Words by Andrew Lampela
Andrew Lampela was an employee and eventual co-owner of the 40-year old institution, Haffa’s Records in Athens, Ohio, just outside of the dark woods from which Skeletonwitch emerged. Over his years there he has played in a number of bands ranging from rock to noise to metal and has taken his lifelong knowledge of music into contributing to a number of publications.
I wouldn’t say I lost the plot.
I mean, it’s pretty self-explanatory. Listen to a batch of albums. Latch on to a dozen or so. Put my college education to use describing what drew these albums out of the crowded field (cause let’s face it, absolutely too much music going on out there to catch it all). Throw in some personal context, a witty intro, and turn it in before the deadline. There you have it, a monthly column. It’s right there in the name!
We are, however, our own worst enemies.
I’ve written this column in my head a dozen times since February. There’s never a shortage of compelling metal out there if you chose to root around, and this isn’t exactly painting the Sistine Chapel, although the maddening search for synonyms will crush anyone’s spirit over time. Is anything truly ‘brutal’ at this point?
My spirit isn’t what broke this year. That would be my brain. My habits. My inability to pull away from the gloomy inertia of self-immolating doubt. It’s an absolute necessity to cover the atrocities of the world, but the twenty-four seven collision of the horrific reality of real time genocide and the callous shit-posting meme-ification of said horrors ain’t doing anybody’s brain any good.
Gotta be honest, wasn’t really doing that great before this year decided to go for gold in the Flaming-est Bag Of Turds On History’s Doorstep category, but the process was, for better or worse, a way for me to find mental footing in relation to the state of things around me, with the bonus of talking about cool records you may or may not have heard of. The point of a music column is, first and foremost, the music. Duh. A valuable by-product was articulating my stances towards a changing world as a way to understand myself. I can have an opinion in my mind for months, but it takes the written form for my brain to truly work its way through to clarity.
But who gives a shit what I think about the new Tomb Mold? The first attempt at this very column addressed my relationship with the concept of faith, how I grew up associating faith with religion, something I’ve never been drawn to, how a species can corrupt those beliefs so thoroughly as to wring any meaning from the very tenants of faith they preach in chase of power, how fucked up Christian Nationalism is, how fucked we are for allowing Christian Nationalism to take root in our education system (let alone our government), how separating the concept of faith from religion reveals it as the tool for coping that it is.
To articulate all of that, however, requires you to think about all of that, and the crushing weight of futility comes into focus. You know who doesn’t give a fuck about my Tomb Mold thoughts? Palestinians and Ukrainians, for starters, who are being ripped from this life by soulless rich people fueling a war industry that feeds their riches, because the world is a game to people who can afford to play it. We live in a very ugly place right now, the accelerated end of multiple empires that have doomed us all with obstinate Main Character Syndrome. It’s impossible to think that we’re anything other than fucked at this point.
That’s hardly a crisis of faith, though, at least in regards to the Sisyphean lifestyle I’ve succumbed to. Sit down, open laptop, stare at blankness til my soul bleeds, shut laptop without a single keystroke. The very thought of opening my laptop was enough to derail my brain into lost hours of scrolling brain-rotting nothingness, words glaringly meaningless. It’s one thing to rail against assimilating into a society that will sacrifice their own children for the right to own a gun, it’s something else entirely when the very acts of creativity you rely on for disassociating from the madness stop bringing relief and you turn on yourself.
Tropes resonate because there are general truths that are universal, and as much as we all groan at Judd Apatow churning out yet another mid-life crisis vehicle, shit is real, man. Change is inevitable, but the reality of suddenly untethering from a complete identity is somehow different every time, the ripples of self-reflection creating new patterns as they mingle in the pool of ‘life altering events’ that create existential pockets of failure and regret, triggered by family pictures or the steam from a coffee cup in the morning or a song or learning just enough music theory to realize how stupid you were before you learned it or staring at thoughts that are alien to you mere moments after you type them out.
It’s not even the depression any more. That, I have acclimated to. The killer this year was the inertia, the creative paralysis, the aversion to interaction. COVID most certainly exacerbated my agoraphobia, but I’ll tell you what, if I wasn’t in a handful of bands, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t gladly go weeks without social interaction. Partly by design, of course. I have fully accepted the part of myself that needs solitude, as scary and loud and harsh as that solitude can be. The real albatross has become this wet lump in my brain that won’t let me forget that I am the root cause of all that is wrong.
And that is, of course, bullshit. Life is a series of actions and reactions, many of which we have no control over. We are but an ant farm at the mercy of the celestially hurtling ball of dirt we are hell bent on destroying as the cosmic void looks on, unconcerned. So it’s probably only seventy percent my own fault.
I wish I had some revelatory coda to all of this, but I am no better off than I was nine months ago, struggling to find anything meaningful to pull myself out of this spiritual morass (heh heh…morass). I have ruined friendships, recoiled further from crowds bigger than leaving my apartment, stagnated artistically, and am daily stupefied at how fucked this has all become.
Much like providing my social life, I owe my bandmates (Weedghost / Unmonumental / Swage) my sanity this year. There is nothing quite like bashing out songs with my dudes. Instead of that mid-life crisis Ferrari, I highly recommend buying a beat to shit drum kit and hashing out forty-five second hardcore songs on a weekly basis. About the only thing that has kept me on the tracks while the train burns.
So try to be good to yourself. Not easy around the holidays. As I try to get right with my own mind, it might sound like some shit advice, but as the world burns around us, try to remind yourself that it’s okay to take a small breather from focusing energy on the macro-fuckedness of things to hang with your buds and take time to process the horrors.
Of course, there’s a huge pile of albums, as well. I’m super behind (obviously), and there were a ton of great records this year. I’m sure to miss many of your choices, but here’s a pretty solid picture of what I was crushing this year.
Expectations are dangerous, and I’ve learned that tempering them with a dose of “eh, even my faves suck sometimes” can save a lot of bummer time. Still, The Ruins of Fading Light is an absolute banger, so Crypt Sermon had quite a bit riding on their new album. Where Ruins was full of great songs, The Stygian Rose (Dark Descent) is an absolute masterclass in all the things I love about heavy metal, a start to finish epic. Propulsive thrashy Doom with a dash of bombastic Savatage-esque swagger, there are no flaws here. Brooks Wilson has the range to hit the highs with the grit to not sound cheesy while belting it. Enrique Sagarnaga is an absolute blast to focus on and one of my fave current drummers. The guitar interplay is melodic and inventive throughout. And the songs are fantastic, labyrinthian but never cluttered. The Stygian Rose hits every note for me, an immensely enjoyable listen that gets better every time. Total perfection.
I mean, Blood Incantation. Duh. Absolute Elsewhere (Century Media) is dizzying even by Blood Incantation standards. Divided into two tracks, “The Stargate” and “The Message” find the band incorporating every aspect of their Death/Prog/Ambient/Synth personalities beyond expertly. I have yet to be able to just passively have this on in such a way that not listening to the whole thing is possible, so plan on a forty three minute chunk of your day to absorb this fuckin’ monster. Top tier, a class of their own at this point.
I also have no notes for Chat Pile‘s new one. God’s Country is a modern classic in my house, and I’m happy to report that Cool World (The Flenser) is somehow even better. Bludgeoning Industrial a la Godflesh/Fudge Tunnel with glistening shimmers of guitar, for lack of better comparisons. This shit is awesome, one of my favorites this year.
Inter Arma is another band in a class of their own. Ostensibly Doomy Death Metal, they have carved out a sound like no other. The nauseatingly undulating guitars of the opening title track show this to be even truer of New Heaven (Relapse), a distinctly creative high point in a discography of high points. Simply put, Inter Arma sounds like Inter Arma, a smotheringly complex collection of dynamics rooted in moody Death Metal that uniquely crushes all.
While not necessarily metal, The Hope Conspiracy came back with an absolute rager, proving yet again they are one of the best Hardcore bands in existence. Tools of Oppression / Rule by Deception (Deathwish Inc) dropped in May, and I have been screaming along since. Visceral, groovy, cathartic rippers start to finish. These dudes are in a million other bands, and they’re all good too, but Hope Con is where it is at for me. I fuckin’ love every second of this.
I have been a Dysrhythmia fan for twenty plus years now, no sense in stopping now. Coffin of Conviction (Nightfloat Records) makes it super fuckin’ easy by being incredible. Knotty, mathy instrumental music is a joy when done without pretense, and Coffin delivers in spades. Colin and Kevin are in a ton of bands, all either awesome or Gorguts (legends!!!), but something truly magical happens in my brain with the addition of drummer Jeff Eber. A stellar addition to the criminally overlooked discography. I highly recommend diving into all of it.
20 Buck Spin had another banner year, and you should literally check everything they dropped out. Hard to zoom in when your whole catalog rips, however, there are two that I find myself returning to. Civerous put out one of my favorite Death Metal albums in Maze Envy, an adventurously textural, technical affair. The dynamics are where this album really gets me, allowing the heavier parts to land that much harder. Witch Vomit forgo subtlety in favor of bludgeoning classically disgusting Death, leveling up immensely in songwriting chops along the way. This style hits my sweet spot, sure, so I was bound to enjoy it as much as Buried Deep, yet the band has shown tremendous growth here, delivering a real gem and one of the disgusting highlights of the year for me. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention two albums I haven’t gotten enough time with. Immortal Bird’s Sin Querencia is rapidly working its way into the rotation, but much like Blood Incantation, I can’t seem to have this passively playing. Once I get the time, this is bound to become a favorite. And finally, at over an hour and a half, I didn’t think I’d make it through Bedsore’s Dreaming the Strife for Love, yet somehow I want more. The band’s blend of Italian Prog and Death Metal excites me in the same way Morbus Chron does. It shouldn’t work quite as well as it does, but I cease to notice time’s passing with this monster on, and it is definitely becoming a go to.
My love for Wise Blood is no secret. Not only does Sean release killer music, he seems like a genuinely awesome guy that puts out music for the love. Some of the packaging on these releases had to be a headache, but Restless Dreams in a PS2 case? That’s fucking sweet. Even when the music isn’t necessarily my thing, I can tell exactly why Wise Blood put it out. Luckily, most of it is for me. Suffer dropped a great Death Metal record in Gristle Bruised Spots Trimmed Fat, yet again itching my sweet spot. The Wizard Death is a blast. And I cannot recommend the Faster than the Devil trilogy enough, something that sounds even better on tape, transporting me to the heady days of teenage discovery via Metal Blade best of comps. There are so many good bands across these collections. Bonus points for the cassette version of the absolutely awesome new Mother of Graves album. The Periapt Of Absence (Profound Lore) is a somber study in gloomy Peaceville-esque Melodic Death Metal, and much like their last album, has been lodged in my car for months, perfect for destination-less drives through the hills. This perhaps should have gotten its own little blurb, but I discovered Mother Of Graves through Sean, therefore I’m shilling the cassette via Wise Blood. I do, in fact, make the column rules.
I am incredibly biased, because they are some of the nicest dudes you will ever meet, but watching Horseburner grow an exceptionally bonkers amount over the last decade and a half has been most joyful. Voice Of Storms (Blues Funeral) injects even more progressive tendencies into their intricate, for lack of a better descriptor, sludginess. Heavy, winding guitar harmonies coupled with Jack and Adam’s dual vocals really set my dudes apart from the usual stonerisms in the genre. I love the shit out of the last two albums, but if Voice Of Storms is any indication, these guys are truly coming into their own. I, for one, can’t wait for the next decade and a half.
Most bands can’t help but inject stoner groove into their psychedelia, but Oranssi Pazuzu never hesitate to go for straight weird space music, and Muuntautuja (Nuclear Blast) is no exception. Like an icy, fucked up extreme metal Hawkwind. Big | Brave continue to evolve, simultaneously getting better and better, and A Chaos Of Flowers (Thrill Jockey) is a prime example of their creative growth. Necrot do not put out bad albums, and Lifeless Birth (Tank Crimes) is further proof. Enforced are on a crossover tear, and A Leap Into The Dark (Century Media) proves why they are one of my favorites. This Skeletal Remains is as solid as Death Metal gets. Ditto for this Apparition. I somehow missed this Insect Ark when it came out, but Raw Blood Singing (Debemur Morti) is really doing it for me this week.