In An Expression Of The Inexpressible
From the cover he stares, eyes blazing, a cross etched into his brow, a pentangle by his ear ...
FROM THE COVER HE STARES, EYES blazing, a cross etched into his brow, a pentangle by his ear. If the solo album is an opportunity to peer into the soul of the artist isolated from his mates, then from this record we can safely assume Rob is happy doing the Devil’s work in his day job with White Zombie.
Marvellous news for would-be teenage Satanists wanting lyrics about being chopped into small pieces by the dark forces of the night. Not so great, though, for anyone wanting more than just a triumph in literalism from a man who has based his career on looking like one of the extras from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video.
This is the basic rotting flesh of dead metal. Ragged doom riffing, the delicate sound of a thousand cement mixers, and vocals of gravel. Plus, for extra spooky atmos, mumbled Latin incantations and pealing church bells. So ‘Dragula’ lurches around disco metal. So ‘Desmonold Phenomenon’ explodes in an orgy of vocodered voices and brain-melting noise. So what? This all holds few surprises.
Perhaps the most telling aspect about this album is its promise to bring us “13 Tales Of Cadaverous Cavorting”, which all makes it sound rather jolly. And it is because, despite all protestations to the contrary, it’s as camp as a Hammer House Of Horror film and as scary as Peter Cushing turning into a rubber bat.
So, as with all comedy albums, listen to once, then destroy. With silver bullets.