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November 23, 2017


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Vomitory
Fistful Of Hate (Metal Blade Records)

By: Vinnie Apicella

Five years ago Vomitory released a 10-year anniversary limited edition 10" to commemorate-- and that was before they'd even released anything of relative renown. Here it is fifteen years since they began and still, it's hard to imagine. Then again their first "breakthrough" came when Metal Blade picked 'em up and released "Revelation Nausea" in 2000 when the bands' fortunes as just another moribund gratuitous killing machine with instruments and poor speech changed to equate them on a similar level with the many Death stalwarts appearing overseas and stateside.

Not that faceless "Fadeless" Records releases and 7" cut-ups don't account for something, but in the first place, from '93 to '96 to '99, who knew, and for those who did, good luck getting 'em. Vomitory's longevity is well earned. They're fast and flawless, lethal aggression lent to the literary topic of the day -- picking apart the nation state and religious hypocrisy in a demonstrative and downright disgusting lyrical diatribe that'll leave yer gastric juices dropping from the smell of slaughter -- copped from fourth track, "Epidemic (Created To Kill)," but hey, it fits.

Henrik Larsson's studio work, which does not go unnoticed amidst the building volume and heavy feedback, is the stuff of legend, lending another stellar level to ten more blood curdling blows blown into then out of proportion and only fully appreciated at full volume, though common sense should prevail at some point. "Condemned By Pride" is Entombed-like following the robust guitar riffing of their "Ride, Shoot Straight--" record with the bone chilling extreme of "Left Hand Path," though I'm not sure I get the joke with the G-rated title--

"Stray Bullet Kills" has Slayer's sinister "South Of Heaven" style opening before demolishing any further impulse for comparison with anything other than a semi-automatic discharging lead into your skull. "Chainsaw Surgery" concludes by disassembling and describing in great detail a body relieved of its limbs among one of the more musically uplifting massacres one might endure for 3:11 of their useless life led to the end by the blood curdling scream. Then, before the last breath, 35 minutes later, it's all over, fade to black, you're deaf and your heart rate's at dangerously high levels. "Primal Massacre" finds the cynical Swedes in primitively satisfying form, instrumentally adept and acidic.

A decade and a half since starting, the steadiness of the band that spawned all the way back in '89 discharged from the bowels of Venom, Death, Deicide, and dissatisfaction with all forms of human gaiety, comes across in a sharp, swarming display of expulsive shred and skillfulness few can exploit and even fewer can fake.

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