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JANUARY 2020 // No. 183
METAL MADNESS
BRINGING YOU THE BIGGEST AND BEST
OPETH
AS I LAY DYING
RED DEATH
FIT FOR AN AUTOPSY
IN CAUDA VENENUM
SHAPED BY FIRE
SICKNESS DIVINE
THE SEA OF TRAGIC BEASTS
DESPISED ICON
KILLSWITCH ENGAGE
DRAGONFORCE
SACRED REICH
ATONEMENT
EXTREME POWER METAL
AWAKENING
CATTLE DECAPITATION
TRIBULATION
ANGEL WITCH
CIRITH UNGOL
DEATH ATLAS
ALIVE & DEAD AT SODRA TEATERN
ANGEL OF LIGHT
I’M ALIVE
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ICE NINE KILLS
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DEATH ANGEL
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RAMMSTEIN
HEART LIKE A GRAVE
HUMANICIDE
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AMON AMARTH
DAWN RAY’D
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January 2020 [R 183] decibelmagazine.com
upfront 10 metal muthas Dogs are a mom’s best friend
features
reviews 67 lead review The ever-prolific Haunt leaves us feeling anything but cold with their latest LP, Mind Freeze
14 abigail williams Wherever he may roam
20 silvertomb Blue No. 2
26 q&a: derek smalls All Tapped out
12 low culture Slippery when wet
16 teeth Marching to the beat of their own drum
22 die choking For dad
30 the decibel
13 no corporate beer Anything but high ‘n’ dry
18 strigoi The fyre still burns
24 sentient horror Very decent, very obscene
hall of fame Madball stand on their own two feet and keep hardcore alive with Set It Off
41 special feature:
the top 40 albums of 2019
54
But what about...?
68 album reviews Releases that were chanting boo-urns at the World Series, including Cirith Ungol, Cradle of Filth and Varials 80 double negative Into the void
We Want to Believe COVER STORY COVER AND CONTENTS PHOTOS BY GENE SMIRNOV
Decibel (ISSN 1557-2137) is published monthly by Red Flag Media, Inc., 1032 Arch Street, 3rd Floor, Philadelphia, PA 19107. Annual subscription price is $29.95. Periodical postage, paid at Philadelphia, PA, and other mailing offices. Submission of manuscripts, illustrations and/or photographs must be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited materials. Postmaster send changes of address for Decibel to Red Flag Media, 1032 Arch Street, 3rd Floor, Philadelphia PA 19107. © 2019 by Red Flag Media, Inc. ISSN 1557-2137 | USPS 023142 All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission of the publisher is strictly prohibited. 4 : JANUARY 2020 : DECIBEL
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REFUSE/RESIST
January 2020 [T183]
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Mudrian (l) with the enigmatic Walker, circa several lifetimes ago in London
Today is the 30th anniversary of Carcass’s Symphonies of Sickness, a record to which I recoiled in absolute horror when first introduced to it at the tender age of 15. Back in 1991, my childhood friend—and now-longtime Decibel contributor, Scott Koerber—was infinitely cooler and more musically adventurous than yours truly (the former still applies). I vividly remember staring at the CD’s gruesome cover art—the now infamous photo collage of unprepared animal meat and autopsy pictures—in his mom’s basement while “Reek of Putrefaction” assaulted my ears through a boom box. Clearly, I was not ready for such multi-faceted extremity and sheepishly suggested that maybe we should revisit …And Justice for All one more time. This was not an occasion that I expected to fondly recall 30 years later. Yet somehow, Carcass are now more relevant in my life than ever. If you’re a deluxe Decibel subscriber—bless your blackened heart—you’ve likely noticed that this particular issue contains a flexi disc of the first new Carcass song in over six years. And it was all Jeff Walker’s idea! Somewhere over the last three decades, while I was writing the original version of Choosing Death, the Carcass frontman and I became good friends. This was years before his band’s 2007 reactivation—back when he was fond of incredulously asking people, “don’t you know who I used to be?” I could fill a year’s worth of “Just Words” columns with amusing Walker anecdotes alone. I’ve witnessed him strike fear into the hearts of fellow musicians, stage crew, audience members, promoters, tour managers and rival frequent flyers, secretly knowing that while such confrontations were authentic, the man initiating them actually has a heart of gold and belly full of Taco Bell. In mid-December, I’ll see him again when Carcass headline the Saturday of the second annual Decibel Magazine Metal & Beer Fest: Los Angeles. I can’t foretell what new adventures await, but I’m relatively sure he’ll refer to craft beer as “lemon-flavored toilet water” from the stage at least once, and that the swirling intro of “Reek of Putrefaction” will still scramble what’s left of my brain. I should be ready for it this time.
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To order by phone: 1.215.625.9850 (10 a.m. – 5 p.m. EST) To order by fax: 1.215.625.9967 To order online: www.decibelmagazine.com Decibel (ISSN 1557-2137) is published monthly by Red Flag Media, Inc., 1032 Arch Street, 3rd Floor, Philadelphia, PA 19107. Annual subscription price is $29.95. Periodical postage, paid at Philadelphia, PA, and other mailing offices. Submission of manuscripts, illustrations and/or photographs must be accompanied by a stamped, self-addressed envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited materials. Postmaster send changes of address for Decibel to Red Flag Media, 1032 Arch Street, 3rd Floor, Philadelphia PA 19107. Copyright ©2019 by Red Flag Media, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission of the publisher is strictly prohibited. PRINTED IN USA
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Unfit for human interaction
CONTRIBUTING WRITERS
READER OF THE
MONTH was fun—lots of delicious IPAs, stouts, even tried some mead. Went to the Pre-Fest with Integrity, saw Exhorder for the first time, Obituary doing Cause of Death—it’s a great idea and I’m happy it’s been successful for you.
Brendan Bobzien Philadelphia, PA
You’re originally from the Northern Virginia area, but are now a Philly resident. Have you embraced our local disappointing sports franchises or are you continuing to support the local disappointing sports franchises you grew up with?
Ha, good timing as I watch the [Washington] Nationals push Game 7 in the World Series. I’ve lived in Philly over half my life and it felt natural to jump ship. I wasn’t really into sports when I was a kid, although I do have a Bullets jersey somewhere. Remember, we didn’t have a [baseball] team growing up; the closest was the [Baltimore] Orioles.
8 : JANUARY 2020 : DECIBEL
According to our admittedly spotty records, you’ve been a subscriber since at least issue #12. First, THANK YOU. Second, WHY?
I first saw Decibel at Tower Records and started reading it. Not sure when I decided I needed to subscribe, but it’s turned me on to a lot of bands and has kept me informed about the metal world. The Hall of Fame [series], Richard Christy and reviews do it for me. I believe you’ve attended the Philly version of our Metal & Beer Fest in the past. You coming back in 2020 or what?
Yeah, I want to! Money can be tight. Last year
I first saw Decibel at Tower Records and started reading it. Not sure when I decided I needed to subscribe, but it’s turned me on to a lot of bands and has kept me informed about the metal world. This issue features our never-controversial Top 40 Albums of the Year list. I won’t give away our Top 5, but how about you give us yours?
Aw, man, that’s tough. I’ll have to say, off the top of my head: Witch Vomit, Sempiternal Dusk, Enforced, Hagzissa and Celestial Grave. Also, some 7-inches by Under Attack and Hammered Hulls are worth mentioning.
Chuck BB is the illustrator of the graphic novels Black Metal, Vol. 1, 2 and 3 For more info and art, head over to chuckbb.com
NOW SLAYING Wonder what Decibel world HQ has been rocking for the past month? Well, here are the records that we spun most while avoiding any story with the headline “Metallica Makes Socks Now.”
Because not all of us were spawned in the darkest recesses of hell
This Month's Mutha: Kathy Strouse Mutha of Jarrett Pritchard of Pulchra Morte
Tell us a little bit about yourself.
I am retired after 30 years in animal welfare. I live with my boyfriend of 16 years, Bart, along with four chihuahuas, one cat and two birds. I have been an actor for more than 50 years. I still stay active in animal welfare and animal control. In 2018, I was the co-author of a state bill to require shelters and rescues to ask about bite history when intaking an animal, and to disclose that information upon placement of the animal. Now, you would think that would be a no-brainer, but sadly, NO! This law was the first of its kind in the nation. Jarrett tells us that you’re the “lady who put Michael Vick in jail for dogfighting.” Does he share your lifelong passion for animal rights?
Jarrett has always been an animal lover and cannot tolerate abuse of animals. [As for] the Vick thing, I was asked to bring a team of officers and walk through the property in Surry County when authorities executed a drug warrant. My role was to see if there was anything in plain view, or anywhere they were allowed to be based on the warrant that was evidence of dogfighting. Of course, there was plenty of evidence, and so several of us were off to secure a search warrant for dogfighting with the disk containing the affidavit in hand. Well, the disk crashed, so we had to write the warrant from scratch! The case was huge in the media and became a wakeup call for America. People had no idea such things went on. We understand you split your lip in the pit watching his band Eulogy perform in 1994. Was that 10 : JANUARY 2020 : DECIBEL
injury a one-off, or do you often find yourself in the eye of the hurricane during Jarrett’s shows?
You know, Jarrett mentioned this on the phone the other day, but I honestly don’t remember it. I remember being in the pit at the 4400 Club, and I was very excited to see Eulogy play. I’ve only seen him play a handful of times, but have always been really excited to be in the audience and be a part. When did Jarrett first start to express an interest in music?
From the time he was a baby! He loved to be at band practice with his dad. I think his love of music showed him his path in life. He is so smart, but was an indifferent student, mostly because he was so impatient with nonsense and bureaucracy. One time he asked me if I was disappointed in him because he had not become a doctor or lawyer or banker. My eyes welled up. I told him I had always known he was going to be an artist, and no, I had never been disappointed in him. I really do think it is so WRONG of parents to try to live their dreams or ambitions through their children. Our children have their own dreams. Are you more of a fan of Jarrett’s work as a guitarist or as a producer/engineer?
Wow, that’s a tough one. I’m not sure. Watching and hearing him play guitar leaves me speechless. I have no musical talent whatsoever, so I am always in awe of those who do. I also know he is highly regarded as an engineer and producer. I think that is because he always has a very clear vision. —ANDREW BONAZELLI
Albert Mudrian : e d i t o r i n c h i e f Paradise Lost, Draconian Times Paradise Lost, Medusa Idle Hands, Mana Blood Incantation, Hidden History of the Human Race Cirith Ungol, I’m Alive ---------------------------------Patty Moran : c u s t o m e r s e r v i c e Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Ghosteen L'épée, Diabolique Kal-El, Witches of Mars Opal, Happy Nightmare Baby We Lost the Sea, Departure Songs ---------------------------------James Lewis : a d s a l e s Blood Incantation, Hidden History of the Human Race Blood Incantation, Starspawn Black September, The Forbidden Gates Beyond Panopticon, Autumn Eternal Disillusion, The Liberation ---------------------------------Mike Wohlberg : a r t d i r e c t o r Paradise Lost, The Plague Within Haunt, Mind Freeze Pig Destroyer, Prowler in the Yard Trappist, Upcoming Decibel flexi disc Rosetta, Terra Sola ---------------------------------Alex Yarde : d i r e c t o r o f m a r k e t i n g Vagabon, Vagabon Cattle Decapitation, Death Atlas Code Orange, I Am King 2 Chainz, Rap or Go To the League Power Trip, Nightmare Logic
GUEST SLAYER
---------------------------------Riley McShane : a l l e g a e o n Leprous, Pitfalls Shadow of Intent, Melancholy Rozen, NieR: Glory to Mankind GHOST DATA, The Occulus Occult Oranssi Pazuzu, Muukalainen Puhuu
They Call Me Squishy ’m fairly certain I’m going to approach
the Top 40 Albums of 2019 contained in this issue like I do with nearly anything in my life: haphazardly and with little focus. I’m one of those people who will look at lists like this one or threads on social media and make a mental note of records I want to check out, but end up listening to the same few dozen records I’ve listened to for the last few dozen years. Maybe this year will be different? Yeah, no. I don’t see that happening. Why break with tradition? What if I end up enjoying some of the shit that I judge people on my newsfeed for liking? Fucking terrifying. So, rather than go on about how we’re basically all a year closer to the bombs dropping, I’m going to tell you about a recent work experience I had, because it’s frankly awful. I spent a few days in Atlantic City for my company’s annual conference a few weeks back. It was mostly seminars on the new CEO’s ego-gasmic plans for the next two years and some trade shows. I didn’t think a work function would provide me with this kind of story, but I’ve grown to just expect the worst out of every situation. My region’s newest manager, a 48-year-old with the personality of a bus station bathroom, ended up skipping the first night’s dinner and spent this time in the hotel bar. Around 7 p.m., she stumbled into two of our execs and started talking their ears off. They probably wish it was their noses missing because, as she spouted all kinds of asinine shit, she began to piss in her pants. Not a little dribble, but the kind of piss that the rest of us heard from across the room, so I’m guessing it was a full sensory experience for the execs. This made me happy because this lady beat me out for a transfer and I’m nothing if not fucking petty. You’d think once she sobered (and dried) up, she’d be embarrassed that she did that at a work function at 7 fucking p.m., but this did not deter her. She called herself “Squishy,” which might be the most repugnant sentence I’ve ever typed for this column, and I barely go a paragraph without some kind of description of semen. The second night of the conference ended with an 12 : JANUARY 2020 : DECIBEL
awards dinner where they poured wine like it was fucking Caligula before shifting into an afterparty—an ’80s-themed poolside party. I’d rather watch my parents have sex than attend. During the dinner, a few area managers and I moved our chairs in a strategic effort not to be seated anywhere near this shipwreck of a person, but still in eyesight to watch her guzzle cheap red wine like it was going to rehydrate her into having the soul of a human being, as opposed to a grape-stained trash bag. Later—while approximating human dancing—she again pissed her pants with the poise and class they teach at fancy lady schools. She zeroed in on me because, if you’ve been playing along at home, this is my life. She dripped over to me and grabbed a handful of my ass. When I expressed that this was a problem, she—three feet from our fucking boss—told me she was going to place her Lovecraftian paw on my “package,” to which I reacted, forgetting to use my inside voice, by telling her no the fuck she will not. Corporate intervention mercifully occurred, and I believed this was the end of the story. Eventually, a few of us ended up on the patio bar to have a cigarette, and the ghost of a person this woman had become showed up and tried to dance with me, rubbing her piss-soaked pants against me, cursing me to roam the earth forever. Her hands were so dry and rough that it felt like holding an overused cum sock that had been forgotten for months. She got close and told me she “wasn’t aggressive,” and then whispered in a voice that will cause me erectile difficulty for the rest of my life that she was “safe,” which I took to mean that no matter how much you water her garden, no flowers will grow. As I was obviously in distress, my boss got in between us and banished this wailing, drippy spirit back to hell. She doesn’t work for this company anymore, but I’m sure she had a real cool conversation with her husband about it. As for my column last month, I have no news that I want to share just now, but thanks to everyone who reached out. See you next month when we all celebrate my five years with “Low Culture” in some splendid fashion.
TRAPPIST FRONTMAN crafts a monthly journey through
MORBID ALES BY CHRIS DODGE
Pour Some Maltose on Me
T
he Brits take their beer seriously.
Their dedication to quality brew on a local level predates that of the States by countless decades. Case in point—the network of pubs and clubs that follow CAMRA: The Campaign for Real Ale. Among the many tenets of this organization (established in 1971) to promote “the benefits of responsible social drinking.” This perfectly summarizes the ideology behind English pub culture, one teeming with low ABV session ales meant to be enjoyed with friends over the course of an extended day. We found ourselves in the South Yorkshire borough of Sheffield. This damp, gritty, working-class town is not only the home of Def Leppard, the Human League and Arctic Monkeys, but myriad charter members of CAMRA. Amongst them, the White Lion Inn, run by underground hardcore and metal fanatics Jon Terry and Mandy Billings. It was established as a public house in 1781, meaning around the same time the U.S. was struggling with insular turmoil and sorting out whether we were a real country, the biggest concern of this pub’s patronage was which fine ale to enjoy during their social hour. A celebrated site of paranormal investigations, history seeps from every musty corner of the White Lion, which offers the gamut of
Love and hate in pub (closewise from r) Our fearless columnist and his horrible pourable day, the staff at the Rutland Arms after being asked if they serve Corona and the White Lion Inn’s Jon Terry serves beer as crushable as your windpipe
hand-pulled cask ale, among them the legendary Moonshine Pale, brewed locally by the mavericks at Abbeydale Brewery. Moonshine was a revelation in these parts when it was first released in 1996, utilizing New Zealand hops and introducing bright citrus character previously uncharted in U.K. brews. Terry is an accommodating and generous host, outwardly quiet, with the appearance of a bruiser who could crush your esophagus with one hand. Fortunately, our only “crushing” on this visit would be that of the finest ales of the north. Up the hill from White Lion, we happened upon the Brothers Arms, an old world pub where traditional and new-school beers harmonize. I soaked up the vast city view on their outside patio with a pint of Northern Monk New World IPA, a bitter juice bomb from Leeds mixing U.S., U.K. and Aussie hops. Stumbling through the adjoining park and back down the hill, we fell into the Sheaf View public house. The main room was bathed with the prominent musk of dogs and casks. I sampled local flavor from Neepsend Brew Co., whose Callisto Pale Ale is U.S.-influenced with a mildly dank mash-up of Mosaic, Simcoe and Equinox cones. The local patronage was gregarious, and I found it difficult to extract myself from any number of conversations once my party was ready to move along.
In the city center, Sheffield Tap—housed in a turn-of-the-century rail station, with the bar mere steps away from inbound trains—has consciously chosen to avoid “big brand” beer and focus solely on their proprietary taps, as well as a selection of independent regional and international pulls. And if you want to avoid the white collar crowd altogether, around the bend you’ll find the Rutland Arms, run by a team of punks and metalheads, offering the most diverse selection of independent U.K. brews in town: Cloudwater, Turning Point, Kirkstall, Almasty, the Kernel. Returning late to the White Lion Inn, I was sent behind the bar upon the insistence of our hosts for a crash course in pulling my own real ales from the cask. No simple task for a first-timer. The shabby, inebriated and very vocal gathering of hooligans took great delight in heavy-handed heckling of my amateur pouring prowess. Back home, I miss the personal aspect of the British pub culture. More than simply just providing a room in which to consume, these public houses serve a more important function as a social hub. I would happily exchange my overabundance of isolated, flavor-of-themonth industrial park breweries for a greater selection of locales rooted in neighborhood connections and real ales.
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