If you want to listen to music that is a bastard cross between the black industrial disaster of those Shining bastards and the fall into a bottomless pit on which the Saint Vitus poetized, if you want your eardrums to become two rancid slices of Rovagnati granbiscotto, look no further than the Toadliquor.

Toadliquor, a collective of deviants who in '93 birthed with a breech delivery that pachyderm leviathan that is Feel my Hate-The Power is the Weight-R.I.P. Cain. An album that could be the soundtrack of a murder, of a man tortured with the wheel torture, of a sadomasochistic relationship with a bed dripping with blood. Brutal sludge, so paroxysmal it bleeds into Drone; unbelievable distortions, stuff to slit your veins, a concentration of everything this gentle genre proposes: hatred, hostility, fierce rage, depression, gore, misanthropy, a sound assault that transcends any limit. The tracks are slow pitches of tar, an impenetrable weave of massive guitars on which Rex unleashes his delirious voice, like a hallucinated big baby, the groan of a dying homeless person. Sometimes you don't even find a true song structure, but it doesn't matter, what counts is force-feeding the listener with this sponge that seeps anger and crap from every pore. Memorable is the riff-acme of Gnaw, a rare catchy moment of the album, noteworthy is the schizophrenic explosion of Charred, for an album that often employs the tension-climax-release scheme. And how can we not mention the spoken sample at the beginning of Nails: I want to hear you scream... We're not at the unattainable levels of the Meth Drinker, but we're close...

And if that weren't enough, these degenerates returned this year with Back in the Hole... back in the hole, it's precisely the case to say... RIP CAIN...

Until next time.