Attack

opis:

Editor's info:
Upon first glance at its gruesome exterior, Dead Child appears to be a new creation. However, its jagged roots extend deep into the past, with a history that holds almost a century of collective experience.
It all began when, as youngsters growing up in Louisville, KY during the 70s and 80s, the evil riffs of the heaviest bands were like voices beckoning them to a darker side. Thus began a long, downward journey into the abyss.
As the members aged, the effects of their constant search for fresh sounds took its toll, both mentally and physically. Some sought counseling. Others turned even further inward and found their maladjustment manifesting in physical ways.
Hopelessly searching to cure bad parts and old limbs, Dead Child made many misguided visits to the Louisville Prosthetics Suppliers.
Met with either anger or apathy, their attempts always ended with another door slammed in their faces.
Being turned away left them feeling hopeless and hollow. The world grew darker. They gradually became more and more disoriented until their surroundings blurred, spinning out of control. Days and nights became a single endless moment. Unbearable pain was the only thread that connected light and dark. Each member, independent of the others, went back to his metal roots in an effort to feel grounded in a doomed world.
Dead Child have birthed a truly supreme metal masterwork. 'Attack,' grew out of pure frustration - the band was sick of the vulnerable, pompous music of recent years, instead jonesing for the pure and simple chops-oriented music of their formative days. It's all serious. No cookie monster vox, and full of thundering drums and anthemic riffs.
It's epic and it's real.
Neither withered appendages nor mangled muscle could restrain their venomous assault. Embarking on that blackened path many years ago has led to this: Dead Child has created a five-headed Frankenstein that now walks among the living.


www.pitchforkmedia.com, 2008-05, ocena: * * * * / * * * *
'...David Pajo's tenure in Slint is pretty unimpeachable. But after the tetchy brilliance of Spiderland, things get spotty. Sure, under various M banners, Pajo dabbles hush of folk to subtle effect. Albums like 2001's Whatever, Mortal were songwriting treats, music worthy of brushing elbows with the imposing stuff of his early days, no problem. But for every Live From a Shark Cage, there's a Mary Star of the Sea-- the catastrophic arena-ready byproduct of being an indie rock icon and cavorting with Billy Corgan. So it's fair to be skeptical of the metal band Pajo has scrounged up in Kentucky-- yes, Dead Child-- a cheesily reverent retread of 1980s-minded thrash, vintage hesher skuzz, yadda, yadda, yadda. And if that M.O. sounds familiar, it's because he already did it once with the initial touring incarnation of Early Man (remember them?). Just sub in an unfocused digest of Reagan-era metal in place of the downtown Matador metal dude's dead-on Metallica, and you're pretty much there.
But while Early Man 100% deserved the down-the-nose 'hipster metal' tag, Dead Child 100% doesn't. This stuff is bad without being ironic. Bad without being calculated. Bad because it just isn't any good. Yes, there are chops here. But save for a few mighty moments, they never get put to any interesting use. 'Twitch of the Death Nerve' is all oom-pa drumming, tablature-dumb rock guitars, and high school battle of the bands solos. And the too-long-by-four-minutes 'The Coldest Hands' forgets itself three or four times during its palm-muted sneeroffs. Jukeboxes do it better.
The real issues, though, have nothing to do with the riffage. Pajo and Michael McMahan (of Slint reunion tour fame) play passably, if not inventively. Rather, it's the vocals and guitar tone that really head off Attack. Lead singer Dahm has a thin, nerve-wearing Geddy vs. Ozzy vs. Bruce tone, and the guitars have that blocky, rusted-out desert-rock tenor that works so well for Queens of the Stone Age but seems a bit lite when attempting to throw weight around like real thrash should. When you consider Slint's girth (Tweez was heavy!) and Pajo's oft-professed love of metal, the sound of this record is a real disappointment.
On occasion, though, that love shines through. 'Rattlesnake Chalice' works up a nice tension with its hourglass tom rolls and simple guitar figure. And 'Screaming Skull"s tumble thunder riff is a structural beaut. Still, the fact remains: If it weren't for the famous guy in the band, we'd most likely ignore this record completely, saving space for anyone doing anything remotely creative with the same pedal-to-the-metal toolkit...'
[Robbie Mackey]
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