Walls Of Jericho
With Devils Amongst Us All

Ever since its emergence on the music scene in the latter half of the Seventies, metal has been attacked by the morally upright and the eloquent speakers. Some considered it a raw music without limits: personifying it, almost unscrupulous. Others couldn't understand what was so innovative about turning up an amplifier a few notches, getting carpal tunnel from hyper-speed drumming, scraping one's throat on a microphone, perhaps second-hand, in a recording studio, perhaps half-ruined and dilapidated. But, as we know, the consumption of wine and alcoholic beverages was particularly high in those years.

Then there was a third school of thought: those who, frightened by the genre's advance, called for a boycott, setting up the excuse of "it's music for satanists, darling." Music for satanists: for the rich kids, it meant devil by default. And, despite the warnings, everyone plunged in headfirst. The devil was a symbol of transgression, of rebellion: something that went beyond punk anger, something heavier, something darker. Now, thirty years later, step forward those who said that metal is the music of the devil. Was it perhaps you, in a suit and tie, pinstripe trousers, and stiff white mustache? Or perhaps it was you, hat in hand, newspaper under the arm, cane in one hand, you, with such a noble bearing? Maybe it was them. Well: listening to the Walls Of Jericho, if this is truly the devil's music, then so be it.

What is the reality of Walls Of Jericho? What lies behind these terms? There's him: Dustin Schoenhofer, a drummer of great technique and anatomical skill, capable of grafting a drumming as martial as a hyperblast beat. But there are also the others: guitarists Chris Rawson and Mike Hasty, more devoted than ever to the science of hardcore. And there's room for another: bassist Aaron Ruby, one with his instrument, an obsessive war machine. But the queen remains her. And you've understood correctly: where the empty space is only that of the singer, and one would expect the obvious "him," here comes a third-person singular pronoun, feminine gender. She, Candace Kucsulain. A woman interested in only one thing: making as much noise as possible, even if it means auctioning off her vocal cords on eBay. And damn if she keeps her promises.

There have been many changes in Walls Of Jericho since their foundation: great promises of hardcore since 1998, with the release of their first two EPs ("Underestimated" and "A Day And A Thousand Years") and the actual album in 2000 ("The Bound Feed The Gagged"). Then, the crisis: the first drummer, Wes Keely, decides to leave the band to pursue university studies, and the band cannot find the right replacement. The split was inevitable. But WOJ rise again stronger than ever: in 2004, Candace & Co. reunite, as in the old days, publishing a concentrate of fury and bitterness ("All Hail The Dead"), the right reward for their fans, starved of screaming, drumming, and other beautiful things ending in -ing for too long. Yet another curse seems to hit the Detroit band: even the new drummer, Alexei Rodriguez, decides to leave his friends. But this time, the blow is not felt: already-mentioned Dustin Schoenhofer, taken from Premonitions Of War, arrives. And everything is ready for a new adventure: in 2006, Roadrunner releases "With Devils Amongst Us All," the group's third work.

The album opens with the band's first (and so far only) single, "A Trigger Full Of Promises" (nice video). The first comparison that comes to mind when hearing the track, though extremely daring, is with "Angel Of Death" by Slayer: a snare drum accompanying restless guitars, rhythm always well-defined, all converging in a stunning scream, definitely animalistic in style, from Kucsulain. The subsequent verses are much simpler: lots of room for Candace, who quickly demolishes the listener's eardrums with her screaming, the guitars limit themselves to undersigning violent and decided chords in the free spaces left by vocal and percussion parts. A bit subdued is the change of pace recorded around the two-and-a-half-minute mark: Candace decides to take a break, unleashing a rap-like segment accompanied by a martial rhythm and a bed of guitars on the verge of explosion. "Fight, fight, fight, fight, this broken dreams!". The combination between the epilogue of the first song and the start of the second ("I Know Hollywood And You Ain't It") is perfect: an unsettling void, an immense chasm, and a rhetorical lack precede a ferocious scream from Candace ("Your mechanical eyes!"), which in turn opens the dance to a violent outburst, the most aggressive track of the entire album, based on furious drum rolls and mountains of rocky and furious riffs in their delirium of blood, dust, and storm. The chorus is excellent, partially underlined in unison by the entire band and closed by a loud shout.

It is up to "And Hope To Die": beginning with drum fills placed close to each other and interspersed by Rawson and Hasty's guitars. Of course, she can't be missing, Candace: her screaming manages not to lose intensity, even though in this case she is supported by the group's backing vocals. The central part of the song is a masterpiece of rage: a barrage of drumming supported by the guitars, with the occasional appearance of the singer's screams. One ends, and another begins: "Plastic" is the synthesis of what the album really wants to demonstrate, the denunciation of society's false values ("Now I can't pretend/ to live this life of plastic happiness"), accompanied by drumming foaming with rage and the guitars, omnipresent and admonishing, heavy but agile in shifting from one rhythm to another. It's time for the apocalyptic "Try. Fail. Repeat": beginning dominated by Ruby's bass, followed by extremely technical and fast rolls and Candace's screams. There are small lapses in the vocalist's power: the chorus belongs to the entire band, and generally, the screaming, as far as possible, is set on softer tones. After a string of pieces between metalcore and thrash metal, comes the dreamlike "The Haunted": gloomy tones, a dark cloud looming over the scene, with rebellious choruses in the distance, and Candace's shouted declaration ("We must survive") disrupts the perverse balance previously created. One of the best pieces of the album: Schoenhofer is truly in a state of grace, clean, fast, and precise, and the chorus is sung by the whole band, a reminiscence of medieval nights spent in front of a fire.

"And The Dead Walk Again": after a dive into the past and foggy memories, we return to the present more embittered than before. Candace screams her intentions with a sour aftertaste, with blood in her mouth, with her forehead beaded with sweat, with a sore throat, with strength and determination, as always. And as always, the band supports her perfectly, both in percussion and melodic aspects. The eighth track, "Another Day, Another Idiot", has an extremely rapid pace, but only succeeds halfway: ideas begin to run scarce, Kucsulain's screaming lacks brilliance, and only the heavy - and apt - intent of the chords keeps the song standing. Walls Of Jericho indeed need a break: the neurons call for it, the leaders respond. "No Saving Me", even being a ballad (truly incredible the comparison between Candace in screaming and Candace in melodic version) manages to maintain all the bitterness of the more violent episodes without overdoing it, and even attempts some rarities, such as the insertion of a harp and a violin. And incredibly, the idea proves to be an excellent one, also thanks to the guitars, a bit skewed and unstable in their gloominess.

But here comes the tenth composition, titled "Welcome Home", a real summary of all the anger contained in the album. The pattern is always the same: extremely rapid rolls, simple and direct riffs, screams scattered here and there, in a desecrated and deleterious game. The album closes in a grand manner, with the eleventh and final song, the eponymous "With Devils Amongst Us All": between a scream, a drumming, and a riff, appear keyboard samples with an acidic taste. Some points of the piece even refer to certain atmospheres of System of a Down: orientalizations smothered under a bass drum or six strings, as fleeting as they are decisive, in an endless and dimensionless race.

In conclusion: certainly, an album that does not cater to the most fragile and/or demanding eardrums, even if the roughness that permeates the CD sounds much better than any sonic elevation or any stylistic refinement. Violent, direct, explicit: is this perhaps the devil's music? I don't think so. Requiem.

P.S. Guys, I apologize in advance for the excessive length of the review. I tried to limit myself. Sorry.