Disgorge

Disgorge

Forensick

Deathvomit

It’s a total mess. A sticky, bloodstained, scabby, infected mess. Forensick is not so much music as it is being bludgeoned about the head with a colostomy bag full of fetal tissue and rusty nails. Which is not to say that I don’t truly deeply dig this record; under the right circumstances, many seemingly repugnant things become very enjoyable.

Can I talk about the record cover now? I’m assuming there will be a Once Upon a Cross cover-up job going on here; you’ll browse the local record emporium and find that Forensick has a plain black cover, with no art. My friends, maybe that’s good enough for Metallica, but then, Metallica were never a horror grind band, were they? So perhaps you open up the CD booklet to look at the lyrics (absent) or the insanely long list of thank yous, and• there IT is, in all its vomit-tastic glory. Dead baby cover art! Mother’s loins included, no less. Well, we got that little taboo out of the way quite quickly. Seriously though, it’s a fucking grand cover, the gritty photo realism of the composition goes a whole helluva lot longer than Cannibal Corpse’s clumsy zombie landscapes or even a Dan Seagrave painting. Powerful use of colors.

Disgorge are from Mexico, which makes what they are doing that much fucking cooler. Think we’re hard on metal and associated perversities over here? These fuckers must really, REALLY mean it. And they’re a power trio! So they’re the satanic cannibalistic Cream? Oh yes. Oh yes.

The music of Disgorge is all about sickness and unspoken longings that no one wants to confront. Disgorge, however, happily face up to every disgusting urge and murderous whim of the human collective unconscious and recast it into an opaque, bile-soaked, fuzzed-out wall of horror. Misplaced samples from horror movies clash with gleefully vile downtuned guitars, blast beat drums ooze over grotesque vocals that veer from high-pitched rasps to that low guttural stomach-consuming-itself gurgle. The music hard to digest the first few times around, coming off as a potent human sculpture collage of Suffocation, Mortician, and Reek Of Putrefaction-era Carcass. After about the third listen, you’ll be hooked. The American edition of this record even includes three bonus live tracks (which kill) and two songs from a split seven-inch with (wait for it) Squash Bowels. We live in heady times. Between Forensick, the Carcass tribute, and Abscess’ new one, I feel like I’m living in a fucking grind renaissance!

Deathvomit/Necropolis, PO Box 14815, Freemont, CA 94539-4815; http://www.deathvomit.com

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