If you seriously believe that black metal died with the sudden rise of this Nachtmystium–meets-David Copperfield-live-from-Vegas shit we’ve been subjected to lately, well.. don’t go tradin’ in your DNA stained Bathory vinyls to that older grungy dude still livin’ with Mom down the block ( the one who still certifiably calls himself a distro) just yet folks.. please! Yes, seems that if there’s one thing Greece has at the very least managed to accomplish despite it’s massive recent economic fallout is to have channeled some of the most wonderfully violent and frighteningly imaginative art out of the mentally unstable there who were deeply affected by the ensuing total chaos of it all. Indeed, Ravencult’s brand of cathartic purging found in this latest ten song ejaculator is the recovered greasy, grimy, stale semen n’ nun hymen blood clot coated hairy nut sac sewed back on after a misdiagnosed neutering. In other words, think of it as the ideal antidote to make you man up again and not feel one iota of remorse as you drink/smoke/inhale yourself silly during viewings of A&E TV’s, Intervention marathons anytime soon.. that’s for damn sure!
Sure, it’s nothing more than a bunch of nostalgia purists (that being Costas/bass, Stefanos/guitar, Linos/vocals, Konstantinos/drums) paying homage to Dr. Frankenstein in their ugly, crude and disjointed yet intricately carved meshing of early Bathory, Hellhammer, Motorhead, Sodom, and dare I say, Clandestine Blaze’s eerie incandescence by of WW II era experimental genetic splicing n’ all. That said, I’ll readily attest that the band’s whole ethos or anti-ethos (if you kindly will, dear reader) is just to simply take the image of the cloven hoof n’ horn clad dark lord (and savior, ha!) and re-image him as a middle aged Hell’s Angel/Ghost Rider hybrid figure (where not just the bongs/cigars he puffs on radiate w/ glorious hellfire.. but his middle aged farts too!) and like the 60’s cinema classic, Easy Rider, he’s just a misunderstood and forsaken rebel lookin’ to Kill Bill for being cast out.
And during the token somber yet emotionally reflective moment of this script, we already know the ages old grudge goes back to Satan being the wronged one ‘cause Jesus decided his once bed partner now turned old trick was being a little too mouthy.. so he unnecessarily went Ike Turner on him, leaving Satan a naked, wretched, misshapen, broken mess.. in front of an encouraging flock too. Bigger problem though is Jesus then has the audacity to kneel down all merciful and glowing by Satan and dabbles a pristine dove-white handkerchief over the bloodied, sunken, lacerated cheeks while arrogantly reciting some sophisticated prose. Just the right tone setting for an all out grindhouse revenge flick indeed!
Overall what you’re guaranteed to hear though is something very adrenaline raising, fist clenchingly cathartic and seducingly catchy via the way this quartet raises the levels of def-con like urgency in its entire staccato, teutonic thrashiness, and gets the sloppy headbangin’ and air guitar strumming during the more biker influenced d-beat style hookiness. And what’s this, some sludgy yet hypnotically repetitious doominess to raise some creepy tension?! Sure you could liken some of it to early Celtic Frost as a lazy journalism 101 tactic but fuck that, this shit is a hell of a lot more dangerous sounding than the Frost ever could be, and further by comparison makes Frost’s choppy midpacings look like elementary school kids stumbling out of time to “Pomp and Circumstance” blaring through the PA during graduation ceremony time, ya dig?
Yeah, I fuckin’ dig this! Certainly only mandatory for CD collection elitists I’ll readily admit since obviously it’s been heard before. Yet given my initial rambling in the first paragraph of this review, you have to admit its strangely refreshing to be reminded that, yes, the primitive “less is MORE” statement truly avails. That said, best listened to during parking lot bbq parties outside Maryland Deathfest premises.. while imbibing Baltimore’s malt liquor varieties.