Birds of Prey

Comparisons are a depressingly evil necessity. Equating Weight of the Wound to the hammering guitars of Slayer; with Hatebreed-ish raspy, guttural vocals and a backbeat seemingly pilfered from latter-day Entombed — the death/rock’n’roll grind — and splashes of Napalm Death shrieks, is almost self-defeating. It portends that the album lends itself to predictability and a lack of originality. Such couldn’t be further from the truth. Despite obvious influence, this album is incredibly distant from the derogatory descriptions that infiltrate most other commonplace extreme bands. With Weight of the Wound, Birds Of Prey pull these inspirations together into something that is just so fucking instinctual and unique; so relentless and angry that it emotes the confidence of an instant favourite… maybe even classic.