Ketchup Post Part Six - The Forever People

Alas, I have returned from my journey to Inter-dimensional Whorehouse of Pancakes and shall now proceed to clean house. Gone are the smooth sounds of German hard rock. Gone are the power metal excursions. Darkness returneth with full force and  resounding fury, but in a slow kind of way cuz my back hurts and I am old. Yup. We brunched the metal death/doom style!

Indeed, the mighty Bloodmace had returned from his adventure in the hell worlds of yon and just one short week later, we joined with Mistress Crowbastard and Vecton the Bard to explore metal from the Philippines. Not content to rest on our laurels with this task, we narrowed it down to the province of Cebu. A hot breeze blew into the sacred listening room and the skulls that festooned the walls began to glow and sing. Welcome to island hell, motherfuckers! 

First up was a motherfucking classic gothic sludge fest in the form of My Dying Bride's debut As The Flower's Wither. This is an epoch crushing sad fest, and one of the heaviest albums in existence. The riffs here laid the foundation for the entire genre. Violin is sparsely yet effectively used, adding an interesting contrast the death metal vocals(which spew college student level dark romantic poetry), as My Dying Bride had not ventured into goth warbling as yet. Fast death metal tempos are employed now and then, so that you may hasten your suicide. Certified classic and the Winner of the Night, cuz I am the Judgement 'n' shit.

A Hero For The World started us off with some competent power metal, although none of the members seem to be Filipino. Despite their dubious background, the music was decent enough, made even better by the incredible shit show that followed. Stallions Of The Burning Church have a name that made me think we were about to hear some faux black metal Hot Topic bullshit but instead tore our minds with their sub-Black Crowes christian hard rock.

Next, Paradise Lost laid down the thickness on their debut, Lost Paradise. This is meat and potatoes death doom.  Genre defining though it maybe, it lacks the elegance of the previous album, delivering old school death metal (with better lyrics than MDB) with slower tempos than usual. It's a great album, though, setting the riff style and basic grim atmosphere that Paradise Lost is known for and expended upon in subsequent albums.

Just when we started thinking there were no good bands in Cebu Province, a squall of feedback and gruff occult lyrics exploded from the speakers. The mighty Astrus came lurching out from the swampy depths of a diabolical marsh, demon swords blazing with impure fire. Things had started to look up for us, then Signos began to play. Fires exploded from the walls and the servants of twilight shambled out into view as the primitive death metal scorched our ears. Winner of the night!

And now for the dark horse. Mournful Congregation's Tears From A Grieving Heart is an elegant, well played funeral doom album that I really did not like. This was mainly because of the whisper vocals splattered through out the album, which I think is more lazy than atmospheric and simply annoys. If you are going to employ faggotty whispers on a fucking metal album, do so like Metallica did on Damage Inc, which was sparingly. Otherwise, you are just trying to be Marilyn Manson, resting your voice between screams because you just can't take it, because you'd rather be having sex with hamsters than laying down some mighty meaty metal vocals at full force and volume. Who cares if you get throat cancer!!!!!!!! Which is really disappointing because otherwise it's really good. But Demon Scourge digresses, and I must make mention that this was his winner of the night. And now I shall slay him with the tiny axe.

 Words of the Elders
On the western shore of Centon, near the kipet mines and the abandoned city, an old man wanders along the beach. His long robes make him seem a monk, but the icy madness behind his eyes shines like a warning beacon. When dusk settles over the ruins he begins to pipe his horrible tunes into the encroaching darkness. One night, as he was regaling the ocean with the lugubrious strains of an evil waltz, something flopped horribly on to the shore. It rolled toward him, a cloudy sac of organs and fluid motivating up from the water. The bizzare orginasim stopped before him and belched up a gilded box from a barely visible orifice on its side. Inside his head, the old man heard a deep voice, "The seven spikes of Necro Baby. You know what you must do." 

Until next week, highway hustlers, 









Horns