Scolopendra – VM18 Review

The sound, it looks wonderful! – Dario Argento

I’ll be honest, I didn’t understand the reference when I saw the title for Scolopendra’s sophomore album, VM18. All I knew was that the debut of the Necrophagia-esque death metal project from members of Italian cult black metal band Abhor scratched an itch for 1) primordial but infectious death metal (pre-Sunlight Studios, pre-Morrisound, think Necrophagia) and 2) bringing not just the imagery, but the tone of classic horror film pulp into their music (think Italian horror metal legends Death SS). Listening to Those Of The Catacombs felt like the auditory equivalent of finding a bunch of dusty old Fulci or Bava horror VHS tapes in the attic and transposing them to the theatre of the mind via death fuckin’ metal!

When my cassette for VM18 arrived, the title reference instantly clicked as soon as my eyes worked their way down the spine of the shell: Vietato al Minori di anni 18 – “Prohibited for Children under 18.” Even the “18” symbol adds a complementary touch to the Tales From The Crypt painted film poster of the cover. It hit me like a casket slamming the pavement from back of a supercharged hearse running late for its next appointment at Mourningside Cemetery. All of a sudden, the cassette felt like a minuscule VHS tape in my hands.

Following multiple painstakingly failed attempts to pop VM18 into my VCR, it finally found its way to the cassette player. With the volume already turned up in anticipation, the coffin dust shakes off the speakers with a guitar intro that showcases the tone I attached so strongly to on the first record. With the overuse of the term, “crunchy” doesn’t feel quite adequate–the sound is both dry as a bone and wet as the bloody chunks of flesh still hanging from said bone, breaded with a heaping helping of thirteen herbs and spices and deep fried in boiling oil until it’s cooked to golden brown brown. Perhaps “crispy” is the better word.

“Żubrówka for Breakfast” explodes with a guttural growl zooming like a possessed spectre across a hammering drumbeat into the verse, where it’s met with just the right touch of organ crooning in the background to lend a hand to that horror camp atmosphere. It’s a great start, and just what I wanted in a follow-up album. The vocals, much like the guitar sound, are somehow dry as a decomposing larynx yet dripping with blood, bile, and maggot goo. Yet, they’re easily decipherable; Scolopendra certainly aren’t trying to bury their tale of fighting through hordes of zombies and one hell of a hangover armed with nothing but a few axes, a couple of shotguns, a bottle of vodka, and heavy metal.

Mid-song, Scolopendra pull a surprise: a driving rock ‘n’ roll riff. It hits, unexpectedly, like White Zombie or Rammstein: that ignorant, bored out V8 engine with twin exhaust type of riff, ramming the pistons as it digs through the ditches and burns through the witches and slams on the back of a draaaa…iiiiiving rhythm. As off-putting as this may sound on paper, it works in the context of the band’s sound. It is as though this infectious, bordering radio-friendly riff is filmed through the grit and grime of the smudged lens of Season Of The Dead, Seven Churches, and Luck Of The Corpse.

As the record progresses, the basic but effective riffs continue their function of pushing the story forward and keeping the skulls banging–it is nigh impossible to listen along without feeling like a neck screw has come loose. Scolopendra’s songwriting feels instinctual, intuitive. They aren’t overthinking things here, just writing good, disgusting, infectious metal of death. Moments like the galloping bridge on “Cemetery Exhibition,” the bluesy, wailing solo surrendering to the Halloween organs on “The Five Stages Of Putrefaction,” or the breakout riffs exploding from the doom build on the dramatic “Left Hand Amputation” play out like tastefully paced kill scenes across the album.

The songs are good, and littered with hooks. Scolopendra’s ability to craft something catchy and memorable is a bit of a breath of fresh air in the oversaturated wave of new “old school” death metal that has long since suffocated on its own abundance and sterility. There is, perhaps ironically, life to the music of Scolopendra–and therefore, at least an implied risk of losing it. (Death metal kills, after all). But it’s the production that really puts VM18 over the edge and makes it such a sadistic pleasure to listen to. It paints a rich picture of the horrors Scolopendra are conveying on the silver screen of the ear. The louder’n hell guitar distortion scuttles like a centipede across the skin, the bass worms its way in and out of the spotlight, the warm drums pound like a terrified heartbeat pumping gallons of sweet, sticky blood across the screen. It feels alive, ALIVE I tell you!

One of the many things Scolopendra boldly proclaim within the cassette is: “We are not artists!!!” and I’m inclined to agree with the band on this one. Hell, so many of the greats of Italian horror weren’t artists; it’s not the right word. Their pursuits were more focused on technique, the proficiency to make the camera convey their will than what it was they were trying to say. “Never let the plot get in the way of the story.” In the same way, Scolopendra are not artists–they are tradesman who have honed and refined their death-rattled take on horror and the metals heavy. It’s not about the message, it’s about the listening experience itself. VM18 is anything but self-indulgent, this is one fun mother made from the love of the craft and it shows–right there on the big screen.

Four stars, Joe Bob says check it out.