It’s also shown itself capable of
asserting longer changer life than practically any record I’ve
listened to this year (except for maybe Roxy Music’s For Your
Pleasure, which is a whole different story). I got it in the mail,
said “cool!” and dropped it in, and for the next two weeks
every time one CD ended there’s be a 25% chance that the next
thing I’d hear would be the distorted sliding-portamento scary-ass
opening bass notes that, like a cloud of locusts announcing the arrival
of the plague, herald the beginning of Nothing. Those of you
who remember where
we last left off with Meshuggah will be happy to learn that they
have not succumbed to the too-common urge successful bands get to
show their listeners something they usually refer to, in interviews
promoting the new album, as “another side of the band.”
No. God is benevolent, the world is good, and Meshuggah is fucking
savage. Not in the Purifying Blanket of Pure Sound sense of the word,
either, as in the case of a lot of these really excellent Finnish
metal bands about whom I’ve really got to tell you some time,
but in the sense that a dogfight in a pit somewhere in London circa
1886 would be rightly called savage. The sound these four Swedish
guys make together comes off like an advocate’s reading of the
case for a return to more primitive laws.
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