(TheMadIsraeli enthusiastically reviews the new album from Tasmania’s Psycroptic.)
Napalm explosions of technical-as-fuckity-fuck riffs everywhere. Death induced by intricate, fusion-fueled, machine-precise drum attacks. Soul-rending incantations in the vocals. And, like . . .
EVERY POSSIBLE FUCKING THING THAT CAN BE RIGHT ABOUT DEATH METAL.
Psycroptic are the shit. I think we all know this, but it’s SUCH a magnitude of the shit that sometimes . . . sometimes there’s a man . . . well, he’s the man for his time and place . . . and . . .
Ok, enough Big Lebowski quoting. Sometimes an album needs to be defined, because sometimes we’re just not ready for what comes at us through our speakers, headphones, tin cans attached with strings, whatever your preferred listening apparatus is, because Psycroptic will cause said apparatus to melt at scorching hot temperatures and then burn their music directly into your skull so that it infinitely repeats itself with no off-switch. The pain will be great, but it will also be purifying.
I’ve seen and heard some complaints about this band since the departure of vocalist Chalky and the introduction of current frontman Jason Peppiatt. Don’t like him? Time to get over it. I think he is bringing a much-needed, more-focused approach to vocals that matches Psycroptic’s surgically precise instrumental assault. He has a powerful voice, he sounds pissed — like he wants to kill — and that complements the killing music. Continue reading »