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.



  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.


  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


  Canada has seen an upsurge of great Death Metal bands—especially tech death. With such laid groundwork for expected high repute in the country’s metal exports, it would be highly safe to suggest listenership to a band from the mentioned North American soil. Inadvertently, it seems the bar was set too high by the predecessors, given the potential acumen of Ruptured Birth and a failure to completely allure.

  Since this is Brutal Death Metal and not much should be expected—a terrible precept by itself—as it denounces and dents better instigators. Suppurating a slam catch-all which make the band’s overhead additions seem like a joke. If anything, Unnatural Selection is the best way forward for Ruptured Birth—by virtue of expressing this song. Saprogenic coalesces a rabies sample that admonishes any belief of anything great forthcoming; a not so promising pace-setter it would rather be satisfying to listen to Katalepsy‘s Rabid as a better exchange. The whole idea of the song is taking the brutal death metal usual, but palely—by huge repetition of breakdowns and the lead work. The shrieks are far from saving grace by point of eccentrically aplombing non stand-out growls. A basis that falls upon Strogg once it sparks flashy Rings of Saturn sides, furthered along the release.

  Hurtling, very much on the side of miss upon few hits like parts of Blood Siren—where it is catch off-guard; repeat the grabber. Brutal Death Metal that wants to slam possessively, with ties to tech death, but still wants to have a demeanor which pulls off like it owes Deathcore its existence. This time straddling has cost somebody—good thing it is a brutal death metal band?

  The Shape threatens to parlay its sample the Craniotomy serial killer style—however, checking on sample length. Rhythm goes a bit fuzzy compacting annihilating no-frills riffs. Such fuzziness heads straight into the next track. Once with textured solos that overrun ears with technical patterns plus slam accentuations. Samples start to teeter on overload. Taking on a sharp experimental offset is the finisher—or assorted phase before bonus tracks that might well be enjoyed from their original EP—provides the only substance to hold on to.

  This is no different from what has already been said concerning horror and science fiction intermingles. An art that is equal to lack of identity well represents the content it helps wrap. Horrific sci-fi or science fictional horror—if it has enough science orientation to be gauging futures. What Ruptured Birth espouse is non confounded footing in gory medicinal havoc which would matter less had they encapsulated it with brisk butchery.


  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.


  Majority of humanity is way too fucking stupid. That is reason enough to guarantee disregard from exo-intelligences. Worse still is a risk of exploitation by sardonic life-forms or plots of actual attack and devastation. Cliché as fuck. Yet a possible looming dystopia the planet is likely to contend with. The War of the Worlds may have offered the peculiar novel-ending type of course, but in actuality, Earth is only nuclear weapon strong—a much stratified and small-scale disparity scenario—in terms of arms. Overestimating—an understatement—outer intelligences may only act to reduce surprises. Even disregarding the anthropic principle—since every situation tailors itself to produce unique features and life-forms—on a small-scale, to put evolution, natural selection and mutation into consideration. Humans—not alone.
  Visitation needs not be a Wells-ian kind of approach. District 9 offers a necessitated kind of setting. The planet’s habitable space—and one yet to be inhabited—is presaged by overcast intrusion; stranded exo-sol system beings. Distinguishable by their uniformity even across genders. Speculations abound the situations around these prawns. Regarded as servile workers of a superior race, they might as well have come to spread malevolence but fell short of expectations. Their pilot regards Earth’s technology as the junk it is, with an aim to restore their mother ship and return home.
  Societal clashes need no introduction. Neither will inter-planetary wars. District 9 relays the havoc on a Terran scale. The stellar proportion is another, if not a precursor to the previous. How prepared is shambolic humanity? From a War of the Worlds’ approach, it has everything it needs. —The sun. Huge orbital lenses would be formidable weapons. Their concentrated and invisible heat rays would disseminate dreamless energy at the speed of light—and inflame in seconds; be infallible to disabling of electrical equipment by alien technology—fucking alien fiction, The Mad Mane Machine blames—to protect mother earth. The only downside would be cyber attacks on their functionality, which would be disastrous. This can be overcome at the expense of extra-planetary travel. Dismal when the planet’s sick and inhospitable.

  Upheaval will begin with everyone’s attempt to cash in on the state of deterioration. And the ordinary citizen will be at the mercy of the forces that be. Everybody caught unprepared and plunged into estopless elegy. Such disparity is sheer as the prawns came armed, shriveling human artillery with bio-enhanced articulation. The planet lays at an edge of colonization. Wipe-out is not a very bright idea, but culling will be the first call.


  Time travel and its support run-arounds have infiltrated many aspects of film, including the non sci-fi and barely speculative ones. It has rather become a setback that this beloved genre/aspects of it can be fitfully committed across the cine world—as far as drama and comedy took it. How they decide to cover such depends on the film-makers’ dedication to the subject. Sadly most partake in its indulgence as a tool for profanity against time travel whose means is to crimp their (you bet weak) plots.
  Better it’s to avoid any portal references. Shit’s been reduced to lame-assness and lazy options. Other time machines have become secluded. I Will Follow You Down is exemplary of time travel’s ailments. No cordial dedication; all appropriation—especially when no grand mystery is being solved. A fucking drama film. Synchronicity may have come at a post-peak period for the processions. Three joint physicists are on a quest to make a time machine but nature has a few revelations for them. Social relations are kept to the significant prospect for the question at hand to proceed unhinged. It has such a throwback setting that comes off clinical in isolation. A Blade Runner atmosphere bleeds in most parts to induce a fear of lead character, Jim Beale, appearing into such a world, or in Archangel‘s revitalization in X-Men: Apocalypse, a swift mise en scene for the 80s to be beheld—from music to location.
  To prevent ending with a thumb up its arse, the film delegates to alternate timelines. Nothing new too. Even the continuous cycle stab. The catch is always the start, the plot’s butterfly effect. Which is invariably it’s unsealable loophole. The vicious cycle can’t start without an alternate universe—that for the liberty of filming and plot progression—has no definite origin. Present is a collision of parallel worlds, and only imagination can grasp the myriad or reduced of differences that make the branes almost similar. Parallel universes being split-seconds of possible options to the maximum extreme. Working with the closest semblance is the only saving grace that produces the desired profile.
  By now every time traveler into the past has related the inescapability of a pre-ordained future. Needless to say, every jump into the wormhole by Jim would only result to other Jims, behind in time from the most recent Jim by a duration of his predecessor’s point of decision to leap forth. But timelines are all encompassing and it would be a prize should an—even slightly—older Jim arise forward.

  Moribund unwinding defers as seconds younger Jim overmasters the other. The seamless handling of this situation forfeits the need of extra interpolation. Behoves that the slightly fringed but purposeless Narcopolis is comfortable playing homage than executing itself to relevance—it is shite that disrespects Wells. Time is not easy to fix.