Friday 5/23, Ace Biscuit & Barbecue
Headlining a night of uncompromising sonics, self-described “minced-out billy gore” three-piece Septic Vomit unleashes its gross outtake on extreme metal-core at—where else?—a barbecue joint.
Minute-long documentarian murder samples, overdriven detuned guitars, and blasting drums vie for conquest, clouding a vocal that brings new meaning to the word “guttural.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d be inclined to guess that the bulk of the vocals were the result of the vocalist stuffing an SM57 mic somewhere on his person to capture what bears a shocking similarity to a grumbling tummy, or a bout with bad gas.
With a name like Septic Vomit, and tracks titled “Hey Regurgitate,” “Mechanically Separated Torso,” and “Carelessly Discarded Hospital Waste,” we should expect nothing less, but clearly, the Charlottesville band’s got a sense of humor about the puke landscape it’s creating.
Sharing the bill, Chezolangia seems to step deeper into absurd territory in both sound and subject. The Wheaton-Glenmont, Maryland, guitar and drum duo’s latest is equally as intent as the headliners on getting in and out of each song as soon as possible. With a decidedly medical focus—in theme and sample usage—the band offers a particularly misanthropic and confounding layer cake of guts on Baroque Examples of Surgical Anastomosis. Kudos for figuring out how to transform guitars into a tidal wave of multiple radios, unable to tune to a station, while racing jazz drum solos convey the will of trapped demons raging to escape another dimension. Really, it kinda sounds like that.
Harrisonburg’s Lay Waste offers another set of mostly minute-long tracks that, in light of the other bands on the bill, comes across as relatively straightforward, grind-heavy death metal cuts. That isn’t to say it’s generic or easy on the ears, it’s that the group has instruments you can still discern, and vocals—while no more intelligible than Septic Vomit—that do sound like an angry human, but with vocal cords of titanium.
Another charged-up two-man affair, openers Aisle 19 go thick on distorted guitar and barked vocals that may or may not have words, with riffing that drives over breakneck drumming, and occasional slow sludge sections.
I’d eat early, because this night of severe sounds sure as hell isn’t dinner music, kids.
Supplied photo
