It’s a big universe. Of its various parallels, here are two. One harbours Vektor; the other needs an introduction—teeming with eminence, whose extrusion is a curve inclination yet to go up or down. With Vexovoid at its forefront, it at least has a few light years catered for. Easy as pointing out Vex inhabits Vek’s shadowland, Vex’s future might not be so. Only certainty is it’ll be compelling. Mini-portals may be allowing Hawking-like leakages enriching the parallel Vexo-region—until they run at par. Talk of (negatively) charging the void.


Where straight Thrash is razor-sharp rage enforcement, this sounds—as with various Prog/Tech Thrash outfits—like the equivalent of the lathery oil, in all its viscous heating, that engulfs the forementioned outpour, to disinfect the riffs before a more surgical arrangement. An arraignment as close to skyforging as starforging is, since either smithing defines the other. And more to the Vex universe, it being a sonically expanding one, the heavy stuff is yet to pummel ears, as each of its Helios gets charted.

There comes a time when the Vexovoid and Vektor parallels will meet, mini-portals merging unit by unit, creating a fleeting loop into both worlds and Vexovoid will give Vektor a run for their spatial martials. Or could it be more of a bane to them if they resemble Vektor too much, Vektor will finally land into Vektor’s shadowland, and wonder how they exist twice at once? Time won’t tell. Space might.

Rather than pass along as a clone band, there are enough excursions to stake the claim on being good at that—a bassist relentlessly flailing closely, with a helping of his curvature while handling the vocals; and easy to follow drumming. It is Portal who would be grateful for a tasteful application of their name. Better a good duplicate than a bad one. Better an interesting (not a by-the-book) copy than a good one.

Not stately, although it’s a solid debut—after they came across writings Vektor was at a loss to use or discard, but they decided to have a look before dismiss them all together. That, or their subconscious rearing its future-wagging tail from a still to be distant past, all memories of Vektor retained.



As much as quotes have become relegated to people who couldn’t be better than adage regurgitators by a mantra’s length; it is Einstein’s (massively paraphrased)—imagination floors knowledge on any given day—that charges my view of Draco Hypnalis’s album. Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to figure how the above mindless perpetrators fare in regard to this aphorism. With the right means of expression, the saying stands, true and solid, as a case in point, Neuromancer—inspired more by thoughtful prediction than thorough tech know-how (and yes, I haven’t read the book).

The furthest of the Metal spectrum shines with touches of uncommonality—album title applying from start to stop, with implication that annuls most of Progressive Death Metal. Not to pass it as riddled with similars, but it sure does emphasiize a lot on forefront guitar work. Draco differs by application of baance, and magnificent Neo-Classical keyboard prominence. Even with its tendencies to lean on Black Metal repository, the keys have perspective—no musical overshadowing (many symphonic bands? check), or unnecessary passages (unmemorable intros/pastludes etc. ? check). Neither should it proceed without a need for expansion. Accruing from a pleasure of leisure, listening and its reward. The intricate and captivating melodies are unmatched.

Being yet to come across cohesive Neo-Classical that sucks, some is much easily ingrained—less implying Drang is an effortless project—while Draco refines with re-runs that clock on the multiple.The Sincere Wander Through Illusion Untouched is a slight shimmering of non complacency resonating with the now defunct Abyssaria, seamlessly running down to track 04—Yet They Come and Leave No Distress—where a touch of Demonic Resurrection kicks in with a pressing prominence. Each instrument biding its time by ultimate prejudice to distinct melodic association; a strange symphony on first play but a sure aeddictive and moreso inspiring grower. Times are when the haunting tunes convey the need for a singer, espousing a what if? picture of someone like Rhapsody of Fire‘s Giacomo just breathing golden. Imagination‘s beauty is that it still works well with mostly non-vox parts though the growls could have been more. And when was the last time a band’s track titles said much than others’ lyrical expanse?

An almost ultra-progressive record that wastes no time in either showmanship and indulgence or catering for low common denominator urges. Symphony in E – Minor—and most of the tracks’ parts—pours its soft, lush templates to what is currently played as Djent, gleaming into Sithu Aye from a likely to be overlooked distance. Key fluctuations at times work conveniently conspicuously like drama, forget not hard to ignore blast beats.



For Draco Hypnalis, assemblage would be a replicate for knowledge. Classical training with nought diversion or musical practicality procreates redundant technicality. Progressive Death Metal does ofgfer an ensnaring opportunity to promulgate such. Draco magically straddles two fields providing a chance to be musically elitist, with total disregard. Much respect to the trio for rising above such triviality (and neither compromising), as the less imaginative would be wont to do. Fucking bliss.


The warm radiance that is Illuminance shines its blissful intersection in a transmogrifying brilliant resplendence. From the way the Mad Mane Machine has been seeing technically inclined Death Metal bands lean towards glowing/bizarrely gleaming covers has been off-puttingit really recalls every quasi-Djent/Deathcore aims at being super proggy and/or transcendent or something in that line. As a downside, Illuminance jumbled with such releases, barely labeled as progressive stands a huge disadvantage of being overlooked.

An instance of unrepentant dissociation—by indiscriminately indulging overflowing, yet insane progressive Death Metal is what I’d term Illuminance. Solid songwriting, awe-striking musicianship, discipline in instrument handling—or a failure to let dexterity drive urgent points home. Outlasting an experience as this makes Virvum‘s efforts more effective and the album something to really dig into—without demanding one to  wrap around its contents. Which really is a shame, as one tries figuring out why—though not present here—a bassist as Nikola Somborski would go ahead to form a band as mediocre as Cordyceps. Fitting of every Slam stereotype, and then some . . . fun? Saddening.

Asserting to say the high stature that is maintained here, right off the bat, down to the epic closure. Sonically suggestive to create (non queer) uplifting an atmosphere—one that could be enhanced to stimulate creative activities that stretch imagination; painting et. al. The mighty The Cypher Supreme has incredibly catchy leads which floors by clicks of considerable beauty. Even from first listen, it is a stand out that out-listening such craft’s nary a point of regard. A jutting that foretells Virvum are not heady for an all-drawn-out orientation to the jugular. An album I’d vouch fro as a solid progressive Death Metal representative—heck, a testament to why progressive DM is better than technical DM, and more-so on instrumentally articulate progressive DM. Not to state that non technical Progressive DM is a paler strain, but it’s less amusing trying to come around intense song assemblies competing with hooking tech death full of riffs not as impressive as on previous listen.

The tantalizing excellence conveyed is a constant, peaking with II: A Final Warming Shine: Ascension and Trespassing. Matter-of-factly the most appealing track appears to be the first—also containing one of some of the heaviest parts of the album, right at the track’s end. Another heavy traction aids purge the title to iron melting magnitude. Drummer Diego Morenzoni is on a rhythmic urge to complete the snare catastrophe with a gushing speed. Nothing haphazardly spasmodic like Brain Drill, who demand intense follow-up to discern—even recall—their sound structure. This is an almost faultless release and it’s sudden impressiveness on first listen fails to fade away. Aiming for that is only a formula to cater for an ADD audience. I’m willing to believe Virvum are above such—for clarity, it is not only hooks that make music something to recall, with neither of that here—although this album could sit on a couple shelves, gateway progressive DM being one. Which is completely assailed as a compliment.


So it longs for, speaks like, hearkens and tirades as the Rap past gone? Definitely worth a check up?—tough call. With all its easy-going attitude and exuberant furnace of proficiency, Cruel Therapy is neither an ultimately good nor bad Hip Hop release.

For anyone aesthetically reeling for the actual Hip Hop sound at around its peak, it’s a very good listen. Right to that part. To consider the current date—the years passed between that age and now, it might border on passable beyond its beats.

  Cruel Therapy may have the ensnaring boom-bap on full display but lyrics-wise the Mad Mane Machine is bonkers for boundary pushers. Much worse music has similar content. Additionally is a willingness to give albums with outgoing covers a chance; over anything else—and now here things are, on Cruel Therapy‘s. Paying dues at times is not enough. Half sarcastic and half entertaining are skits involving fan interaction. Excellence to you. As a collective, more energy was concentrated and channeled into Fool on the Hill—managing to jab a the contemporary society, though I still remain apolitical.—Less impressive is an urge to be trendsetting (WTF!) with (skittish is the word) red carpet acclamation; based on what the album offers. Even retaining my partiality to the upliftingness portrayed in U.R.G. To an adult it comes off an embarrassing self assurance anthem, less to a younger listener.

Such an expressive sail down, and the beats are attended to as clean-cutly as could be. The brash roughness found on Rotten Apples  strikes out the most on the album, especially after oftenly coming across corny ass choruses that denature a track by being forcefully pastiched ito A FUCKING RAP SONG! Only glad my time was not wasted.


  Not long ago, the Scrawler featured a revivalist band, which is a case covered on the previous post. Horror Vacui assert so for the Post-Punk lay of the music ‘scape—and competently. When HK8 starts disheveling with their Electonic miscreations, it comes off as ambience tinged efforts to less perplex an all-out Noise seeker. So much for an ironic title. The droning wars par!

Horror Vacui


  In a way, there is no longer a need for the Doctor to explain time warping by the chalk-board—time travel has relieved itself to less mass confusion. No more obfuscation for the sake. Much better, if one wakes up to a Hip Hop time capsule. When the Mad Mane Machine was not being around when some of the greats Classic resolves to sampling were dropping these releases, what wasn’t on Back To The Past was an awareness of its existence.
  More of a mixtape and a fun release, Back To The Past 2 pays homage to some of the older MCs the rapper admits to have—still studying it occurs—studied; the old school. Any definite way than a Delorean rapture? As wont are up-comers to spray and flex their verbals on staid releases’ instrus—whichever side of the rap day they lay—the traction gained and/or attracted determines how much of a spitter was in the offing.
  On an otherwise revelational lay-out, the line of sci-fi is drawn strictly on a reference to a thriving genre hey day. Featuring instrumentals—albeit a usual bangers case—overdubbed with rhymes that cover, among others: them bitches, how 100, the grind, other rappers. Well, it might as well be when a slew of cues and patterns run from Kendrick Lamar, Busta Rhymes, to Ghostface Killah. Much-a-very.
  Teflon Da Don features twice—the only guest—and does his best Busta on first appearance. How about a caution? That sci-fi sells—second if not better than oversexulization—and everybody’s buying. Optimus Rhyme went for the same jugular massively. The closest Chris Webby descended to genre-ling were game references. For this release, it works just fine. Stopping at that is a let-down to anybody else leaping in with sci-fi expectations. So much it ruined Future Rhythm for the Mad Mane Machine. Ah, shit—then where is sci-fi rap! Holding his own but fuck—not enough justice. Goddamn.


  The life of black and white. It is such a gloomy and grainy leaning for dedicated doomsters and far end black metallers. Misanthropy neither is colourful but its charm in Doom‘s diatribes is indescribable with a completist drift; more-so its adverse effect on mood, disposition, and spirits. Of importance is inclination to willingly allow its encompassment. Totally.
  Funeral Doom relies on entirely crushing and subjugating the partakers in its playing and consumption. Emotional deterioration. On my part—since discovering DBM and Doom, satiation has strained over the pale horizon. Lament Christ‘s demo forays into this exact expanse, with its meanderings and moments of delivery. Clocking away as a procession, with what can be termed as field samples—harnessed space and nocturnal life forms.

  A lot on its gushing sorrowIn Ventus Est Dolor…—heavily relies on Black Metal. Times are plenty when the guitars meticulously drear from BM to Doom with a visible and soul-searing temperament—streaks of dark melancholy are hewn from the BM riffs abruptly, and equally for the inverse. Melody multiplies with its unfolding; and once The Cry of the Loon…—really an expanse—trails off, BM guitars emanate, usurping but their effect is nary close to limited. Sometimes trading or sharing sections with the slower Doom.
  This rendition of Funeral Doom as effective as its approach is, is mournfully unreplicated—even though its countenance and amplitude seems to have prostrated Locus Horrendus – The Night Cries of a Sullen Soul… tremendously. The tortured growls—the proficiently purveyed that make (Funeral) Doom a force to reckon with, terms with extending sorrow—lay to waste any sense of forgoing a dismayed existence; elevating the sense of hopelessness—amidst clean singing and humming. Screams relay an emotional peak and are eminently staged at moments of heightened playing and musical intensity. Locus Horrendus followed suit, as Desire accosted themselves to the whole array: spoken word—poignant growls of grief and piano sections with a sonata of sorts that provides the listener with context to be really pensive—outbursts of howls; only relegating the BM. Which is a few steps to being the albums distraction.
This is for contemplating sorrow and its accompanying misery at sundown, with the help of thunderpeal. It only gets depressing, with the channeling evocation that unfurls past the half mark—which matter-of-factly is unnoticable since the songs are lethargical across the seamlessness. This music is best aided by environment and outdoor surroundings for total impact. Is it summer? Take an evening away from civilization.