Originally written by Chris Redar
Every once in a great while, an album comes along that changes the way you think. It changes the way you think not just about music, but how you view music as a medium. Sometimes, it can even change the way you think about life. Tetragrammaton, the latest from Holland’s own The Monolith Deathcult, is currently making yours truly ask some of the hard questions, such as:
Why is this happening?
When will it stop happening?
Seriously, why is this happening?
There’s a serious cheese factor going on here. Example one: This thing opens up with a sample from Independence Day. Yes, the Jerry Bruckheimer blockbuster turned TNT Sunday hangover staple kicks off an album from a band called The Monolith Deathcult. And it’s not even the worst sample used on this monument to ridiculousness. The track, “Gods Among Insects,” actually comes out of the gate with a gallop. Great drums, heavy riff, and nice low vocals sure to impress your friends.
And then it keeps on galloping. And galloping. For over ten excruciating minutes. This is something every song here has in common: a completely unnecessary running time, often accompanied by a numbingly repetitive riff. Repetition, when used properly, can be one of the most deadly daggers in an artist’s arsenal. The Monolith Deathcult are about as sharp as a pillow fight in that department. Middle parts that simply middle, endings that refuse to end… These songs are like those two or three guys at the end of a house party. One of them already missed the toilet when their stomach rejected that last keg stand, and now they’re just kind of sitting on the couch while the host is vacuuming and giving the most exasperated fake yawns he or she can muster, saying louder and louder, “man, guys, it’s getting really late.” Are they just going to sit there until they are forcibly asked to leave? Or is the host going to cave and let them crash out on the floor? Neither option is desirable, but who decided to have the party in the first place? This album makes the listener the host. Good luck getting those stains out, sucker.
It only gets worse from there. ‘Human Wave Attack’ sounds like Al Jourgensen and Rob Zombie had a love child. Now, as we all know, some love children grow up to have successful careers and family lives despite living as someone else’s dirty little secret. Not this love child. This is the love child that the parents hide in the attic, occasionally remembering to leave a bucket of chum near the stairs for nourishment. “Drugs, Thugs, & Machetes” sounds like something Max Cavalera passed on for a Soulfly album. And remember those samples mentioned earlier? This one has the coup-de-grace of nonsense- fucking Dr. Martin Luther King. That’s right, TMD drops part of the ‘I have a dream’ speech on us, and then just kind of sits back and pretends it makes sense. Small hint: it doesn’t.
What else could possibly go wrong? Plenty. “Todesnact Von Stammheim,” recipient of the prestigious ‘let’s make a lyric video out of this’ award, is basically nu-metal. You read that right- take the lackluster, plodding vocals down a notch, and this could sit side-by-side with anything in Coal Chamber’s catalog, and that is not said lightly. The spoken word segments in ‘S.A.D.M.’ (which stands for, I shit you not, Svpreme Avantgarde Death Metal) are laughably bad- and not an elitist guffaw like a king would bellow, but actual silly giggling. Just ask the guy next to me while I was listening to this in my car as I tried to turn the volume down and hide my head in shame, hoping he would recognize neither my face nor the album currently tainting my speakers. And by the way, guys, Nile called- they’ll be sending their lawyers your way any minute for “Aslimu! – All Slain Those Who Bring Down Our Highly Respected Symbols to the Lower Status of the Barren Earth.” Besides the absolute barn-burner of a title, this sounds like a b-side from Black Seeds of Vengeance.
The only real bright spot here is “Qasr Al-Nihaya.” Once you get past the first three minutes or so–again, the beginning will have you waiting for David fucking Draiman to kick off the verse–you get your first real taste of songwriting. There’s actually more than one riff here that isn’t a meandering solo, and there are nice little start-stops and even a tempo shift.
Look: Not every band is going to reinvent the proverbial wheel. The middle-of-the-road guys are necessary to differentiate the great ones from the piles of raccoon guts. Not only is this album in the latter category, the sheer attempt at wheel reinvention has left the tire flat and useless with the rim bent up. If misery and joylessness is your goal, spend the twelve bucks on a bottle of ipecac syrup. At least you’ll understand the nausea and the regret that ensues.
