Review Summary: Mysterious guy hardcore? Mysterious guy hardcore!
This here slab of late noughties Florida anger be the kinda
screm muzak that the cat dragged in: grim, bloody, all chewed up, splintered bones protruding with angularity and oh my god
what that cat has a knife and is headbanging why is that cat headbanging oh god oh god oh god
oh god…
Ahem. Composure.
Punk mythos
Cult Ritual does not exist, except through the eye of the deranged flailing feline beholder. They - rumour has it - know a thing or two about infectious ripchord bangers and how to swiftly dissolve them in battery acid. Their unnamed (and only) album opens with a 5-track gauntlet of thick, soupy, real-time, punk fury a la
Dangers circa
Scratch Acid on crack. It is BIG, it is SNAPPY, it is VILE, it is
CATHARSIS. It is, also, short lived. After that 9-minute lightning round, the remaining cuts reflect an entirely
other persona. There’s a rolling, ominous, gloopy drum loop; then space; then silence; then
noise.
Sludge bass pulmonary patience songwriting (whaa) all show up to the party for a final long-form meltdown that is the B-side (early unrecognised
Chat Pile inspiration maybe mmm hmmm?). It’s a neck-snapping pace-shift to sparser, more theatrical pastures - jarring at first, intriguing at second and captivating at third. The culminating opus? A raging 12-minute masterclass in tension and release:
Cancer Money. This closing behemoth contains more feedback than riffs, more putrid character than anything before it, and a payoff that I won’t spoil here (but damn is it
filthy).
Insightful take away for the road: this forgotten LP’s elusive allure lies, I think, in its mystique. An eccentric, brilliant album spawned out of bumfuck nowhere, spoken of exclusively in hushed tones - there’s an enticing ring to that, isn’t there? Trying to find a legit digital copy is a no go, and similar futility awaits those seeking something hard. Effigy-ish: it represents the weird, meaty essence of mysterious guy hardcore; for it, it would seem, remains undiscovered. Go on, then. Have a peek. Why not?
