Review Summary: In Australia, when someone calls you the C-word, it means they are really comfortable around you and consider you a friend.
Getting called a “cunt” in Australia generally means one of two things. You see we’re a weird lot. For example, should you get acknowledged as a “sick cunt”, chances are you’ve just shouted your bogan brethren a round of piss at the pub, maybe you’ve just talked the knickers off that sheila your mates thought was out of your league (what a bunch o’ cunts) you little root rat you. Whereas, if you’re getting called a “dog cunt” you better be ready to swing those gumpy meat hands of yours (or bail) because that frothy-soaked native, dressed in his finest blue, sweat-laden wife beater is about to throw hands. What a ***ing galah! Still you must know the difference? Good for you! You mad cunt.
Enter Death***ingCunt, hailing from the same glorious city as AccaDacca (that’s AC/DC to the uninitiated). So they’re definitely Australian, and probably at least one classification of cunt from above applies. Still, when these boys aren’t hanging off their hills hoists and doing the Australian salute they’re writing sadistic death metal boppers like “Mulesing The Malformed” and “Conceived In Formaldehyde”, both of which bring a more than topical approach to extremism within death metal. These tracks, like many that follow, all exert a furious tempo, often going troppo around three-hundred-and-fifty beats per minute and are clearly over the top. But that’s the point right? Fast, brutal, heavy and ah…fast. Maybe these guys just want to move as fast as Tony Abbot in a pair of ***ing budgie smugglers? They certainly carry a bigger bir—what I’m trying to say is if you’re looking to get a fair suck of the sav, you’re going to get more than a mouthful here.
“Blunt Force Vasectomy” continues taking a sledgehammer to the very descriptors death metal so loosely enjoys. After all, we’re not here to fuck spiders are we? Gutturals storm the hallowed alleys of Perth while a massive surge of vicious riffs fight through pinch harmonics and the occasional slamming motifs. By now the listener knows their in for the sheer shock factor, but may have missed the lighter intricacies in the instrumental gymnastics that occur beneath the surface. The bass and drum work is particularly on point, a rhythmic backbone to which the album’s flurried guitar melodies and gargled vocals neatly rest. What Death***ingCunt’s
Decadent Perversity lacks however is variance and flair beyond the obvious genre confines it’s stuck to. It’s less of a gripe and more of an observation that almost goes without saying—but here I am, saying the obvious in the hopes that there’s a few less bogans out there.
For everything Death***ingCunt could be, they’ve done it with gusto. Leave your fanny packs (or bum bags if you’re a native) at home,
Decadent Perversity hits harder than an outgoing-Aussie prime minister tackling a kid or a wristy behind the sheds. For a succinct thirty-six minutes this Perth export will ensnare your senses while retaining the breakneck tempo to which the record started.
Decadent Perversity is ***ing apples mate, a ***ing granny smith.
