Beaten Back To Pure - The Last Refuge Of The Sons Of Bitches
2002 - Retribute Records
By Philip Whitehouse
Go to the Beaten Back To Pure website.
Despite being recorded in the guitarist's own Sniper Christian Studios in Norfolk, this album absolutely reeks of the deep south. Lousiana swamplands, whiskey, weed and desperation fuel this sludge/doom band's sound, but the final piece of the puzzle is that most elusive of ingredients - innovation.
In general, Beaten Back To Pure bring to mind a fist-fight between Black Sabbath, Alabama Thunderpussy and Crowbar - and it's that vibe which the hardcore, EyeHateGod-loving sludge brigade are going to initially love about this sophomore recording. But what will undoubtedly hook them for good is the fact that BBTP have spread their wings so far on this album as to rise above the whole swamp-metal scene (as I like to call it) and transcend the usually rigid limitations of the whole sludgecore genre.
The first, major transition this band has made from the EyeHateGod-pounding sludgers of previous album Southern Apocalypse to the boundary-defying, liqour-fuelled geniuses of this album lies in their increasing experimentation. Typically BBTP, bludgeoning, low-end riffs and inebriated-sounding soloing are now coupled with surprisingly melodic touches, 12-string acoustic guitar passages and the vocalist's new-found penchant for surprisingly effective and melodic clean singing. This all adds to the visceral appeal of tracks like the bludgeoning Paleface by incorporating shades of lightness into the previously gloomy compositions of old - providing a contrast in feel that makes the darkness, when it comes, seem so much more stifling.
That's not to say BBTP have lessened their assault any - no, The Last Refuge Of The Sons Of Bitches is still heavy enough to carry an atmosphere akin to suffocating, buried in feather matresses - the fuzzyness of the riffs is matched only by the intensity of their intent, the drumming still seems therapeutic in it's battering fury, the bass still slinks along like a drunken wanderer shouting abuse at a passer-by while staggering behind. But the band have progressed and matured significantly, and created a genuine landmark album in the process.
Well worth the money you were saving for a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's. You know you want it.
9/10
2002 - Retribute Records
By Philip Whitehouse
Go to the Beaten Back To Pure website.
Despite being recorded in the guitarist's own Sniper Christian Studios in Norfolk, this album absolutely reeks of the deep south. Lousiana swamplands, whiskey, weed and desperation fuel this sludge/doom band's sound, but the final piece of the puzzle is that most elusive of ingredients - innovation.
In general, Beaten Back To Pure bring to mind a fist-fight between Black Sabbath, Alabama Thunderpussy and Crowbar - and it's that vibe which the hardcore, EyeHateGod-loving sludge brigade are going to initially love about this sophomore recording. But what will undoubtedly hook them for good is the fact that BBTP have spread their wings so far on this album as to rise above the whole swamp-metal scene (as I like to call it) and transcend the usually rigid limitations of the whole sludgecore genre.
The first, major transition this band has made from the EyeHateGod-pounding sludgers of previous album Southern Apocalypse to the boundary-defying, liqour-fuelled geniuses of this album lies in their increasing experimentation. Typically BBTP, bludgeoning, low-end riffs and inebriated-sounding soloing are now coupled with surprisingly melodic touches, 12-string acoustic guitar passages and the vocalist's new-found penchant for surprisingly effective and melodic clean singing. This all adds to the visceral appeal of tracks like the bludgeoning Paleface by incorporating shades of lightness into the previously gloomy compositions of old - providing a contrast in feel that makes the darkness, when it comes, seem so much more stifling.
That's not to say BBTP have lessened their assault any - no, The Last Refuge Of The Sons Of Bitches is still heavy enough to carry an atmosphere akin to suffocating, buried in feather matresses - the fuzzyness of the riffs is matched only by the intensity of their intent, the drumming still seems therapeutic in it's battering fury, the bass still slinks along like a drunken wanderer shouting abuse at a passer-by while staggering behind. But the band have progressed and matured significantly, and created a genuine landmark album in the process.
Well worth the money you were saving for a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's. You know you want it.
9/10
