New Vegas spins you won’t hear in the grocery store

God’s America, Merge With the Infinite
Jason Bracelin

—God’s America, Merge With the Infinite As a genre, powerviolence tends to spell its motives out in all caps: This is music meant to approximate the brevity and catharsis of a righteous temper tantrum, the kind you can’t indulge in without having to later post bail. What distinguishes God’s America is pacing and groove. On the corrosive yet catchy, feedback-bleeding Merge the duo blasts forth with enough velocity to induce skin-chafing wind burn, but they do so with a sense of craft and purpose. This is brutality refined.

—Fat Dukes of F*ck, Virgin Maker EP Remember the near-traumatic delirium of the Butthole Surfers’ mid-’80s canon? Well, these dudes embrace that spirit of unhinged, tongue-in-cheek experimentalism to the extent that they could be named honorary Locust Abortion Technicians. This EP, which contains tunes from their upcoming new album along with some B-sides, is an awesomely bizarre bazaar of carnival-barker vocals, meaty thrash riffs, guest spots from greats like The Jesus Lizard’s David Yow and the Melvins’ Dale Crover and more penis references than can be found in the entire Andrew Dice Clay oeuvre. Can’t wait for the full-length, though it does seem a little counterintuitive to be looking forward to a nightmare, doesn’t it?

—Fa-Cock-Ta, U Tuchus 4 Granted Embracing and subverting Jewish stereotypes in the same bagel-craving breath, comedy rap trio Fa-Cock-Ta comes with 50 shades of oy vey here. Jewish Dave, MC Ethel and DJ Avi D.O.G. return to spin tales of labia menorahs, pesky sinus issues and fighting for their right to consume carbs (“Bread! Bread! Without you I’d be dead/And I don’t care what Moses said”). No fan of Hebrew sexual innuendo spat out over outsize synth lines and burbling “Bubstep” beats should take this bunch “4 Granted” any longer.

—Phalloplasty, Necrophagic Funeral Ritual (Redux) Death metal’s blood-and-guts appeal frequently gets compared to that of a horror film, but the down-tuned depravity that the one-man Phalloplasty favors is more akin to the kind of back-room snuff film that can lead to arrest warrants. This much crisper-sounding re-recording of Phalloplasty’s 2011 debut is like a Criterion Collection edition of Human Centipede: a deluxe version of perversion. Yeah, the gurgled vox and jackhammer slam rhythms are an acquired taste—kind of like a shot of stomach bile—but c’mon, your next karaoke outing isn’t complete without a group sing-along of “Tenderizing Fetal Flesh.”

Tags: Music
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