Sunday Sludge: Full Zenith

My jaw's been left on the ground a few times as I scratch my head wondering where bands come up with this shit. I gave up on guitar when my mom told me dinner was ready, but I spent countless hours in my room preparing for an interview that nobody would ever read. I'd talk about touring, brush aside compliments, and spend the bulk of my time highlighting influences. The list was endless, and to this day I can still hear myself saying stupid shit like "Believe it or not, I spent my formative years nursing Old Milwaukee with the jazz monks of some town you've probably never heard of." What a fucking asshole.

But when a band honors their influences and uses them to construct an entirely fresh bouillabaisse breed of metal, I'm hooked. Louisville's Full Zenith aren't gonna let you in on the secret. With their Demo 2013, you'll wonder if you should step aside to observe or just let the train rock you square. Equal parts heavy and heady, these cats tear apart sludge and doom riffs with more than a few thumps in the night and no intention of checking blind spots. When the tempos shift and you're left holding your dick, don't pretend that you knew it would happen.

Tentative but never at-all cautionary, Into The All Seeing Eye's slow entrance is flattened by the slow dirge of bulldozed rhythms. Scorched-earth repetition is shoved aside by lightning-round thrashes wrapped in a hybrid of Fistula's Corey Bing and Refused's Dennis Lyxzén. But the distant "fade into darkness" is more inviting than demanding. Sounds crazy, eh? It is. Drums coddle you, draw you into a corridor, and slip a burlap sack over your face to carry out this opener's true intention. The meters never quite match up, and you never quite get over how awesome it sounds.

If violent immediacy has ever been appropriately laid to tape, The Final Chapter is the result. The track abruptly snags the e-brake and stomps the upper-level, digging through closets and peering out rear-windows. Thick-rolling heaviness is, I suppose, a defining trait... But the good cop/band cop vibe is more likely a good trip/bad trip contemplation. Dual vocals are examined in brilliant juxtaposition and the thumps in the night won't quell your paranoia. Question their motives if you can find the time, but Full Zenith won't wait for your dust to settle.

Become Death holds a true sludge cadence at times, sandwiched between thrashy hardcore and weird, delightful fuzz. Bass growls on a Melvins-motivated chimney-sniff, tapering alongside guitars on burnt fingers and splitting with a fuzzed-out spiel. Faulty wires fire at billowing clouds, but the return of warm fuzz is enough to make your night. It may be too short, you'd say. But think on every song you've ever loved. Aren't they ALL too short? And I don't wanna draw-out parallels to 80's bay-area pioneers, but Suspended Disbelief is just that fucking awesome. Exodus-on-ludes, Testament-on-barbs, shit... it's slow, choppy, and your jacket's gonna reek. The churn lifts and thrash returns to dominance on abandoned patterns. But exercise patience; you didn't think Full Zenith had a little drone in 'em? The slurred spill of sludge melds with an Om-ish chant to warp out on UHF television.

What many present as daunting is actually incredibly refreshing on Full Zenith's watch. The jostling wakes you, but the struggle to breathe is equally jarring. Meld 80's thrash with the gigantic, drawn-out riffs of Sleep and you're presented with a challenge; how can the two marry? How does a four-track demo capture a quarter-century of metal's influence with no schlock, no fluff, and no biting criticism? I'm not sure, but Full Zenith fucking do it. Perhaps *ahem* variations on a theme are exactly what metal needs. But we fucking knew that! So when so many managed to screw it up, how did Full Zenith manage to fucking nail it?

Free download at bandcamp!

Bandcamp

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.

Facebook | BUY IT! | Patac Records | Myspace