Right about now, you couldn’t chuck a rock in the streets without hitting a murky, mysterious death metal band square in the stones. But not everyone at the ball is gonna get picked to dance, so there’s a lot of wallflowers for us all to sift through. But if I walked into a swirling gymnasium and saw Antediluvian from across the room, I’d want to dance with her…them….it….
Point is: this is what I’m looking for when it comes to woozy, lumbering death metal. It’s a similarly nebulous and primitive brew when compared to a number of other acts currently making a stink, but Antediluvian manages to level the haziness a few shades through ample use of stacks of enjoyable, sobering hooks. So, the uncomfortable scratch-to-the-bone sensation I get from Portal or Teitanblood, and the feelings of having just slugged down 32oz of Robitussin in a haunted swamp ala Impetuous Ritual — those elements are certainly present on Through the Cervix of Hawwah, but they’re eclipsed by the band’s ability to make me want to schlepp through the trees like the horrifically immense, deranged and mutated bear from the 1979 version of The Prophecy. (Go ahead and take a moment to go look that bastard up: “Prophecy 1979 movie” — the precise visual representation of this album, by Hell.)
Just listen to the megaton hammer-swing delivered at the onset of “Scions of Ha Nachash” — that is one of the prettiest displays of a galumphing charge toward uneasy prey as I’ve heard in 2011. And the 50-second mark of “Intuitus Mortuus” is the ideal soundtrack to a panicked Anthony Hopkins and fat-assed Alec Baldwin lost in the wilderness and sitting inside a ring of fire in the dead of night in hopes of staving off an unhinged grizzly bear. Hell, you can almost see the steam huffing from Antediluvian‘s snout as it stalks the perimeter. And “From the Seraphic Embrace” — are you kidding me? The walloping rhythm at the heart of this tune alone is enough to transform wimpy-wimpy-wimpy into hefty-hefty-hef-I JUST ACCIDENTALLY CRUSHED YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY LOOK THERE’S YOUR LOVING WIFE’S HEAD BETWEEN MY TOES.
But it’s not just about slowly pulverizing hooks. An equal share of effort is put toward raising anxiety levels through frequent turbulent charges, sparse maggoty leads, and the occasional gutted hog-howl. Frenzied racket, in a nutshell — like those Looney Tune cats suddenly swarming into a shredding cloud directly atop that unsuspecting bulldog’s face; the poor, poor fellow.
Lyrically, I haven’t the foggiest idea what the hell’s going on. The vocals are so guttural and garbled, they could be grumble-grousing rinse, lather, repeat x50 and you’d be none the wiser. I could certainly spend an enjoyable half hour investigating all the various meanings behind the cryptic titles and lyrics, but really, that would get in the way of imagining myself transforming into a Herculean werebeast with the power to crack trees in half, so I apologize in advance if I’m opening some sort of smoking portal to Hell each time this album gets another spin. Plus, I have friends who are smarter than me that I can rely on for figuring out how to seal up pesky maws into The Infernal Abyss, so I’ll just make use of myself by comforting all the ladies nervously running around in their pajamas — I’m a gentleman like that.
Actually, maybe it’s high-time this planet does get scourged and whipped into molten ash, so I think I’ll just go ahead and put this gremlin on repeat for the foreseeable future. All hail the extinction of mankind.