Death, doom, crush, satan, grim, if you're reading this you've more than likely heard all of these shi
t redundant words before. What you ultimately want to know is: is it good? Well let me spare you a few minutes of your undoubtedly precious time and say YES don't read this stupid review just get it now.
If you're interested to see some cool words, let me oblige you. Mysteriously misspelled band name havers Cianide are a fairly by the books death-doom band from Chicago who play evil, crawling, bludgeoning riffs prone to violent upheavals of raw groove akin to Morpheus Descends or Incantation. Considerably more overlooked than most of their deathy doomy brethren, many might be surprised to discover that they were not a one hit wonder album band as is the case with probably like a million death metal bands, but are in fact still active and have been steadily grinding out thick monstrous riffery for about 25 years. Though their sound is (apparently, not gonna pretend I've listened to their new stuff) less doom influenced than it was in the decade of categorical perfection that was the 90s, The Dying Truth is a truly fantastic album that could hold its own against any of the classics of the genre you might care to name.
While I would struggle to call them formulaic, there is in all fairness usually (and rightly) little experimentation to be found in this genre. Power-chords abound; slow riffs that pummel you into catatonic malaise, slightly faster, groovier riffs that tighten the stranglehold around your pathetic neck, stinging leads that cackle and mock your pointless existence, and really fast riffs that obliterate whatever mangled remains of you are left by the time you hear them. These are all things you will find in all of the songs on the album. And don't take this as any kind of insult to the songwriting, Cianide legitimately define old school through their simplicity. Superbly generically named songs such as The Suffering or token Lovecraft tune Crawling Chaos bring exactly what you crave from this genre; vocals that never really stray from a kind of berserk raspy growl, utter absense of bass, drums with a satisfying crunch and quintessentially hollow snare as if instead of a drum kit he is playing on a pile of spooky skeletons. But this is not some zany early Disney short, it is a blackened jewel in the crown of thorns worn by death-doom. Check it out if you understand why it is good to get riffed out of your brain and submit to doom.