Forward Into Regression
This ain't a hot-tub time machine so much as it is a demonic hell ride. This is Maruta. Regression as a good thing can take many forms. It could be a stop at Presidente Supermercado to obtain some premium churrasco at $2.67 a pound that conjures up an '80s youth in Latin America (and charcuterie smells most Americans distrust) or music that encapsulates a maligned evening of extreme Disney violence I once witnessed in a warehouse in North Miami Beach while in college.
I am actually happy as shit to not care about Maruta's background one bit, cuz I really have been teleported back to the mid-'90s thrash/grindcore/power-violence scene, and all of a sudden, these gits have me clamoring for Japanese hardcore à la Sex on the Beach, Real Reggae, Gauze, and Assfort!
This is beautifully harmful hardcore punk rock with enough metal tinges to make Scandinavian poseurs cringe and run for the hills! These are guttural alveo-affricate elocutions that'll guarantee tenureship to potential linguistics professors for some time to come.
I don't want to single anything out of these 16 tracks because albums of this caliber are best enjoyed as one single take. Not one song rises above the rest, because every song works on the last to create one cohesive document of fringe excess and destruction.
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Mitchell Luna is deranged. Eduardo Borja's fingers are found within the strings of the guitars he kills. Mauro Cordoba plucks that bass like bad little children in need of discipline. Daniel Morris ought to get an oxygen mask on standby because I don't believe he breathes when in the company of the aforementioned.
I can't think of a better local album recently to blast in the early morn in order to be able to face the amassed bullshit the world throws in your face. Thanks, motherfuckers. Keep me in mind when I'm pushing 50: because those bullets won't slow down!