Listening to Ulcerate is the equivalent of those stories you hear of someone being anally excavated whilst in the midst of some incredibly drunken stupor. Once the fog begins to clear and before the realization fully sets in, there's that hazy moment of faint recollection that the victim hangs onto, telling themselves that perhaps this was all just a bad dream. That moment of hope that maybe they didn't just endure some sordid experience of monstrous homosexuality.
The only difference between this album and the last three is that you can tell the band are finally nearing the point of actually being able to write a song instead of cramming a bunch of non-sensical dissonant riffing together and calling it such. As a rule, non-psychedelic rhythmic meandering = pseudo-intellectual pretentiousness. Sure, they're getting close, but they're not quite there yet. I'm getting too old to have to listen to something 900 fucking times for it to begin to slightly gel together.
No comments:
Post a Comment