Grindujący brutalny death metal z Kanady w barwach Comatose Music. Dla fanów LIVIDITY, SARCOLYTIC, DEVOURMENT, INVERACITY.
Further face-rot from Comatose, this time it's Vancouver band Tard, with their second album, the ridiculously prolixly enmonikered Disgorging Guttural Regurgitations of Dismembered Disembowelment and Effluvious Visceral Entrail Secretions With a Side of Emaciated Malignant Lymphatic Putrescence, a Glass of Ensanguined Malodorous Discharge to Drink, and Coagulated Pustular Rectal Seepage for Dessert (With a Cherry on Top)!!! Hahahahahaha! Wordulent squalor. The material on disc is certainly as excessive as its title, in fact is very much like an (un)musical equivalent of that big long tangled-up string of brootal nouns, adjectives and transitive verbs, which when put together give us a series of vignettes full o' hectic decadence. Unfortunately, it hasn't been given ideal production: it's like it was printed upon thin, greyish, recycled paper, and the bindin' glue is already comin' unstuck. More on that shortly though.
First, time for a bit o' background info for all the brootal death fact fans (although the troo fans will probably be aware of any of my web-pilfered facts anyway): the drummer out of this band has previously contributed his rhythm section expertise to the work of those misogynistic rascals Abuse, as well as their more recent outfit, Crackwhore, not forgettin' the vox in Myopia. Yes everyone, it's Mister Nasty! Now, Tard don't give you the same kind of bright red sadistic beatin' as Abuse or slobber all over your ears with the same hilarious vox as Myopia, but they definitely have the rough and ready jaggy edges and grindy textures of Crackwhore, diversifyin' that kind of sound with some precariously balanced technical elements, many of which are delivered in a deliberately chaotic manner, makin' for an unsettlin', often rather discordant sound, intensified by the lower grade production job.
Roarin' guitar wrenches out chunkily noddable riffery, with elaborate ensmashment of taut membranes and circular alloys, whilst reassuringly versatile vox make a multi-coloured mouth-mess of gutturals and shrieks all over the place. Without warnin', sudden changes of direction shove you straight into inexplicable structural dissonance; scythin' through your tympanics with razor sharp shards of incongruous chords driven by judderin', segmented blast patterns, with big old hysterical screams plastered over the top. Jammed in amongst the more instinctive, infectious sections, these sudden outbursts make for an unpredictable, exhilaratin' listen, jostlin' your ears from solid yet easily digestible catchiness to jarrin' coarseness, arranged in such a way that your face gets scoured off as efficiently as possible, alternatin' between the different parts in order to blast you, then coax you quickly back in to nod along again with your tattered noggin, only to bash it back in again before havin' had chance to fully recuperate from the previous bout. Almost all of the tunes are over and done with somewhere around the two minute mark (except for the patience testin' bonus track, which is a long-winded, buzz filled cracklescape, the kind of which that eclectic jester Beck would have been proud to include on one of his early home recordings, and would certainly have had the same barefaced cheek to label it as a ‘bonus'[I think there was actually a song at the end of the noises; I'd lost interest by then]), but have plenty stuffed into their pint-sized timeframes, owin' to their constant changes in pace and heated pursuit of the next, even more mangled up section.
Audio quality aside, quite a lot of this put me in mind of Reek of Pubescent Despoilment by Guttural Secrete, with perhaps a few bits of the last Copremesis record, and a few uncanny similarities to Precursors to Extinction, by my camellia sinensis shrub-bud imbibin' friends in Reth. One song in particular, I forget which, has that now infamous, spiniferous Keith logo scrawled all over it, specially in the stop-starty parts with heinous shrieks on each. The singer has broad range of textures and techniques very similar to that of the pulchritudinous Mr. C. Reese. Elsewhere, perhaps some bits of Sikfuk, maybe even Fuck the Facts, possibly Cephalic Carnage.
Although the rough sound lends itself well to the harsher elements, it unfortunately ends up softenin' the overall blow of the work. Whilst the lo-fi edge certainly highlights the most vicious moments and makes them as vivid as a carbuncle, the impact of everything else is reduced considerably. Indeed, there's lots goin' on within one song and, for these ears at least, such compositions need far more clarity and cohesion than what is available here in order to appreciate what they've got: the quickfire direction changes, the extreme dynamics of the vox, the ferocity of the drummin' and so on and on. What could've been a head threshin' crusher of a record is reduced to a scraped, trebly wall of fuzz. The guitar has a tendency to become quite waspy, the kit is rather boxy and toppy, and the bass seems a bit muffly (or is it just my speakers??) and the vox fluctuate in level a bit. Perhaps this kind o' rawness is exactly what they were strivin' for, but I don't think it does any favours for the Tard sound.
Good but tinny.(Diabolical Conquest)