When a band touts itself as the thinking man’s metal, it leaves more to question than it intends to tackle. Normally, such a case is an effort at best aimed at denouncing if not deriding metal clichés, and only a marketing thoughtful group would really care as much about it. Reason being—a thinking man’s metal is less concerned with typifying  as opposed to to being one and letting whoever comes across it decide. At any scale, that should be Singularity. Compacting Singularity. By Void Walker, its progressiveness is the first pointer to this direction.

  Damning as it is, space euphoria has superseded short impulsive lapses indulging myriad bands’ sleeve art only and captured this four piece—by a sleight-fully, timely, infinite grip. When all the right sounds align, they gravitate towards an up-swelling whole which takes pole position—and eargasm revolves such a perfect assemblage. Album art never escapes the Mad Mane Machine’s exploration, because it is more than just a bonus. Here, it might as well surpass sound simulation. Really neat, surreal inception of far shores—conceiving a Saul Bass angularity and Jon Anderson’s impact. Imposing to preformed ideas of outside space as it would best precede explorations—as sincerely speaking, most of high distance spatial images are reconstructions with a touch of informed predicaments. On such worlds, Void Walker would fare effortlessly—be it in their creations, laying down, conquistadatoring, exploration, sojourning. . . .

  Musically pummeling on the unbound fringes of technical progressive Death Metal, it incorporates classically played keyboards in a style channeling a Black Metal atmosphere. Not exactly a recipe/symphony for destruction, given the measured approach in their embodiment and an affirmative setting—it falls in place as the build-up for the guitars and a support element once the riffs scaffold the song. Rightly mixed where others are content to prefer keys overshadowing accompanying musical sections. That is not to say it is a fully inclusive aspect, as it only keeps segmented in track 01, an instrumental break—the rest being minimal. Keeping an intact soundtrack aura . . . for the space opera. This was one of the rare times when I didn’t fully appreciate a band’s vocals—not a full flung growl, as a deeper one would be sleek—even though the backing’s compensate. They do betray the band’s age, but likely a fault not.

  Void Walker is a rightful contender to quality beats quantity, even for an EP. Such is what I would really care about tech death. A mass of disorienting superbness over unseemly and non eloquent jarring with palpitating seeds—whose only promise is to blossom, never to heed anywhere. Fantastic work.




Rap 4 heads—an ambiguous though somehow fitting description. Even as the phrase would better describe  a release like Heavy Metal Kings, this is neither bad for the same.

Mr. Morbid and Melph have struck the Rap structure with a magic wand such that whatever twinkles off is brilliance and lusciousness. For the benefit of heinous views coupled with respect for decadence—the heads administered to ought giving a closer look to the cynicisms chipping off loose like fiery splinters from heavily welded metal. this is not Horrorcore or sensitive emo bullshit in its self immersed efforts to spite and dispute the self. rather, it is a cry echoed in the cover—what they wish of their identities is the portrait the musical canvas displays—demons throbbing with pulses of unhinged feelings.

Melph appears to be the producer lending flaps to Mr. Morbid’s laid back —often sleek—flow; around a few spits by Mr. Morbid. This EP works so well it could be listened from any track as the first that mere putting down becomes an irresistible matter of choice. Fucking perfect length. E.N.D. dwells on an electric guitar that’s something leering into what an alternative Metal band may have to offer—not that it’s bad, for its somewhat tasty effort.

Unreleased Demons found an outlet upon the intersection of a duct that clicks—if not falling in place like jigsaw. Do not hesitate upon this—or fuck, it’s rap 4 heads.



  Any serious music listener will tell you they are not always seeking replication. Not especially where they are in the slightest aware what they are after—or looking for in a new and/or different stuff—sounds like. In that regard, Post-Punk is neither a different story. Once one gets a slight indication of what shit presents itself to be, it is better to stick to the best purveyor of the sound in question. Times are few when duplicates conquer their masters.
  Once the Garage squiggles of [Demo] jar in as the first track spans out, My Dark House storm with affection yet the vocals are very reminiscent of Ian Curtis and as becomes expectantto a scale of six—, the undercurrent of the music is precise Post-Punk bass drum verity. The other off leash is downtuned Shoegaze—almost to black doom levels, propagating the Nu-Gaze—on the third track that gives it a heavy vibe to a gravitating effect. As soft as the vocals could be, a bleeding palette on immense in boire carous to outpour tweeny emotions. Smudged a little, then smoothly flowing.
  The promise here is that once the actual band’s sound is grasped effectively, then divulged through a much distorted lens, it wont provide a staler. Actualizations of Joy Division with less syntactic appreciation may eventually pay off. Worthwhile an effort, like the bassists unrelenting pulse.



  Firing up in a shimmering way. On pointers with dishevling relationships with radiation bursts. Anticipate a wake of reanimations and impending consternation as the blasted astronauts regain unlife. All those years of inertia that have molten any memory of flesh are gone now as a plague unanticipated enlists itself.
  Unlife refines itself with consequential drums pockmarking the synth loops. Stellar outstretch soundtracks to a dreadful reprise. Gear shifting melody with tosses of Synthwave. So what makes this punk?—if not recalcitrations of electro- and synth-wave polyphonics in a much balanced but out there way. Dangling aside Synthwave‘s super cine feel. Apart from Fuzgati‘s electropunk, it’s the exact opposite of what Fuzgati does, yet the the name might suggest otherwise. Or what the latter should be emulating.
  Those drum hits. That is what its moments are, amid electro key touches as the EP clashes with closure time. Certainly indecipherable culminations; ponderings that lurk opportunistically among the tints of dystopia. A kind of watch-the-space-explode anticipations and ruminations. Blipping out from the upsurging space sargassso. Communication frozen. Dashing Horrorwave.



No extra space is needed to jut in the spirited aural vehemence of quasi-static tensions that have been energized enough to echo across the landscape of the auditory.

Arise droning and dragging feedback worship and propulsion by the sons of the Muse. Give drums or pounding, smouldering discretion but don’t forgive when rasping out grunge chunks at screeching levels.

Tribal occupations are a strike-out of hunga munga affair. A knifethrowing diversion would appreciate drums of such palpitating throbs around an arena amid long-drawn rhythms which are nothing close to distracting them.

When the blood blooms from slipped hits on the target and blooms, let the tribute begin with dirgy vocalizations to a waning sunset. Into a night of tribal fires and more chants backed with hand sticks.



Brutal Death Metal. Random in-genre sifting—the exciting part that at most/best leads to the ush; relentless self-indulgence in gore, guts—and goo, automatically making outliers a less disappointing consideration: Such as Myconith

Biological Science Fiction. This is a first encounter from a Death Metal band purveying such; and a Brutal Death Metal one just alienates itself off to the less served branch of sci-fi. AGAINST THE GRAIN GAIN IN-STATE ARGH!

What makes this interesting is bands associating themselves with physical sci-fi tend to obsess over weird OUTER WORLDS RULED TO ROWS effects. Myconith is neither from that school, nor does it’s take on Brutal Death Metal for now incorporate for such. Either from speculation, disregard, or something is in the offing.

Murky from the out-pour with groovy vents. This is what the murkiness provides—rummaging through the thickest mire of greenery and pulsating with with bog-like entrapments one can’t help plodding even faster. Realistically it’s the groove that holds it together. Heard in song one as it preps for closure—before the short but tasty solos in the second song. Beyond that is death metal fare and sounds—live scene from the inter-planetary onslaughts as life forms intermingle with with spores. some DM bands blast, while others groove; keeping the two drawing lines on forms of brutality—when not dispensing both.

The drummer is more likely on a pace after the axe-man. Audibly visible all over Shroomshire. Enviroglutton is the better of the lot with upfront riffing. The leads have a penchant for Entombed-core with the kind of tone used. Although quite formulaic in display of chops in moshing sections. This does not render it any less headbangable. The only question left is why let those tasty licks trail off like smears when they add substance to the heaviness that is dragged through grime and countless swarms of Myconid species off the fourth dimension—in an effort to sporify the listener’s oblongata.

It has its serving of slam, the songs are short, but nothing short of melodic sectionscheck title track—and heavy breakdowns; sometimes ending or surrounded by unpaced melodic riffs. Murky production keeps things enjoyably lurking in grime. This is the alpha of a concept band unfurling the events surrounding Deimos 9, a star-port system on the edge of the galaxy.