the streets are filled
with filth and blood.
the cars traveling
on these same decrepit streets
are searching for innocent children
for more blood
to constantly
keep the streets filled.
i used to be one of these children,
but no one notices me now.
no one
will even make eye contact with me.
i might as well
be dead,
walking with the rest
of the living dead.
they might notice me
if i were naked,
blocking their way
to their ugly wives
or abusive husbands.
then again,
they might not.
they may roll
right over me
pour burning oil down my broken neck
and drive on...
Now, if i were paved in gold,
they might stop.
Hell,
they would stop
and tear off my gold plated testicles
one by one.
they too
would never look me in the eyes.
the value of human life
is worthless
on these streets,
it's an everyday fact of life
that almost no one
can get used to,
yet they walk
and drive
and live on them
without ever changing their ways,
forever haunted
by the filth and blood
of ugly streets.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Working For The Unforgiving
Slow and painful
is how the hours go by.
Overworked
is an understatement
to us,
to them
we need to work more,
harder,
without complaint.
Underpaid
is how we are rewarded.
Underappreciated
is how we should never
feel,
yet
the cheese thats molds in the trash
is worth
more
than us.
Depression
is washed down
the sink
along with our thoughts
and imagination.
The drain
is worth
more
than us.
If these
normal, human, tormenting thoughts
do set in,
then management
takes away our razors
for fear that we might
cut off chunks
of our own wrists
and bag em
and tag em
and sell em
to customers.
We wouldn't know the difference
and customers
love the taste of fresh flesh.
Our life's blood has been draining
away since
we gave them
our social sercurity numbers.
Why do we do this
to ourselves?
Why do others do this
to us
without remorse
or pity?
Do they not
have a fucking soul?
Do they not
have a fucking heart?
Must we work
for the unforgiving
forever?
is how the hours go by.
Overworked
is an understatement
to us,
to them
we need to work more,
harder,
without complaint.
Underpaid
is how we are rewarded.
Underappreciated
is how we should never
feel,
yet
the cheese thats molds in the trash
is worth
more
than us.
Depression
is washed down
the sink
along with our thoughts
and imagination.
The drain
is worth
more
than us.
If these
normal, human, tormenting thoughts
do set in,
then management
takes away our razors
for fear that we might
cut off chunks
of our own wrists
and bag em
and tag em
and sell em
to customers.
We wouldn't know the difference
and customers
love the taste of fresh flesh.
Our life's blood has been draining
away since
we gave them
our social sercurity numbers.
Why do we do this
to ourselves?
Why do others do this
to us
without remorse
or pity?
Do they not
have a fucking soul?
Do they not
have a fucking heart?
Must we work
for the unforgiving
forever?
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Ugly Sky Above Oakland
The streets are disgusting,
The bathrooms are disgusting,
The people are even worse.
The bay is putrid and filled with shit,
The air is putrid and filled with shit,
The people are even worse.
They talk,
They walk,
They shit,
They fuck,
They die.
They are lost,
Living in Oakland,
Why?
Under the ugly sky
With no stars,
No future,
No morals,
No lives,
Why?
Why walk these vile streets filled with trash,
With vomit,
With piss?
Why?
And why am I here?
I have vomit stains on my shirt,
Dandruff in my hair,
Foul-smelling armpits,
Dirty asshole,
A hangover,
And coke boogers,
Why, I fit right in,
And am glad that I am smiling,
Looking up at the ugly sky above Oakland.
The bathrooms are disgusting,
The people are even worse.
The bay is putrid and filled with shit,
The air is putrid and filled with shit,
The people are even worse.
They talk,
They walk,
They shit,
They fuck,
They die.
They are lost,
Living in Oakland,
Why?
Under the ugly sky
With no stars,
No future,
No morals,
No lives,
Why?
Why walk these vile streets filled with trash,
With vomit,
With piss?
Why?
And why am I here?
I have vomit stains on my shirt,
Dandruff in my hair,
Foul-smelling armpits,
Dirty asshole,
A hangover,
And coke boogers,
Why, I fit right in,
And am glad that I am smiling,
Looking up at the ugly sky above Oakland.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Article of John Hackleman Jr "The Man in the Cage"
There are millions of big headed, muscle bound choads that watch UFC fights thinking that they can easily go in the cage with any MMA fighter and shatter his face beyond recognition. Fat chance. They couldn’t even punch their tongues through a fart hole. These out of shape beer inhalers have no idea what it takes to make it through one day of training. I recently interviewed local fighter John Hackleman Jr to find out just how much hard work, discipline, and sacrifice it takes to achieve this domination in the cage.
This 28 year old middleweight massacre stands at 6’3” and weighs in at 185 lbs. Most challengers stand a better chance of survival playing roulette rather than entering in the cage with Johnny. He has been training in kickboxing since he was wearing diapers and for the past decade he’s been duking it out with the best amateur boxers in California. All day and all night and all throughout his training he thinks about disfiguring his opponent. Even when he is at his second job as a bartender at McCarthy’s, he’s training, plotting, thinking about how expensive his next opponent’s hospital bill will be or if they’ll have to call in the coroner to clean up the mess.
His relentless training also requires a strict diet. He eats small portions of what some might consider cardboard and despite being surrounded by Jameson, he doesn’t give into temptation. There is no booze for this bruiser. His dedication and drive to win are his only motivations. There’s plenty of time for debauchery later in life. He would rather get a high from making his opponents pay. They better watch out because as he puts it, “no one is safe.” If an opponent does enter his “home,” the cage, they have earned his respect, but they will not stop him from going after what he loves most-the KNOCKOUT. He says, “there’s nothing like the feeling of winning a fight by knocking someone out…I want that feeling every time I fight.”
Opponents may try and find a way to beat him, perhaps by inciting a fear. This unfortunately will never work. His only fear is not giving it his all. Besides that, there’s no chance of winning. Ask his former opponents he’s fought through the California Fight Syndicate. There may be a chance now they could be one of the drunks that yell at the tv or from the stands. My advice to them is to keep trying to punch their tongues through a fart hole and to stay the hell away from John Hackleman Jr.
This 28 year old middleweight massacre stands at 6’3” and weighs in at 185 lbs. Most challengers stand a better chance of survival playing roulette rather than entering in the cage with Johnny. He has been training in kickboxing since he was wearing diapers and for the past decade he’s been duking it out with the best amateur boxers in California. All day and all night and all throughout his training he thinks about disfiguring his opponent. Even when he is at his second job as a bartender at McCarthy’s, he’s training, plotting, thinking about how expensive his next opponent’s hospital bill will be or if they’ll have to call in the coroner to clean up the mess.
His relentless training also requires a strict diet. He eats small portions of what some might consider cardboard and despite being surrounded by Jameson, he doesn’t give into temptation. There is no booze for this bruiser. His dedication and drive to win are his only motivations. There’s plenty of time for debauchery later in life. He would rather get a high from making his opponents pay. They better watch out because as he puts it, “no one is safe.” If an opponent does enter his “home,” the cage, they have earned his respect, but they will not stop him from going after what he loves most-the KNOCKOUT. He says, “there’s nothing like the feeling of winning a fight by knocking someone out…I want that feeling every time I fight.”
Opponents may try and find a way to beat him, perhaps by inciting a fear. This unfortunately will never work. His only fear is not giving it his all. Besides that, there’s no chance of winning. Ask his former opponents he’s fought through the California Fight Syndicate. There may be a chance now they could be one of the drunks that yell at the tv or from the stands. My advice to them is to keep trying to punch their tongues through a fart hole and to stay the hell away from John Hackleman Jr.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Unforgettable Memories of a Dead Bastard
Coming into this angelic world,
I always thought of you as my father,
You never were.
I remember too much of you,
I remember too much agony and abuse,
I remember watching,
Watching as my mother got slammed against the door,
Watching as her eyes turned black,
Watching as the tears poured out of her innocent heart,
Always helplessly watching.
I remember your fist,
I remember your strength,
I remember your fury,
I remember too much.
I remember the other women,
With hairy twats and curly hair and naked skin,
I remember them all,
I remember too much.
I remember how you left,
Jobless and grim,
I remember you left us with nothing,
Without a care.
Then you were gone,
Off in the desert,
Set about to shatter more dreams and more lives,
With different families and hopeless children.
We carried on.
We rarely saw you,
Why did we ever see you at all?
The years went on…
The last I heard you were dancing
In a sun filled church,
With your preacher, your brother,
Praying at your side.
Thought you found the good Lord,
But it was Death that found you,
And as you were lying in a gutter,
With your head smashed in,
On a beautiful fourth of July morning,
The driver left
Just as you did,
But I shed no tears for you,
I just tried to bury all of those unforgettable memories
from a dead bastard.
I always thought of you as my father,
You never were.
I remember too much of you,
I remember too much agony and abuse,
I remember watching,
Watching as my mother got slammed against the door,
Watching as her eyes turned black,
Watching as the tears poured out of her innocent heart,
Always helplessly watching.
I remember your fist,
I remember your strength,
I remember your fury,
I remember too much.
I remember the other women,
With hairy twats and curly hair and naked skin,
I remember them all,
I remember too much.
I remember how you left,
Jobless and grim,
I remember you left us with nothing,
Without a care.
Then you were gone,
Off in the desert,
Set about to shatter more dreams and more lives,
With different families and hopeless children.
We carried on.
We rarely saw you,
Why did we ever see you at all?
The years went on…
The last I heard you were dancing
In a sun filled church,
With your preacher, your brother,
Praying at your side.
Thought you found the good Lord,
But it was Death that found you,
And as you were lying in a gutter,
With your head smashed in,
On a beautiful fourth of July morning,
The driver left
Just as you did,
But I shed no tears for you,
I just tried to bury all of those unforgettable memories
from a dead bastard.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
For Eric
My Road
On the road
Watching the ravens
Circle above,
Watching the clouds
Block out the sun,
Watching them
Shed tears of parachutes,
Watching,
Watching,
Watching the dead laugh
In their graves
As our lives pass us by,
As quiet as
Shadows.
It’s a fucking freak accident,
How did I end up on this road?
With these strangers
These Green
Bright and shinning souls.
It all seems like a dream,
But it’s
Not,
It’s my reality,
My world,
My road.
There are many,
Many ugly roads
I could have traveled up.
There are many,
Many cursed roads
I could have traveled down:
A weakling on junkie ave.
A prisoner on death row,
A bum on skid row.
I could have,
I could have,
But I did not.
I am here
A walking, drinking, shit talking, breathing, fucking
Hard on
Driving in a sea of air,
Right beside
Joy and pain,
Happiness and sorrow,
On my way
On my road.
On the road
Watching the ravens
Circle above,
Watching the clouds
Block out the sun,
Watching them
Shed tears of parachutes,
Watching,
Watching,
Watching the dead laugh
In their graves
As our lives pass us by,
As quiet as
Shadows.
It’s a fucking freak accident,
How did I end up on this road?
With these strangers
These Green
Bright and shinning souls.
It all seems like a dream,
But it’s
Not,
It’s my reality,
My world,
My road.
There are many,
Many ugly roads
I could have traveled up.
There are many,
Many cursed roads
I could have traveled down:
A weakling on junkie ave.
A prisoner on death row,
A bum on skid row.
I could have,
I could have,
But I did not.
I am here
A walking, drinking, shit talking, breathing, fucking
Hard on
Driving in a sea of air,
Right beside
Joy and pain,
Happiness and sorrow,
On my way
On my road.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Nada Rasta Local Music Review
Lately the parties in SLO have been buttock-clenchingly piss poor. There’s always an abundance of sausage and only one pair of tits in sight. If the party is somewhat decent, then SLO’s finest shows up to pay a visit. They handout ridiculous fines, crack skulls, and throw turds in the jungle juice bowl. This cannot go on. All of this negative activity needs to cease immediately. What I think this town needs is: fast women, enough booze to fill the Carrizo Plain, and the reggae/ska/punk sounds banged out by Nada Rasta.
If you don’t know who Nada Rasta is, well, you need to get out more. They are SLO’s official party band. They know how to throw a rager and there always seems to be more than abundance of beautiful belles at each and every one of their shows, which is only a few of the many reasons why everyone should go see them in concert wherever and whenever they play.
The first thing you’ll notice when you do see them live is that there will be monstrous clouds of smoke dancing to the music and it will smell as if they have just cremated half of the population of skunks that reside on the Central Coast. Then, after you become intoxicated by that sweet smell, your jaw will drop right through your grave because of the high energy performance they put on. You’ll see guitarist Paul Hanna playing bluesy solos with his teeth and while getting beer poured down his throat. You’ll get hit in the face by keyboardist Nate Wallace’s long dreads as he’s doing the windmill all over the stage. You’ll be mesmerized by the funky bass playing of Reverend Rudy Bonefinger and the guitar playing and rapping of Chase Kossack. Then, your eyes will burst out of their sockets from watching the drumming of a born to be ska drummer Chris Boyd. You’ll at least still be able to dance and sing with lead vocalist Ruben Urtiz as he flies off the stage and into the crowd.
It’s no wonder why Nada Rasta have recently won 107.3’s battle of the bands. It’s no wonder why they have such a huge following in SLO County that is going to continue to mushroom across California. It’s no wonder why you may doubt my opinion, but that will all change once you go see them live at one or two or all of the many shows they’ll be playing this summer. When you do make sure and do yourself a favor and lose all of your self control and inhibitions. Also, be sure to hit up Rudy for some brownies after the show, he’ll slip you one on the down low!
Concert info available @ www.myspace.com/nadarasta
If you don’t know who Nada Rasta is, well, you need to get out more. They are SLO’s official party band. They know how to throw a rager and there always seems to be more than abundance of beautiful belles at each and every one of their shows, which is only a few of the many reasons why everyone should go see them in concert wherever and whenever they play.
The first thing you’ll notice when you do see them live is that there will be monstrous clouds of smoke dancing to the music and it will smell as if they have just cremated half of the population of skunks that reside on the Central Coast. Then, after you become intoxicated by that sweet smell, your jaw will drop right through your grave because of the high energy performance they put on. You’ll see guitarist Paul Hanna playing bluesy solos with his teeth and while getting beer poured down his throat. You’ll get hit in the face by keyboardist Nate Wallace’s long dreads as he’s doing the windmill all over the stage. You’ll be mesmerized by the funky bass playing of Reverend Rudy Bonefinger and the guitar playing and rapping of Chase Kossack. Then, your eyes will burst out of their sockets from watching the drumming of a born to be ska drummer Chris Boyd. You’ll at least still be able to dance and sing with lead vocalist Ruben Urtiz as he flies off the stage and into the crowd.
It’s no wonder why Nada Rasta have recently won 107.3’s battle of the bands. It’s no wonder why they have such a huge following in SLO County that is going to continue to mushroom across California. It’s no wonder why you may doubt my opinion, but that will all change once you go see them live at one or two or all of the many shows they’ll be playing this summer. When you do make sure and do yourself a favor and lose all of your self control and inhibitions. Also, be sure to hit up Rudy for some brownies after the show, he’ll slip you one on the down low!
Concert info available @ www.myspace.com/nadarasta
Thursday, June 3, 2010
My Epic Ablum Review
My Epic Yet
I’m obsessed with heavy, heavy music that shatters the stained glass windows of the most beloved churches and smashes the most sacred of crucifixes into dust with accompanying lyrics about dead family members rising from their graves and hunting down your new born babies to decapitate their teeny heads and rape their tender necks with maggot stuffed cocks. However, these aren’t the limits of my musical tastes. I do equally enjoy a broad spectrum of musical genres including soul, hip hop, jazz, blues, country, and experimental indie rock, which is what My Epic plays.
Hailing from Charlotte, NC, My Epic is made up of guitarist/singer Aaron Stone, drummer Jesse Stone, and bassist Jeremiah Austin. They all are influenced in life and musically by God and His strange and incomprehensible ways. His holiness radiates on each and every album they have ever put out. No, they aren’t as big as the official turd burglars of Jesus, Creed. They are heavier and deserve way more credit. And with just one listen to their new album Yet, you can hear why. Produced by Matt Goldman (Underoath, As Cities Burn), Yet is a raw and stripped down record with a bit of groove and a little bit of somber thrown in the mix. If I were to compare them to anyone it would probably be Thrice, but that doesn’t explain them entirely. It doesn’t give them justice. They have their own unique sound.
Yet’s opener “Author” starts off with a cacophony of feedback that leads into a piano driven track with screams to enhance the emotions of the overall song. Aaron’s voice can come off as whiny, but at the same time there’s a soothing comfort to it. Most of the album is calm and melodic. It reminds me of something you might hear playing in the background of your local youth church group. On the other hand, there are also heavier guitar elements laced throughout the album such as in the tracks “Lower Still,” “Ashes,” and at the end of “Sound and Fury.” My favorite track “Pour,” also has a slow and heavy breakdown that brings on one of the only instrumentals of the album.
The lyrics standout in Yet. They are what My Epic fans appreciate and love about them. Their words are insightful, hopeful, and memorable. For example, there’s a lyric at the beginning of the closing track “Perfector,” that sheds a new light into the dark thoughts that we all have of death. Aaron sings “Death is just a hook behind a door where I’ll leave my dirty clothes.” Yes, his lyrics are truly enlightening to say the least.
Yet might never be found in a metal maniacs album collection, but that doesn’t mean it should be ignored. My Epic has an appeal to them that can cross many musical borders. They may even inspire some metal maniacs to take a break from the slaughter they put their ears through on a daily basis. Those who listen might just be swept off to heaven, instead of their daily hell, with the serene and beautiful melodies My Epic has released to all of God’s children.
I’m obsessed with heavy, heavy music that shatters the stained glass windows of the most beloved churches and smashes the most sacred of crucifixes into dust with accompanying lyrics about dead family members rising from their graves and hunting down your new born babies to decapitate their teeny heads and rape their tender necks with maggot stuffed cocks. However, these aren’t the limits of my musical tastes. I do equally enjoy a broad spectrum of musical genres including soul, hip hop, jazz, blues, country, and experimental indie rock, which is what My Epic plays.
Hailing from Charlotte, NC, My Epic is made up of guitarist/singer Aaron Stone, drummer Jesse Stone, and bassist Jeremiah Austin. They all are influenced in life and musically by God and His strange and incomprehensible ways. His holiness radiates on each and every album they have ever put out. No, they aren’t as big as the official turd burglars of Jesus, Creed. They are heavier and deserve way more credit. And with just one listen to their new album Yet, you can hear why. Produced by Matt Goldman (Underoath, As Cities Burn), Yet is a raw and stripped down record with a bit of groove and a little bit of somber thrown in the mix. If I were to compare them to anyone it would probably be Thrice, but that doesn’t explain them entirely. It doesn’t give them justice. They have their own unique sound.
Yet’s opener “Author” starts off with a cacophony of feedback that leads into a piano driven track with screams to enhance the emotions of the overall song. Aaron’s voice can come off as whiny, but at the same time there’s a soothing comfort to it. Most of the album is calm and melodic. It reminds me of something you might hear playing in the background of your local youth church group. On the other hand, there are also heavier guitar elements laced throughout the album such as in the tracks “Lower Still,” “Ashes,” and at the end of “Sound and Fury.” My favorite track “Pour,” also has a slow and heavy breakdown that brings on one of the only instrumentals of the album.
The lyrics standout in Yet. They are what My Epic fans appreciate and love about them. Their words are insightful, hopeful, and memorable. For example, there’s a lyric at the beginning of the closing track “Perfector,” that sheds a new light into the dark thoughts that we all have of death. Aaron sings “Death is just a hook behind a door where I’ll leave my dirty clothes.” Yes, his lyrics are truly enlightening to say the least.
Yet might never be found in a metal maniacs album collection, but that doesn’t mean it should be ignored. My Epic has an appeal to them that can cross many musical borders. They may even inspire some metal maniacs to take a break from the slaughter they put their ears through on a daily basis. Those who listen might just be swept off to heaven, instead of their daily hell, with the serene and beautiful melodies My Epic has released to all of God’s children.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
And Hell Followed With interview
This is an interview I conducted with murder city's own deathcore heroes And Hell Followed With, well, actually with one of their guitar players, Kyle McIlmurray. Hope you enjoy...
RD: Introduce yourselves...
KM: We're And Hell Followed With.. Cunt yeah!
RD: Now tell us what makes AHFW stand out from other Deathcore bands around the globe?
KM: We like to think we bring a little of everything to the table.. Crushing heaviness, intricacy, and angelic melodies.
RD: Do you guys consider today's metal scene to be stagnant as of lately?
KM: Honestly todays scene is everything but stagnant. Seven kids out of ten are a part of the tough guy "mob" and usually have little care for anything but the bands they already listen to.
RD: What inspires AHFW to push the band into new and challenging directions with your music?
KM: Listening to stuff outside of metal.. Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi, miscellaneous jazz artists.. Any style of music that involves immense musical abilities.
RD: Tell us about the upcoming 28 Days LaTour...what can we expect from "the most pissed off band live"?
KM: Expect exactly what it says.. Straight piss and fucking vinegar.
RD: Heard you guys ran into a lady that ate her own lipstick and still kept talking to you guys as if nothing had happened...gotta any other favorite moments from the maniacs at your shows...any rim job offers from hermaphrodites?
KM: I think some of our favorites are the bums we meet at just about every venue.. Those are the best dudes to kick it with.. Kids.. Pay attention to your local homeless dude!
RD: What metal band (dead or alive) would you guys want to play at your funeral?
KM: SlipKnot.. Hands down.
RD: Any last words...
KM: Get ready! Get stoked! AHFW is coming to a venue near you!
Happiness Is Only Six Feet Away
How many times will I have to touch a cold body
and look at its lifeless grin?
How many more times must I see the ones I love
join the eternal bliss?
I feel trapped
in this nightmare,
reality,
so called life.
Escape,
escape,
I must break away.
The thought of life,
of death,
repels us all.
Our existence is a sickness
that cannot be cured.
We can only hope to subdue it,
with drugs,
with fantasies,
with faith.
It's only the dead that live in peace.
The funerals we attend
are to remorse the living,
the suffering,
the ones that bleed everyday
and never
die.
and look at its lifeless grin?
How many more times must I see the ones I love
join the eternal bliss?
I feel trapped
in this nightmare,
reality,
so called life.
Escape,
escape,
I must break away.
The thought of life,
of death,
repels us all.
Our existence is a sickness
that cannot be cured.
We can only hope to subdue it,
with drugs,
with fantasies,
with faith.
It's only the dead that live in peace.
The funerals we attend
are to remorse the living,
the suffering,
the ones that bleed everyday
and never
die.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Hallucination of a Phantom
The perfect day came
with all of its glory.
I bathed in its pleasant silence,
danced with its ghosts,
leered up at its dirt.
Over my body turned,
face down,
back to the illumination,
descending into the void.
Dragged by
rusty chains,
closer than skin,
down to life,
back to reality.
with all of its glory.
I bathed in its pleasant silence,
danced with its ghosts,
leered up at its dirt.
Over my body turned,
face down,
back to the illumination,
descending into the void.
Dragged by
rusty chains,
closer than skin,
down to life,
back to reality.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Review: Infinitum Obscure "Sub Artis Caelis"
Tijuana’s own, Infinitum Obscure, has finally released their aggressive, unrelenting sophomore album “Sub Atris Caelis” on DeathGasm Records. This album definitely sparks the inner burning chaotic flame within and it is in special thanks, not only to the band, but also to the production done by the legendary Bill Metoyer (early Slayer, Morbid Angel). And it shows, especially when it comes to the drums. On their previous outing, the production was lacking. This cannot be said this time around.
The album starts off as if you were watching the mouth of a never ending night swallow all of humanity. Then, the “Death Metal Darkness” unfolds bleak and haunting solos, riffs, and tempo changes that are perfect for the soundtrack of the end of all times. “Seeding Darkness,” the opening track, wounds your mortal soul and Roberto Lizarraga’s vocals, reminiscent of a Mexican Chuck Schuldine’s, punishes what remains of your hearing. “Towards the Eternal Dark,” the next track, shines on the drums and the double bass sounds as if there is no stopping this ever closing mouth from swallowing the rest of your family and friends.
The album ends on a dismal, yet serene note, like it’s the last breath of a dying and forgotten God. It will give you the chills or an erection, especially if you are a fan of nihilism or the bands Death and Dissection. This is old school Death Metal at its finest. Worship and obey Infinitum Obscure.
The album starts off as if you were watching the mouth of a never ending night swallow all of humanity. Then, the “Death Metal Darkness” unfolds bleak and haunting solos, riffs, and tempo changes that are perfect for the soundtrack of the end of all times. “Seeding Darkness,” the opening track, wounds your mortal soul and Roberto Lizarraga’s vocals, reminiscent of a Mexican Chuck Schuldine’s, punishes what remains of your hearing. “Towards the Eternal Dark,” the next track, shines on the drums and the double bass sounds as if there is no stopping this ever closing mouth from swallowing the rest of your family and friends.
The album ends on a dismal, yet serene note, like it’s the last breath of a dying and forgotten God. It will give you the chills or an erection, especially if you are a fan of nihilism or the bands Death and Dissection. This is old school Death Metal at its finest. Worship and obey Infinitum Obscure.
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