Review Summary: The perfect thing for anger... Just add a sales assistant and a chainsaw and let the fun begin.
There are times in one's life when anger is all, where anger is all-consuming. Times when the red mist descends, only to lift when all the wrath within is expended, forcibly or otherwise. Times where all you want to do is scream. I had a moment like this myself a few days ago, where I became so incandescent that I still don't quite know why I didn't explode. It began in a shop- not just any shop, but a music shop. After leafing through the CDs on sale in the metal section (as a casual browser does), I approached an attendant with the intention of asking her to see if there was any chance of the CD I was looking for (i.e. the ONLY one not on the shelf) being available to order. Such a mistake has never been made. She took one look at me- a distainful look, a look of unconcealed dislike, as if I was a stain on her carpet- before stalking off to find a form. She returned with not so much a form as a small book. After filling out this tome, feeling a little disgruntled, I handed it back to her. She turned through it abysmally slowly, her piggy eyes scanning my words for mistakes. I could see she was eager to find a reason to fault me. I was liking her less and less by the minute. Already I was picturing submerging her in a vat of tar for troubles. And then, with a smirk of satisfaction, her finger descended like the hand of fate upon a section. Like the crash of the gavel was this finger, like the blow of judgement from on high. And then she said it: 'You've missed an apostrophe here.' I didn't so much cry out as detonate with rage.
And so I found myself outside of the shop, a CD lighter and with a temper to take the stripes off of a tiger. Disheartened and wrathful, I stomped home in a petulant huff, and there collapsed into an armchair to ruminate- and steam with fury. It was then I noticed an album resting on my armchair table, still partially enclosed within the cheery wrapping paper it had been inside. I picked it up, removed the tattered remains of the rabbit-printed film and saw the title. A broad smile opened across my face. Maniacal Miscreation. By Cerebral Bore. I had found someone just as angry as I. And so, the stereo was activated, and the room was filled by some of the most brutal death metal I had ever heard. And also, given the circumstances, some of the most therapeutic.
The first thing that struck me about Maniacal Miscreation was the stunning tempo changes it boasted. Rocketing between slow and fast like a rollercoaster, it never kept still long enough to stagnate, with some impressively technical riffs roaring from the speakers like some malevolent deity. The album as a whole was very technical, very polished- as if fashioned from razor wire rather than the usual explosive nitroglycerin of death metal. Every riff was also inventive- each was something memorable, rather than dull filler matter. Not to say there weren't clearly songs written in haste, but most were sparky and engaging as it is possible to be when sounding like you're standing in the centre of a Middle-Eastern warzone. Speaking on the technicalities of this album, of course, is impossible without mentioning the impressive pipes of Simone Pluijmers, who sounds like she's been flossing with grenades and possibly exchanged her voicebox for that of a bear. I can honestly say I have never heard a more impressive femal death metal voice- her pig squeals never ceased to amaze me (and, to be honest, slightly scared me).
The album is not perfect- the lyrics are best described as terrible, and the solos leave a lot to be desired- but, if one finds oneself in an angry state of mind, this can be prescribed by any doctor as an ultimate remedy. Just find one sales assistant, a chainsaw and Maniacal Miscreation and let the fun begin...
