Set the Dial is the fourth full length from Savannah metal heads Black Tusk, and if you’ve had the pleasure of hearing either of their latter two, Passage Through Purgatory or Taste the Sin, you know exactly the kind of sludge covered punk you’re about to receive (John Dyer Baizley artwork and all). You see, like its predecessors, Set the Dial rumbles its way through murky swamp and crusty gutter to get to where you feel most safe and comfortable only to heap a hell of a lot of petulance and abrasive screams onto you. That being said though, as crumbling, noise-driven attacks, Black Tusk’s earlier efforts thrived on destruction, where Set the Dial‘s objective seems to be one aimed at rebuilding, at harnessing the rust-stained chaos in order to rise to loftier heights. They do this through the coy use of groove, which lays in wait on table-setter “Brewing the Storm” and then busts through the muck and mire to take over songs like “Mass Devotion,” “Set the Dial to Your Doom,” “Resistor,” and “This Time is Divine,” making Set the Dial‘s riff-driven focus the main, albeit subtle, point of difference. At the end of the day though, it’s another grease-charged album of Georgian origin, and one could spend an entire month getting filthy, high, and in trouble listening to Black Tusk and their mates of state, Zoroaster, Kylesa, Mastodon, and Baroness.
Okay, I know Conan O’Brien got a bit of an honourable mention last month for the beard conversation he had with Jake Gyllenhaal, and a double dip into the celebrity beard pool is pushing it, but I just had to come back to him. And not because I think his beard is outstanding in any way, but because his beard’s livelihood is at stake. No harm should befall any beard, no matter how gingery and trimmed, and Conan’s beard is under extreme threat of extinction thanks to Will Ferrell and the looming Beardpocalypse. So, Conan’s beard gets all the acclaim this month in the slim hope it helps grant it a stay of execution.
Runner-up? The crusty collective known as Red Fang. Maybe it’s because I feel a bit guilty about that review I wrote or maybe it’s because they make me want to go outside and hug a hobo. Both, I guess.
Sons of Tonatiuh Sons of Tonatiuh
Hydro Phonic Records
Real nasty spawn, these Sons of Tonatiuh, born under a bridge in the worst part of Atlanta, left to muckrake a miserable existence from wee hellions with pockets full of coal to teenage pariahs with duffel bags full of stolen goods, now barely alive, toothless and hungry, channeling their anti-social behaviour into a rent-by-the-hour racket. This here self-titled full-length debut is what happens when street urchins demand to be heard; ugly, crusty, disease-ridden doom that’s lost all sense of control and shoved a twisted scrap of sheet metal into your leg just to get at that moldy, half-eaten sandwich in your pocket. Socially morbid, squeegee-bleed, spastic death metal with the rank odor of sewer water, fetching flies and whores, holding dominion over the unseen, chemically ruined, appalling and bloated rot, lecherous companion to all kinds of Black Cobras, Weedeaters, and Scum. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
Black Tusk
Sons of Tonatiuh