Lamb of God
Few bands, if any, match the raw intensity of Lamb of God, and their newest album, Resolution, is no exception. From the sludgy start to the shredding commencement, Lamb of God breaks out the heavy artillery. Chugging guitars laden with teeth-grinding distortion pave the way to imminent destruction while drums-so-technical-the-drummer-must-have-five arms pound away at your ears. Vocalist Randy Blythe has got to possess lungs of steel to maintain the power behind his voice. That man can fucking scream. How someone could growl like a demon for months at a time while touring is beyond me. For those worried that Lamb of God has passed its golden years, have no fear; the velocity and power behind the entire album is mind-boggling. The boys are still kicking strong and building momentum along the way, and Resolution has the sonic force to back them up. With its potent riffs, lightspeed guitars and sheer brutality, Lamb of God crushes all other competition with their seventh studio album. In a world of “here today, gone tomorrow” metal acts, they’ve carved their throne and make it apparent they plan to stay seated as kings. Seriously, I think I gave myself whiplash from rocking out. In the words of Brutus Mortis, Resolution is “BRUTIFUL!” (If you have no idea what that means, you’re missing out. Search it on YouTube. That’s what the Internet is for, dummy.)
On The Mirror
Oh. My. God. This is the new worst record ever made. Worse than Brokencyde. Worse than Nickelback. Worse than Creed (although the lead singer kinda sounds like a mix between Scott Stapp and the dude from Godsmack). Cocaine Moustache is essentially the afterbirth of whatever Hed PE and Saliva gave birth to after they screwed. The music is pure hunger-dunger father-hater butt-rock bullshit. It’s everything that’s wrong with white men. But more important than the music is the presentation in which it came. On The Mirror’s CD case features the band’s name spelled out in what’s supposed to be a shitload of cocaine. In fact, each CD comes with a cut up straw inside the spine. That’s right; they’re so dedicated to the cocaine gimmick that they’re sending out tooters with each disc. The inside of the CD case says “You Don’t Fuck With The Stache.” Take their advice. Don’t fuck with them. At all.