Review Summary: The felony is reduced to a misdemeanor but it remains a crime.24 of 27 thought this review was well written
I’m not entirely sure how one applies the old saying, “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me,” when it's been several offenses. The consensus that might have been scared Emmure would progress need not fret about Speaker Of The Dead’s
minimal tweaking. It’s painfully clear the absence in growth is to keep the pit ninja brethren content who blindly think "brutality" suffices for substance. I often wonder how many times a band of this nature can beat a dead horse until their fans will start to demand more bang for their buck.
The album commences with the repetitive breakdown intro, “Children of Cybertron,” that has Durst version 2.0 barking alpha male threats. Deja vu transpires upon further inspection, evidently due to the same recycled disaster that mirrors a vague Goodbye To The Gallows
twist. Apparently the big evolution in Emmure’s redundant legacy is randomly assorted electronics. The trained ears not sheltered by a fitted cap will surely still notice unoriginality at its finest.
It comes as no surprise that nothing ideally stands out on this latest infestation. The horrible rapping that reared its ugly head on the previous nu-metal revival is thankfully whittled down immensely. It’s difficult to assess what areas Emmure have improved on because Joey Sturgis’s crisp production has extremely masked their pathetic lack of musicianship. Infamous frontman Frankie Palmeri continues to feature ridiculous layers of high and low sections with obnoxious spoken word to coherently mark some of the most horrendous lyrics ever muttered.
I’ve noticed a blow job obsession has manifested in Frankie and he's not battling hard to keep it a secret. The misplaced masochism has shifted from therapeutic to downright disturbing in 'Drug Dealer Friend' where he growls, “I wanna watch you suck his dick/I know you fucking love it/Bitch." The mind boggling content on the rest of the album basically covers nothing but Palmeri's kooky theories on extraterrestrials and conspiracies over an overwhelming fifteen tracks. "I'm ready to kill for my beliefs/Are you with me in this fight?"...I'm good bro.
The guitarists rarely decide to leave the first fret board other than to mimic an era when Korn ruled the world. It's puzzling to figure out why Mulholland needs a Telecaster and Ketive plays a seven string Ibanez when both appear fairly satisfied with strumming in binary code. When the bass isn't being dragged across the floor Davis exhibits audible contributions but wastes them on numbing chugs. The only thing I recall about Kaabe is a collection of trapper hats since his drumming contains a borefest that sparks a case of Alzheimer's.
I advise curious participants to skip Speaker Of The Dead
unless it’s a familiar stomping ground. I suppose an unrelenting mob could claim it’s the best conception Emmure’s accomplished since their debut on Victory. Realists in attendance, however, will merely get a heap full of comical relief if they're into that sort of morbid entertainment. When “Word Of Intulo” abruptly winds down all that's left is another chapter breeding delusional animosity.