This year seems to be a call to arms for nearly every underground metal act to let loose a fresh scourge upon the masses, all vying for dominance in a gloriously saturated atmosphere of noise and sonic desecration. Given such a climate, it would be incomplete without cult blasphemers Profanatica, here to further piss on the sanctity of Christ on their Season of Mist debut, Rotting Incarnation of God.
Profanatica remain who they have always been: unabashedly raw violators of musical form. From the get-go in "Liturgy of Impurity," Paul Ledney's drums erupt in a consistent bass-snare hammering, spitting on any refinement in exchange for straight punishment until momentarily easing into a slightly more groove oriented d-beat. It's a formula that runs throughout Rotting Incarnation of God, with a few diversions into some interesting fill sections, but not enough to prevent the album from feeling overlong at points.
But paired with guitarist Adam Besserer's incessant riffing, any flaws become minimal in the wake of Profanatica's unholy surge. They capture a hellish playfulness in "Sacramental Cum," which hints at shades of inverse surf rock tendencies, only to exact an air of ominous foreboding of pending doom in "Rotting Incarnation of God."
Profanatica adhere to a path of simplicity that suits such a base form of music, revelling in its unrefined nature, making it all the more glorious. Even though Rotting Incarnation of God lags in places and treads the same ground in others, none of it can compare to the overall quality that Profanatica conjure in their repertoire of abomination.
(Season of Mist)Profanatica remain who they have always been: unabashedly raw violators of musical form. From the get-go in "Liturgy of Impurity," Paul Ledney's drums erupt in a consistent bass-snare hammering, spitting on any refinement in exchange for straight punishment until momentarily easing into a slightly more groove oriented d-beat. It's a formula that runs throughout Rotting Incarnation of God, with a few diversions into some interesting fill sections, but not enough to prevent the album from feeling overlong at points.
But paired with guitarist Adam Besserer's incessant riffing, any flaws become minimal in the wake of Profanatica's unholy surge. They capture a hellish playfulness in "Sacramental Cum," which hints at shades of inverse surf rock tendencies, only to exact an air of ominous foreboding of pending doom in "Rotting Incarnation of God."
Profanatica adhere to a path of simplicity that suits such a base form of music, revelling in its unrefined nature, making it all the more glorious. Even though Rotting Incarnation of God lags in places and treads the same ground in others, none of it can compare to the overall quality that Profanatica conjure in their repertoire of abomination.
