Hypothetically, let's say you meet two ladies out at a bar, or some other place you'd expect to hook up (possibly a library). Let's say you hit it off with both of them and everything is copacetic. Then one of them suggests that they go back to your place. Even if you're not really into women, you're having a good enough time with them that you're willing to see where things go. And if you are into women... well, let's say this is going your way. So you get back to your place and one of them asks if you keep any drinks around. You tell her where to find what she's looking for in the fridge and she comes back with enough for the three of you. Now, imagine after your first sip, something feels immediately off. There is suddenly a cannonball running down the length of your intestines and the room is spinning. Then you realize that these chicks are packing heat. You're about to get mugged, my dude. Say sooooooo long to your PS5. Hopefully, they don't leave the door open when they make their getaway and let your cat out because that furry little dude is about all you're going to have to your name once these felonious females are through with you. You might think this is just a weird little spectacle, the product of some fever raging in my brain, but there is a point behind it. And that point that Living Weapon's first (and so far only EP) Paradise is like having your ass beat and all your stuff boosted... unexpectedly, I might add. I figured I was in for a ride purely on the basis that the band comprises members of Vein. and Vomit Forth, but this foreknowledge did not prepare me for the hurricane of shit I was stepping into. From the first note to the final salvo, it feels like you've been stuffed in a dryer with the knob cranked all the way to maximum rotational speed. It's a spin cycle with a vengeance. It will liquify you and keep your skull as a bowl to prevent your personal slurry from staining the carpet. Harm's Way would be wanton to beg a bit of mercy out of these cyclonic psychos the churning, burning breakdowns and beats that are propelled by their anger. Paradise is a blender of pugnacious punishment, a clock-cleaning clobber fest that concludes with an homage to one of the angriest men to ever hock a hi-fi stereo system. It will leave you green, gashed and tender, and wishing that the aforementioned mad merchant was still around to help you replace all the loot that got lifted from your casa.
I lied. There is no Netflix. Sit down. We're listening to Closed Casket Activities.
