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Rating:
The Trash Talk are perhaps imaginative, because I keep visually syncing the bpm of Feen to the movement of an arm ending in a tight hand on a cervical. There's a frightened face I don't describe to avoid feeling too ugly, but I see it. With every b, the face slams against the edge of the counter and cheeks form a frame around fragments of teeth swallowed under a garnet lump that might be the nose, but the nose is in the middle of the eyes and the eyes are scattered. In the horrified disbelief of the few present, the face drops from one hundred to zero percent Doom in a clean minute, from 7:26 to 8:26 of the total eleven.
They remind me of when I didn't understand the lyrics of the bad crap I used to listen to, and I just imagined them. It seemed to me that the words were needed because the screams sounded good if they formed words; but I created the meanings myself and remained even faithful to them. I shared them, as if I were only over-interpreting. To some, I am still faithful.
As for the rest: they have eliminated the blast beats, the half-sludge and half-grind stuff, and now they sound like street Refused, as this is west coast folks who hang out with Tyler The Creator, in that circle that keeps evil beneath the appearance of bright, fashionable hood shirts. Without the nonsense of Refused and with a pump of sounds that happens when they calm down for a moment, just a moment, maybe in Mr. Nobody, you realize what the hell you were listening to.
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