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


 The way of the cenotaph. When viewing older DM band pictures, rampant graveyard shots pop up. In an effort to capture the spirit of the dead shift, below are monoliths of unhallowed spontaneity—kicking off with the most ghastly looking. Grey Mist delivers unhinged Doom, albeit touching on that aspect as Alunah extends on their most doomy—female vocals galloping too. Not far from where the Doom bands illustriously depict gargoyles and burial grounds sculpts. Wolf Dawn—the oddball here, is unrelenting blackened Speed Metal; which is enough to imply major ass kicking. Die already. . . .

Misty Grey


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.


Three Doom bands. The first is a Lucifer’s Fall self titled release—grabbing with a Heavy Metal uprise that funnels into awesome Doom. All Light Shall Fade is an epic leaner, meaner with its punch—the singing is half right for The Mad Mane Machine. Splashing with Rock and heavy Stoner is To the Fallen. This is priggish Doom waving a gavel at every perfunctory down-tuning.

Lucifer’s Fall
Majesty in Ruin
The Zenith


  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