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.



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.


  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.


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.


Music—the mad Mane Machine’ll straightforwardly admit—comes in two outstanding varieties. The outright blow-you-away and the sink-some-teeth-first. As an effect the former has less staying power—applying to majority of Pop and bangers (funny thing considering the nostalgic aspect overshadows this some time down the life). The mad Mane Machine’s experience with Xeno is upon this line of distinction. Blown away at first listen . . . degradation with repeat absorption.

It’s always been on the hunt for progressive Death Metal. This had been birthed by a denotable bad habit of back-benching in class and prog/tech deathing by various means. Such lead to an encounter with Xerath, who at the time sounded off-kilter. To the admission of the Xeno guys, they do borrow a leaf from them. Expressively heard pumping and pulsating in the keyboard section, along a mixture of keyboards and grooves. As such, the mad Mane Machine’s view is based on first impression—but judgement is based on a much calmer treatise of the unfoldings aided by replay.

For a young band, it’s a weighty burden to quickly quip with their hats flung into the field of their emulations. Having some Djent permeations that instigate the Gojira-esque groove laden brushes upon the cavernous walls of Death Metal. Here is more of a passing than a missing link between Meshuggah and Gojira; with a keyboard component—the inner section offers no surprise when the listener lends their selves to this. With that said, it is more of a quick blend of the two with more an assimilating effect on the latter band—and the quicker the connection, the more charged its fix; sterilizing long-term stance. And if one started out similarly—endless prog death quests, the hunt will be on faster than they can say gesundheit.

None a diabolical act to say Atlas Construct is a burden that is straining to collapse on itself, for has not the album art professed it in all an earth-bound glory—the band’s choice. Hard to unsee and discord such an impression. The Mad Mane Machine would be more stoked for a second release and actually appreciate to have a definite stand reiterated. hath a quick fire be a sure fire—a hefty fix, or a diverting impression.



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.


  Dystopia is a ricocheting friend. Should be. Or refute and plug that head up the clouds. Nonetheless, it is a curve that continues to confront daily. On the keenest of days, nature unwraps humanity’s caution. Total prosperity does occur but not guaranteed. Though natural disruption is not a huge cause for worry—basic human instincts rouse the need for concern as privileges of power to the inwardly unstable are catastrophic.
  With the glimpse 9 offers on a such and interweaving situations, the human contend takes hold. Based on a warring period Germany, when they had superior technology, it is a contact upon animated alternate history. A transcendental scientist succeeds at making a mechanical brain with human-like capabilities—until military interference. Once seized, the mechanoid is inflected with world control and domination—a setting from which it is almost impossible detracting it from.
  World of havoc, war, metal, and discord—all organic life has been wiped off. It is built on a Steampunk, Futurepunk directory; this post apocalyptic world—with the old world still technologically upending—is a shot into an unyielding unfolding future with the punks following a devoid direction.
  Opening up to statutes in their perfect sculpt, The Mad Mane Machine retraces Wells’ the time traveler arising to the same in a distant future. Much with its Star Trek allusions as Seven of Nine gets a centre-stage presence—saving a sinking ship. Another moment of Wellsian descent yields itself in the hall of retrieval and archiving, from the time traveler’s escapades. Dusty, decrepit, and devoid of life—a towering structure of decaying records. Collective hands are involved in the tid-bit gathering needed to destroy the enemy gladiatorial force.
  From the recollected manuscripts the scientist gave his life for—much to foresee mechanical defeat—the same electric eye mechanism that gobbles and destroys is the same that takes part in disintegrating the hub of the bug hive-mind.
  9 is akin to degraded Steampunk with alternative Cyberpunk sheddings—or primitive Cyberpunk in its best description. Arising technology that fails to boom once the ultimate breakthrough culminates to unmitigated corruption. It purges a lot as a disaster film—once salvaged to savagery the survivors have zero option to figure out to turn the best of their fate. Spiritual aspects of transcendention leave an un-rooted gap on the plane of escapism but given the rushed connections to keep the story linked and running it should pass as a ground to ignore