Chat Pile: God’s Country Album Review

Even if it was an effective trio, Chat Pile would just kill it. But Bush directs them to true greatness. He’s got it all: the presence, character, and storytelling capabilities of the veteran horror director. Start with his striking sound, which might mimic the formal bark of a policeman with a grudge or the withered squalor of a dwarf living downstairs, evoking not only discomfort but something approaching physical disgust. When he screams, which he often does, not only does the blood figuratively coagulate, it looks literally coagulated, as if little balls of matter were breaking off the walls of his throat, devouring the vowels as he rolled. When he expresses his weakness, he has a trembling and bright tone somewhere in between Bobcat Goldthwaite And the Barney Gamble on a three-day bender; It’s the sound of a man collapsing from within.

While there are thematic themes in their music – “Slaughterhouse” reveals the brutality of industrial meat production, and “Why” is a desperate plea for sympathy for the uninhabited – Chat Pile are not so much a political band as they are wretched impressionists. “More than anything else, we are trying to capture the anxiety and fear of seeing the world collapse,” Says sixty. In its proper form, in song after song, Busch displays the awful magnetism of a street corner farmer in a sandwich panel. Its subject matter can be intimidating: In “Nowhere,” a gunshot rips apart in a moment of calm, leaving blood on the narrator’s face, and brains on his shoes; In the movie “Pamela”, the man appears to have confessed to drowning his son in order to retaliate against his wife. looks like one of Henry Rollins“The Angriest Letters,” Tropical Beaches, Inc. It may be the businessman’s explosion of self-loathing. But the exact outlines of songwriting are seldom clear. Captivated and alienated by Bush’s enemies, our sympathy drifts uneasily across the tattered surface of music, trying and failing to find a solid moral purchase.

Even more terrifying is the path these songs take as they go from the garden’s various societal ills to a kind of free-association anarchy. The “Wicked Puppet Dance” begins as a cautionary tale about intravenous drugs, but in the second stanza, a paranoid narrator performs murder and arson, while the obscure chorus simply displays a list of charged monosyllables, as insistently as Netzer Eb And dripping with a harbinger: “God / eyes / taste / lips / red / vos / death / cum.” Likewise, “The Mask” begins as a short story told from the perspective of an armed thief, but in the end, its cries are an inventory of “broken faces…/and clattering fingers/and the damned dust in my eyes for the rest of my life, a chain unintelligible to anyone who doesn’t live in His tortured mind. Until the end of “Grimace_Smoking_Weed.jpeg” – a nine-minute juggernaut about a man so high he’s hallucinating McDonald’s mascot In his bedroom – the gag hemp isn’t as playful as it seems; Deep down, it’s a horrific existential nightmare, like an astonishing update on suicidal tendencies ‘institutionalized’ collection of toxic metals at the bottom of the Pepsi.

Writing songs from a punk perspective is nothing new – watch hardcore, watch country, watch narcocorridos. At the discretion of Chat Pile, even the most disturbing songs never feel taken advantage of. As slippery as their songwriting can be, there’s no doubting the band’s moral compass. The question at the heart of “why” (“Why should people live abroad?”) is an unequivocal indictment of a system that makes people homeless. The refrain from the staircase-like phrase “anywhere” (“it’s the sound of a fucking gun/it’s the sound of your world crumbling”) should be repeated at a sanctioning level outside NRA headquarters. However, the question remains: why would anyone do Wants To hear someone sing from the perspective of a child killer? Perhaps for the simplest reason: because they exist. Chat Pile does not ask us to associate with these rotten characters, it exposes them to us because they are symptoms of a deeper rot.

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