Armchair Martian convey a sorrow, a loneliness, and a human warmth that’s made country affect a larger number of Americans than any other genre, hands down.
Few others can wallow in worm-infested dirt, offer somber hymns to the moon-drenched night, and chainsaw trees with such teeth, and also implement breakbeats.
With “electronica” emitting its final thrusts like an epileptic’s death throes, it’s time to admit they had the stupidest nicknames since black metal and Goth.
A pretty good new metal band with plenty of Korn, Sepultura, and just enough Goth metal extravagance/weirdness to attract tattooed and overly-pierced “freaks.”
Produced by Machine, this is foul-smelling, ground-in-dirt anger at a chaotic and fucked-up world, tearing at everything in an attempt at purification.
Plodding nobly through doomy landscapes, evoking Trouble more than black metal or sludge. Broad strokes of guitar, with the mighty voice of Robert Lowe.