Dysentery – Fragments (2015) – I’m not the biggest fan of slam death (never have been, never will be) but Boston’s Dysentery seem to do a good job of bringing home the bacon… just so long as it’s bacon that was made from your flayed carcass.
Fragments is the kind of album that’s too gore for your own good, but you’ll be ready to soak in pus proudly for its arrival. It sounds like the filthy remains of a dead hooker stuck in a gigantic, whirling industrial fan of some sort. You’ll hear the loud blades, the chopping riffs and the gurgle of fluids that drip from the vocal matter (or body parts in this case) from such a corpse. Slam fans know what they’re getting from a band called Dysentery and an album cover which such a depiction as the above. These guys didn’t come to make ice cream; they came to make intestinal sandwiches with ten tons of gore, groove riffs and breakdowns.
You can also expect a speedy drum performance at times, even though these guys like to keep it slow and deadly. Nearly all of the songs sound roundabout the same, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t enjoyable. Sometimes I’ll tear albums apart with a cleaver because many of the songs sound the same, but with something as short and catchy as Dysentery, I don’t really seem to mind. It’s a record that will make me bang my head, raise my horns into the air and really have a good time.
I can’t even make out one ounce of vocal, but I think that’s the beauty of it. The record sounds like a gory mess and you’ll be feasting on your own entrails as you listen. This is actually the kind of record that seems to go good with a plate of meat and a glass of blood. There are indeed slight changes between every song and even some slightly technical moments in between the massive breakdowns, but Fragments feels like another day at the malpractice office and frankly, that’s how it should sound.
It’s the kind of record that a gore fan wants just from listening to the first song and I don’t feel that anyone is going to be left with a well done steak, when they asked for rare and bloody.
This is the kind of music that you might listen to in a public place while wearing your fine suit and tie, wherein an individual might ask you, “Sir, just what in the hell are you listening to?” To which your answer should be, “It’s just the sound of a thousand body parts shoved into a meat grinder and regurgitated outwards into the plates of hungry Ethiopians.”
(13 Tracks, 31:00)