originally written by Kyle Harcott
Nose-picked Swedish frostfilth. Dungarees caked with human grease. Ugly tattoos. Tattered hair. Each successive inverted cross bigger than the last guy’s. Eskilstuna’s WAN could give two fucks. They’re here to preach to the perverted, smearing their unabashed first-wave worship with all manner of caked-on crust and hardcore sensibilities.
There is absolutely nothing new under the sun here–save for maybe the short-burst, H×C-lengths to the songs–but even that is endearing and familiar, because you just want to keep listening to Enjoy The Filth’s same thirty-one minutes over and over again until the beer is all gone. Word to the wise, though: Puke it up and you can keep drinking some more.
Unlike its predecessor, 2010’s Wolves of the North, Enjoy The Filth employs a human drummer in Cursed 13’s Dimitri “Dimman” Jungi (though according to a recent Facebook post, he’s since left WAN, dammit), and the songwriting seems to have tightened several notches around the human element in the drums. WAN feel like a band here, where their previous record left them feeling a little more like a demo band; some of that record’s riffs fell on the ears like undercooked, Manowarian leftovers.
Nope, no hamfistery here. Enjoy The Filth goes full savage, embracing an unrepentant lust for the Bathory bootfuck with zeal. Riffs besotted with dirty-motor-oil scum, vodka-puked vocals, drums that deathrattle with the brimstone-smoking thunder of hell; the whole cally, grazhny mess is sheer Hellhammerian ecstasy with two middle fingers pointing firmly skyward. Tom Warrior looks down from on high in his icy, Swiss fortress of solitude and nods damnation approval.
“Fuck you aaaaallllllllll,” invokes the four-on-the-floor opening of “Pentagram Rockers”, and that first twelve seconds of the song lays it out far better than x-number of words from yours truly ever could – a manifesto in under fifteen seconds. Lyrics are a mystical hybrid of English and Swedish, but they’re more than likely all about Jesus Christ being dead, or burning crucifixes, or charging your motorsickle across the icy Swede tundra at Oskorei-speed, or being immersed in the bullet-belted northern brotherhood of satan-metal. Even if they’re not, they are. Throw in a liberal dose of frostbitten “Ungh!”s, and you’ve got a real solid motherfucker of a black’n’roll ass-kicker.
So enjoy the filth, because chances are, you already are.
