"Through the Cervix of Hawwah": don't judge a song by its title

The oddly-named metal records you must listen to.

I've recently been bitten by a metal bug; it's pretty ferocious and yet seemingly not very popular and not all that contagious. Listening to hardcore, metal or drone records brings with it the fairly unique problem that the artists often have such silly names, outfits and ideas that it can distract one hugely from the noise that is actually being made. The song names tend to be so spectacular that it is almost impossible for the music to compete; Bonedust on Dead Genitals for example.

There is a lot of very good stuff around at the moment though and whether attracted, appalled or indifferent to the whole language that comes with the genre, it would be a pity if you were to miss out on it all. Prison Sweat by Total Abuse is a current fav, along with Dead in the Dirt's album Fear. Philly group Satanzied also have new material in the form of Technical Virginity. Despite having a rather pretty sleeve depicting a pyramid with a white picket fence, Satanzied seem to intersperse their music with a sound similar to vomiting (it works though.) Finally, Antediluvian's soon to be released Through the Cervix of Hawwah, which may have developed a metal form of Tuvan throat singing to accompany their breed of onslaught, and I really like Tuvan throat singing. There really is something here for everyone: get bitten.

"Hogg" from the Total Abuse album Prison Sweat:

 

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“The Hole-Up”: a poem by Matthew Sweeney

“You could taste the raw / seagull you’d killed and plucked, / the mussels you’d dug from sand, / the jellyfish that wobbled in your / hands as you slobbered it.”

Lying on your mouth and nose
on the hot sand, you recall
a trip in a boat to the island –
the fat rats that skittered about
after god-knows-what dinner,
the chubby seals staring up,
the sudden realisation that a man
on the run had wintered there
while the soldiers scoured
the entire shoreline to no avail –
you knew now you had been him
out there. You could taste the raw
seagull you’d killed and plucked,
the mussels you’d dug from sand,
the jellyfish that wobbled in your
hands as you slobbered it.
You saw again that first flame
those rubbed stones woke in
the driftwood pile, and that rat
you grilled on a spar and found
delicious. Yes, you’d been that man,
and you had to admit now you
missed that time, that life,
though you were very glad you
had no memory of how it ended.


Matthew Sweeney’s Black Moon was shortlisted for the 2007 T S Eliot Prize. His latest collection is Inquisition Lane (Bloodaxe).

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt