Philly punks Nothing are back from the brink with a new record that draws on some really, really bad times.
It's a rare celebration for a disengaged tribe...
Perhaps it's the overload of brooding electricity tumbling from Slayer's monolithic speaker stack, or perhaps it's the sea of sweaty condensation spraying from the moshpit's mangled forest of hair, but tonight the SFX resembles some sort of Satanic sauna. But such is the physicality of Slayer's show, as they lay on the anti-social politics and fearsome riffola, still intact from their mid-'80s collision of breakneck hardcore and doom-laden thrash-scapes. Nu-school stoner-rock stalwarts such as Queens Of The Stone Age will, no doubt, verify that Slayer's impact is based on more than mere primordial testosterone and the cartoonish hell and damnation imagery of metal. And although their music is weighed down with a bounty of apocalyptic schtick, Slayer are also artful in their extremity, and sonically, their druggie tempo-scaling theatrics are of uncompromised and experimental merit.
They slash and burn through 'Jesus Saves' and 'Angel of Death', the backbone of tracks of their 1986 opus, 'Reign In Blood', and the morbid grinds of 'Mandatory Suicide' and the title track of 1988's 'South Of Heaven'.
Bassist/frontman Tom Araya growls like a incensed caveman, and the twin axe assault of Jeff Hannemen and Kerry King conjure a tempestuous assault of heavy-chuggin' and shrill-like twiddling. The blinding strobes merely augment the pure, unrelenting drama of it all.
It's a rare celebration for a disengaged tribe. But in the outside world, life goes on oblivious. Metal has long since been hijacked by comedy grunge bands and MTV jock-rock whores. And they're selling Mvtorhead t-shirts in Miss Selfridge.
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