Sunday Sludge: Fistula - "Vermin Prolificus"

If you expected to pour some coffee and breathe in some crisp morning air on your front porch, you've come to the wrong fucking place. I've said it before: Cleveland's Fistula are never gonna make you feel good. Through various lineups and countless EP's, splits, and full-length albums, these snarling scumfucks have consistently drawn distinct lines between societal classes and never been burdened by things like tact or nuance. Whether its a low, pensive groove or a breakneck pull on your tie as your teeth are beaten in, Fistula's overt violence is ever-present.

On Vermin Prolificus, thirty-five ticks of abrupt tempo shifts and screeching, stabbing guitars canvas larger truths. These seven tracks are less symptomatic of Oppositional Defiant Disorder and more indicative of the human condition's natural response to authoritative bullshit. Nowhere is this more evident than on Pig Funeral, a slow-simmered revolt slung low and hot and brimming with cracked-tooth spite. Rhythms churn and wave a fist in the fat faces of power, evolving toward a blistering close that repeatedly bloodies its knuckles on sharp bone.

For all the vile sludge bubbled underfoot, however, the band is never a hair away from lashing your back with a barbed rod. Spitting back to 2012's Northern Aggression EP, Harmful Situation and Sobriety are slightly reworked, slightly shorter, and seemingly more destructive with this go. And the contempt displayed on Upside Down is a call not just to authority, but to mainstream society as a whole. And the shit-caked trudging tempo is like an added bonus.

But Vermin Prolificus makes its boldest assertions on lengthier exercises. Smoke Cat Hair and Toenails is fuzz-coated sludge marked by violent, screeching pulls. Again, the sounds are absolutely foul and filth-laden. Moments of torrid tension are broken by hard coughs, assisting to uncover grimy truths of contemporary youth. The slugs come slow and poisonous, evoking incredibly dark imagery consistent with the middle finger this album throws in the face of convention. The title track is similarly jarring and unsettling, utilizing drawn-out, splintered extraction via drug-fueled samples. Layers continue to emerge, wounds work deeper, and slow-burning ruminations reveal (somewhat) rational explanations of drug distribution and addiction. We were never promised a sunny day, but Fistula reveal that endless pain has an endless dark solution. These thirteen minutes are the sonic equivalent of picking scabs off your face and kicking your kids. Not unlike a junkie, this track simply can't escape the grips of its own demons.

There's too much going on here to bottom-line it with one summation. Each of the seven tracks on Vermin Prolificus is a bold fucking assertion (especially the album's final moment on Goat Brothel, whew). Short-tempered and fed up, this album is a slowly corroding, synthetic-smoked nightmare flogging us as we scratch for daylight. The screeches and abrasions are the effect here, not the cause. What you're really hearing is yourself, your community, and our society inches away from collapsing under the weight of a fake smile. How much longer you think you can stand it?

For fans of: Angst, piss, pills, scabs, Gummo, malcontent, broken teeth, glass, burnt hair, and whatever the fuck is rotting in your basement.

Pair with: Meth

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Sunday Sludge: Best of 2012

These year-end lists can make you crazy. What you won't see on my forearm are the half-dozen band names I've carved out entirely. Great as they may have been, I had to cut it to twelve. Shit, I fooled myself into thinking I could pare it down to ten. But there was simply too much great sludge metal slung my way in 2012. Whether it's straight southern thickness, sped-up filth, or dusty bounce laced with sprawling post-metal drift, sludge is more expansive than you thought and too frequently overlooked.

I couldn't bring myself to rank these from 1 to 12. Some days I find Fistula's angst to be the essential middle-finger to my boss. Other days I catch myself dissecting Canto III Inferno by In the Company of Serpents. And had EYEHATEGOD spewed eight or ten more tracks that sounded as good as New Orleans is the New Vietnam, they may have shot right to number one (what a great fucking song). As it stands, these are the twelve Sunday Sludge-featured albums I returned to most frequently.


-(16)- - Deep Cuts From Dark Clouds

Jerue's bark is more symptomatic of choice than struggle. The only match for this is the low and vile whir of rhythm that's never out of death's reach. Without tricks and without fluff, -(16)- tread the broken ground abandoned by their contemporaries. Ubiquitous pain has evolved into flared indignation, and the resulting sound is -(16)- at their greasy pinnacle.







Fistula - Northern Aggression

Hit the e-brake all you want, but Fistula's in full control. The plod balances the shred and the fury lines every note with napalm. The tempo shifts suggest a bi-polar, manic, borderline personality glitch, but nobody will raise a red flag. The sleeping giant you poked with a stick never woke. Instead, Fistula again showed up without warning. Your skin is bubbling, your left eye is gone, and you're drooling as you sift through the soil looking for loose teeth.





Grizzly - Fear My Wrath

We're rarely met with material this overtly homicidal and self-satisfied. Lyrics can be oft-considered sludge's afterthought, shouted or muffled or buried in brilliant rotting moss. Grizzly's vocal delivery on Fear My Wrath perfectly ensnares listeners by snagging a fish hook in your lip, rubbing your skin raw with sandpaper, and leaving spit-trails of hostility dripping from your hair.






Sonance - Like Ghosts

The forty-two minutes on these two tracks breathe and haunt more like an undying memory, surging and waning beyond your wishes. These ghosts are seemingly within you, not around you. You can compartmentalize the chills, but the lucidity is never sealed off. And when you've been lulled to comfort and feel a cool sigh can be enjoyed, you're jarred by descending sludge terror.






Spider Kitten - Cougar Club

...After eleven months of sifting through some pretty incredible offerings from some pretty accomplished acts, it's difficult to find many that are this complete and this proficient. Cougar Club is thick with mood, heavy on variation, and thoroughly stung with riffs and rhythms that'll knock you flat. Moving forward, waving back, and setting the knob to "simmer" is just the beginning for Spider Kitten.





haarp - Husks

Planting their feet as sludge metal gods, haarp take their time trimming the fat and let the truth simmer. Between the sludge barrages and atmospheric back roads is tempered, expertly-timed black gold. The band's proficient but patient approach is lined with beautifully rich and vile vision. Husks isn't merely another NOLA sludge-metal record; it's a sonic catapult for a band wholly deserving of every accolade they accrue.






HUSH - Untitled I

On Untitled I, despair clouds every luxury. Every happiness is whittled and boiled. The sludge-doom truths pique our senses, but the vexed lyricism here serves as effective a weapon. The songs are strongly-structured, the shifts are well-placed. Ultimately, the songs are smart and despondent, truly questioning where we're headed. Blame doesn't need to be assigned because you know you're guilty. I suppose the first step is admitting you've got a problem. The second step is listening to HUSH.





In The Company Of Serpents - Self-titled

Down-tuned plod melds with Netzorg's withdrawn but enticing vocals. Burying licks under a canvas of fog has the track feeling like a stumble through a misty hamlet, buzzing and grinding like your old man's dusty table saw that he's too drunk to use. What's surprising for this sludge, however, is its groove. The palpable, nod-inducing rhythm is what sets apart ITCOS from their sludge-doom contemporaries. Under an electric blanket, the band's sludgy plod melts into a stoner groove, resulting in some pretty cool sounds.





Pigs - You Ruin Everything

Spin it, say your prayers, and hope your hands don't shake so badly when you wake up.  Pigs aren't gonna cure your ills or pull you from the dry well, they're gonna jump down there with you.  And by the time the police show up, each of these songs is stuck on your tongue.








Rabbits - Bites Rites 

Bites Rites challenges and antagonizes via immediate, in-your-face hardcore bullying. Rabbits are direct and all ambiguity is checked at the rotting, unhinged door. You don't have to wallow in the mud; sometimes you need to jump in and throw it at others. And if Rabbits don't manage to catch your attention with flaming piles of loose earth, they'll just gnash their teeth and rip off your face.






Rodha - Raw

Employing just five tracks of melded design, Rodha should have little trouble finding a rabid fan-base.  That a band can so strongly assert it's mettle on what they call a demo is nothing short of stunning, and their generosity is a testament to the confidence they have in themselves and one another.  These tracks are heavy, smart, well-structured, and dirty enough for sludge-o-philes to instantly fall into submission.






Make - Trephine

In Metal Songwriting 101, Trephine would be the curriculum's cornerstone. Your head is gonna swell and your skull is gonna pound, but MAKE's death rattle has unparalleled warmth and voluminous complexity.Trephine is the perfect ailment and the perfect antidote, complete with enough syrup to dull the edge.

Sunday Sludge: Fistula - "Northern Aggression"

Jesus jumped-up Christ, where do I start? Cleveland's sludge-thrash royals Fistula have strung together (strung out?) a catalog of violent, unapologetic releases oozing utter scorn for all things ridiculously mainstream and vanilla. Sunday is the day of rest? Well, Fistula are thrust into today's Sunday Sludge streetlight to issue a fat fucking middle finger with Northern Aggression, a seven-track skull-fuck that's certain to satiate their loyals and frighten everyone else into submission.

This nineteen-minute smoker is to-the-point and unrelenting, using every second to provide sharp contrast to a metal countryside fraught with caution. Fistula unflinchingly burn through convention on equal parts thrash, sludge, and narcissism with diatribes on drug use, hopelessness, and an embrace of sucking stones on the other side of the tracks. Fistula aren't trying to make you feel good. Hell, they're not even trying to make themselves feel good. But they won't let anyone ignore the ugliness unfolding in the backyard.

Short of a Cheech and Chong audio sample, there's nothing lighthearted presented on Northern Aggression. Screeching, jarring feedback introduces more than half these tracks, while the dense sludge filth can hardly remain safe from murky, uptempo brutality. The belly-up thrash of Sobriety is Overrated provides only a glory-hole glimpse of what lies ahead, leading into loosened-string creepiness on The Fang. Low-flung dirt clods marry Corey Bing's chiding vocals, leaving listeners unsure of whether the music or lyrics remain the band's more abrasive element.

Fistula find a groove on Black Sunday and The Spider, both drenched with thick rhythm and drowned in torrid bass threads. Brief and in full-embrace of waking up in puddles, the black-noise thrash provides an incredibly refreshing juxtapose to the matted stompers we've come to expect on these autumn Sundays. Harmful Situation's assertion of "This is our world, you fuckin' get what you get" sounds more honest than anything you've heard in these weeks leading up to election day. There's a swing-state campaign slogan, eh? Put Fistula in office and at least they won't lie and tell you things will get better.

You'll imagine the choppy, mid-tempo Light Bulb Smoker to be the disc's comfort zone, finding middle ground between push and relent. Well, the track builds to a slick drag of your sorry ass through a thicket of thorny spurs, perfectly balancing the ups and downs, the quick to the slow. Fuck, man... You're not even being dragged through the mud anymore. You've been dragged into a bloody fucking murder mess, mid-stroke. Molting and re-emerging a sludge-metal titan, the slow burning sample accompaniments craft the album's highlight, and Fistula again assert their dominance over Midwest metal malevolence.

Aggression, as the album's title suggests, oozes through every moment of this gritty gnasher. Hit the e-brake all you want, but Fistula's in full control. The plod balances the shred, and the fury lines every note with napalm. The tempo shifts may suggest a bi-polar, manic, borderline personality glitch, but anyone familiar with this band will hardly raise a red flag. That sleeping giant you poked with a stick never woke up. Instead, Fistula again showed up with no warning. Your skin is bubbling, your left eye is gone, and you're drooling as you sift through the soil looking for loose teeth. Oh, stop it. You're embarrassing yourself.

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Sunday Sludge - Fistula

Corey Bing takes his band seriously. As the only remaining founding member of sludge-core peddlers Fistula, he's taken a hard-nosed approach to ensuring his bandmates are focused on delivering (literally) killer low-tuned metal that would make any sludge-o-phile puke in his steel-toed boot. Through various lineups and even more various inspirations, Fistula has managed to build a strong catalog of sludge stompers that would keep the neighborhood kids off your lawn and out of your garage.

Originally formed in Litchfield, Ohio, Fistula has maintained a commitment to continually expanding their sound and honoring influences, dark as they may be. It's Sunday, and you'll be guided through enough sludge to get you through church services with your new girlfriend's parents. But Fistula, if not given an honest listen, may fool you. You'll hear grind, you'll hear doom, you'll hear a little thrash. (You're even gonna hear a fucking hot, muddy Clapton cover). What you won't hear is rest. Yes, it's sludge. And it's relentlessly dark, brutal, and heavy.

Fistula flirt with drone to the point of the listener feeling challenged. It's gonna take a while, and these are harsh sounds; you're gonna need to shower twice once you're able to crawl to your tape deck and hit ■ (though you won't want to). Sometimes progressive but never narcoleptic, often troubling but never off-putting. This is a band you might've missed. This is a band you want to say you discovered. The slow dirge of songs like Dirt Bath and the incredibly beautiful and exhausting Dysfunction will put you on a train to your own version of hell.

Diving into the band's past would require a historian; diving into the band's present might require a lawyer (or a newscaster, at least). The band's produced four full-length albums, numerous EP's, and has appeared on countless splits and compilations next to bands like Sloth, Weedeater, and King Travolta. Their most recent release, GOAT, met criticism with its apparent predilection for death and serial murder, though Bing concisely explained the album's intent by pointing out the absurdity of Americans relying on television as a source of information. Check out the article from Cleveland. Here we go again, America. Maybe if we turned off our technology and engaged our children, we wouldn't have to worry about people like Anthony Sowell. I hear ya, Corey!

Fistula is set to release Loser this September, with the tracks streaming free at the link below. There's more gloom here, but there's also more monkey beat-off shred. Fistula always come back, though. No matter where these sludgers spill their sound, lay their pipe, or spread their seed... we're gonna welcome their murky, stomping grooves with open arms. What a great sound. What a great band. What a great example of vision, discipline, and dedication. I'll wait for these guys to conquer the world.












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