Monday, July 16, 2012

Asphyx - Death...the Brutal Way

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This is one of those albums that I cannot help but feel that people gush over merely because it's the "in" thing to do. First off, there is absolutely nothing "old school" about the production on this album which makes it sound even more fucking lame. The shitty and ultra boring "musicianship" on this album could only have benefited from a more raw and unpolished sound. Instead, they took an abominable piece of shit and drenched it in laminate.

Asphyx were never a "force to be reckoned with" in the tight musicianship department but they certainly had an aura about them. A dark and particularly gloomy aura at that. This worthless piece of shit now calling itself Asphyx is just a pathetic gathering of out of touch, middle aged chumpenstiens who were better off when they called it quits. That's the biggest problem with all of these bands getting back together 10 - 20 years down the line... most of them don't have a fucking clue as to what made them great to begin with. Somewhere along the line they begin to lose touch with that very important and seemingly elusive element. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I do know that at some point glory fades. Unfortunately Asphyx is unaware of that fact and of course along with them are a bunch of clueless idiots egging them on when they should be urging them to stop. Then again, it's not like Asphyx has this flawless legacy to uphold either. Even the more, "essential" albums in their back catalog aren't exactly masterworks. But this... this just all out sucks cock, and of course, once again, I find myself in the minority here. When will people learn?

The sad thing is that at one point in time, Martin Van Chicken Drumstick was my favorite vocalist and to this day I hold high his performance on 'Consuming Impulse', but long ago the power left his voice and all that remains is a shrill and annoying squabble that is gratuitously smothered over each and every lame-broiled riff complete with Bob Bagchus now tell tale fag style, limp wristed attempts at creating a beat. I hold some semblance of hope that when the human race eventually staggers onto the next level of evolution, they will look back at their ancestors mindless enthusiasm for garbage such as this with complete and utter disdain.

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