Review Summary: A collage of hatred capable of corrupting the strongest pacifist.
8 of 9 thought this review was well writtenAggression: hostile, injurious, or destructive behavior or outlook especially when caused by frustration. This is the driving force behind Sacramento, California's apocalyptic Trash Talk. Hell bent on brutal retaliation for any bystander who dares to turn a blind eye to the onslaught in their aspirations. None have mastered the art of destruction better than this juggernaut of chaos. The intimidating presence in modern hardcore aims to pick one up by the throat as the musical grip squeezes till unconsciousness sets in. Stage dive head first into
Walking Disease, a violent cultural painted picture in our societies sick attraction.
Trash Talk has traveled around the globe spreading their disgust for the decline in humanity, offering up their bodies to be beaten and bruised in the process. So how do these miscreants thrive in such a dysfunctional climate when the only rule to obey is the promise to adherent to none at all? It's difficult to believe the same rabid maniacs on stage could be such timidly strict businessmen behind the curtain. Owning your very own label built from the ground up supplies the privileges to live by the creed of work hard but play even harder. Trash Talks debut exemplifies this skill that one would be dangerously foolish to ignore with this catalog of pulsating sermons.
F.Y.R.A. revs the diesel machine as the feedback collectively absorbs behind a climbing register of the drums slammed to a pulp by Sam Bosson. Guitarists Garrett Stevenson and Spencer Pollard chunky strums teeter on the brink of ultimate annihilation. The supernova explodes when scrawny Lee Spielman pummels forth agonizing screams, “You’re far from ***ing clever/You’re a piece of *** because your sick sense of humor is your biting wit/Your life has never been a struggle/Mine’s an uphill fight/And now your beautiful days become my worthless nights.”
A majority of tracks bleed together in hardcore of the extremist nature. The record that manages to keep kicking the listener while down has won the war at the end. The thrashing sections bring out the most animalistic side simply by adding more bite to its bark as the anarchic vibes spit from Lee’s foaming mouth. Shotgun blast, ‘Sacramento Is Dead,’ cackles in the devastation of forest fires to the city. Lee’s furious belts of our favorite four letter word for fornication alone makes
Walking Disease a Hiroshima. When the dust has settled around those who have managed to survive, there's nothing left that will ease the pain other than admitting what Trash Talk sets out to shove right in our faces by repeating to mankind:
We are the unforgiven who never gave a ***
Time has passed us by, hard***ing luck
Decaying bones and skin, we walk this city to our death
Pushing the pavement through our final rotting breath
I pollute this world with my filth, make it harder to breathe
Late at night I'm on the streets to bring the world to its knees
We have no morals and there's no one to please
We are your worst ***ing nightmare, we are walking disease.
