This record isn’t so much a split EP as it is a clash of the titans concerning those who revel and relish in the slow and painful.

Wrap the Body is a neat little experiment, but is likely only bound to be wholly accepted and tolerated by Racebannon die-hards, masochistic punishment gluttons and maybe even the occasional DJ. It’s probably a good thing that only 500 of these have been pressed.

Gather ‘round, ye of the underground, for here is a band of Richmond dudes who combine touches of all manner of metal, from doom and thrash to black and traditional to sludge and psychedelic, and do so with a gritty, dirt-under-the-working-man’s-fingernails sound lacking show and polish

All in all, this split LP is a challenging listen, especially if you are not the biggest fan of drone like me. Ultimately, I found it rewarding, but only as background music.

The vinyl section of hellbound.ca is suffering a review shortage and while our discussion and review of these latest releases from Baltimore’s A389 Recordings won’t get this little bit of online real estate swinging like a 70s key party, it will at least take it off the proverbial life support of the past few months. Egads! There’s a certain amount of analogy in that metaphor as these two bands, as solid, serviceable and enjoyable as they both are, aren’t going to be the ones to set the world of extreme music alight.

The EP’s six tracks showcase Fuck the Facts’s brutal approach, incorporating a spectrum of everything grinding, deadly, and black. The songs are shockingly tight, and surprising at every turn.

A tasty little 7″ slab o’ wax hot off the presses over at Chez Relapse, this split release features (what I assume to be) three new songs from Virginia grinders Agoraphobic Nosebleed and a handful of tracks from Toronto’s The Endless Blockade (perhaps that city’s best kept secret this side of Moe Panzer’s Deli up at Bathurst and Wilson – nah, actually way better than that).

Oak’s debut 12” rumbles and crumbles like Paul Bunyon piloting a city-sized backhoe. Vocalist Jo Gonzalez mixes and mashes his vocal chords to the tune of skidding tires and large men falling down jagged canyons while the humid oppression of the guitar, bass and drums acts like the soundtrack to slow suffocation and violent digestion.