Blood on the Rocks

I never managed to fully enjoy this band’s works largely due to their chronic suffering from the “filler syndrome” to these ears intentionally, even deliberately if you like, utilized. We’re not talking some unmitigatedly lyrical ballad here, a universally accepted dissipator amongst the metal practitioners, but full-fledged poppy hard’n heavy crowd pleasers, and more than just an isolated one on a single album, smacked right in the middle of a vigorous thrashin’ spree, creating the impression that the guys don’t feel at home in thrash’s firm embrace, and always prefer to have a door open for less aggressive navigations…

a position duly noted albeit with a few reserves, and one that kept them in a niche of their own on the Brazilian metal circuit although other acts (Korzus, Taurus, etc.) from the thrash roster over there have also been tempted by mellower nuances, but not to such a detrimental extent. It’s not that Witchhammer are the biggest offenders on the field, but inserting such a frivolously, leisurely executed cut ("Mad Inspiration"), to give the most shining example, into an otherwise solid showing which is the sophomore “Mirror, My Mirror” is tantamount to a not necessarily pardonable sin, at least in the eyes/ears of the reviewer… and again this is not just a single isolated case.

The band’s infatuation with those exhibitions of cheesiness was invariably going to acquire bigger proportions and here we are, standing before their third showing, the album reviewed here, crossing our fingers that, based on the “third time’s the charm” postulate, this opus would be spared of any undesirable radio-friendly deviations. As the band have never produced a downright flop until that point, the apprehension is probably not that tangible in the air, but having in mind the ruling groovy, grungy and what-not currents on the scene at the time, and how quickly they get glued to any anti-aggressive escapades, one hardly has the highest hopes for this particular recording.

And indeed, this album is the guys’ weakest showing although the fiesta begins in the rowdiest manner possible with the impetuous title-track, vintage retro thrash that would make all Death Angel and Forbidden fans very happy including with the convincing spiteful semi-clean/semi-shouty vocals. So early so good, but this promising start makes one even sadder listening to the much slower, lethargic quasi-groover "God's Growing Older", not to mention the 9-min of modern post-thrashy boredom that is the severely anti-climactic slugfest "The Leather Boy-The Orchestra". Most of the fans will have packed and left after this last showdown, and this would perhaps be the right decision as they will be spared the awful goofy rock-ish jump-arounder "Call-X".

Amazingly, the guys manage to wake up in the second half and start moshing with much more verve and passion producing a couple of admirable headbangers ("Looking For War", "Bitter Night (Far From Home)") plus a surprising, but totally worthy power/doom metal hymn ("Path To The Cemetery"), a much more desirable digression also displaying bigger musical prowess, all such loftier strives mortified by the short ball of fury that is "Terrorist Prize", a hyper-active closure which this very contrasting, not always for the better, opus doesn’t quite deserve.

Yes, the band clearly overdo it from the fillers’ side to the point that at some stage the listener will start wondering which half actually plays the role of the fillers, the groovy/rocky or the aggressive thrashy one… the guys leave it up to the latter to decide, splitting the album into two, providing entertainment for a wider gamut of fans by again being successful in steering away from the sheer flop pool that had started filling up (“I Hear Black”, “Force of Habit”, “Turpitude”, etc.) with musical betrayals in the early-90’s some of which also arrived from the band’s homeland (Holocausto’s “Tozago as Deismno”, Sarcofago’s “Hate”).

The comeback opus "Ode to Death" again wasn’t an embarrassment the band trying to balance between pure thrashing bombs and more or less appropriate stylistic shifts (hardcore/crossover walkabouts, officiant epicers), achieving a pretty decent symbiosis which fitted just fine into the old school revival wave of the new millennium, more of an “Ode to Classic Thrash” if you ask me, with the staple mellower digressions firmly in place, the guys deserving at least a single round of Bloody Marry to celebrate their return to the scene...

a second round? I don’t know, rather not, not from me anyway. Man, these fillers still prick my consciousness, sometimes painfully I tell you, giving me nightmares in the small hours… a purist, what can you do? A most obstinate, incorrigible purist, ready to crucify without mercy and assemble the tallest bonfire imaginable at the slightest shift from the norm… it’s hard to put such a dying breed under a witch’s spell, even with a hammer threateningly looming over.