Having bashed away at Lik for a few days like a stair-challenged zombie caught in a computer glitch I decided there was only one thing for it. Swedish Death Metal: Trial By Beer. Every time someone bites the dust in verse or chorus – I drink. Luckily I was already a few beers in before I decided this was a good idea so I was at least halfway through the first track before my plan began to catch up with me. ‘Murder, death, hate, kill!’
Short tracks means fast drinking but it’s worse than that. The twisted lyrics and nerve jarring, head-banging riffs begin to combine with the alcohol to induce an unstable psychosis. The animalistic voice embedded within the music is barking at me: ‘I am hungry for fresh meat, crushing bones, human screams, frightened figures reaching for help, I’m clawing hacking, craving their flesh.’ My wife and children are beginning to display similar characteristics to the mindless flesh eating re-animates in the lyrics as I clear the fridge of Heineken – staring at me open mouthed and lurching forwards drooling. Ok – maybe the lurching and the drooling is me. Gotta get me out of here.
Headphones on, the frenetic semi-melodic guitar riffs drilling into my brain. The vocals jabbing incessantly like the stabbing of the knife in the worryingly gratuitous Death Orgasmic. I head out into the street. As I march past the kebab shop, head down. I’m beginning to feel the sweat of beer and paranoia dripping down my back. The guy behind the counter waves his skewer as he recognises me – it looks sharp. Is that blood on it? Is his face melting? I pull my jacket collar higher as the wind wraps itself around my pulsing temples. Things are getting a little intense but what would you expect from a band with ex-members of Grave, Carnal Forge, Katatonia and The Resistance.
I hurry past WH Smith, jumping back when that tall bloke with the unfeasibly small head and dead, sunken eyes lunges out in front of me. He turns to look straight at me just as the band finishes up the blackened thrash of Sickening and breaks into Endless Oceans of Blood. The tracks seem to merge into one. He mouths: ‘It sounds like Witchery.’ Or maybe it was ‘I’m sorry.’ What’s he sorry for? I panic. I walk on, quickening step and tripping over mobility scooters and hoping to find solace in the King’s Head where the trial can continue. I’m way behind. He’s right though – Swedish old school melo-death with an aggressive edge and a bit of Necrophobic thrown in. The killing spree lyrics are lashing out methods of dismembering like an excitable pensioner telling you in a little too much detail about their varicose veins. There’s a buzzing sound like early death metal meets late 1980s thrash pummeling my ears drums. I can’t stop nodding my head in double time but my legs aren’t working properly.
I stumble into the pub – a dozen bald men with no necks turn to look at me. Keep focused. The grinding riff of Behold The Beheaded puts me into slow motion as I try to look inconspicuous but knowing in my heart I’m walking like a lolloping Mr Soft. I head to the bar and mumble something about lager. The woman stares at me – my mouth isn’t working. ‘Behold The Dead!’ a voice shouts. My headphones. I remove them. Silence. The whole bar is listening to me breathe and waiting for me to say something. I’m way behind on the challenge. I point. Lager. ‘Pint?’ I nod. The glass is huge – I should say something. I can’t drink all that. Subconsciously I put my headphones back in. The woman is laughing. My wife. She must have spiked my drink. I knew she hated me. Or maybe it’s just Lik dragging me into their world of weird tripped-out death-by-zombie metal. Skin Necrosis. ‘I had my nose sandwiched the other day, topped with Russian caviar. I eat myself alive, taste my rotting flesh, my dead skin devoured, I eat myself alive.’
This is not going well. My hand has turned black. Skin Necrosis. I’m staring at my iPod. It’s the song name, I remind myself, not my medical records. Eating myself alive – the image hangs in my mind. How is that even possible? ‘I’m down to my last limb, darkness devours me, as I devour my cock.’ Did he really say that? ‘£4.80.’ Oh – the lager. The trial by beer. The chugging outro Trail ov Entrails with its ragged, electrifying riffs like the pulses connecting my thoughts together. There are men on the big screen chasing an egg around in a field. The music is drifting off. Everything is going to be ok. Or nothing is ever going to be ok ever again. I’m sweating badly and my face feels like it’s about to burst. I shuffle my headphones into my pocket. People are talking. It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon. What the hell am I doing in here? I stare at the full pint glass in front of me. The trial. Bad idea. Or maybe it was the best idea I’ve had all year. Time to go home.
Lik. Highly recommended with strong lager. Not for the mentally unstable.
(7.5/10 Reverend Darkstanley)
Leave a Reply