MISTRESS

You're sitting down at breakfast listening to your favorite "modern" hardcore release, when all of a sudden a hirsute drunkard takes a big steaming dump in your Cheerios. In all likelihood, the smelly fellow is a member of Birmingham, England's MISTRESS and he's doing a little overseas PR for the old school, grindcore-rooted, crust-caked metallic punk found on "In Disgust We Trust". Good morning, sweetie; now go fuck yourself!

Mentions of NAPALM DEATH, DISCHARGE, and BRUTAL TRUTH are appropriate in describing some of the beer-soaked and pissed off rants of "In Disgust We Trust". Shades of newer gnarly fare like HELVIS apply as well, provided you apply a thick coat of grease and grime. Belligerent, belched-out vocals with maniacal screams thrown in for good measure abound. A Sunlight Studio guitar sound and Sasquatch-on-meth drumming makes me almost as excited for "In Disgust We Trust" as I was for VENOMOUS CONCEPT's "Retroactive Abortion". Beyond the bile-choked bashers of "Happily Ever Disaster" and the title track, as well as the up-tempo grindy hardcore of "Fucking Fuck" and the barreling "At Arm's Length", the boys in the band have got a few tricks up their tattered sleeves. A melodious lead guitar comes from out of nowhere on "Static", the shock of it only surpassed by the rather catchy, clean vocal sections that somehow escape the musical claw-hammer attacks.

But wait, there's more. An already slammin' tune, "Whiskey Tastes Better…" comes with hilarious Halford-esque (no kidding) operatic wailing in parts. After a hell-raising guitar solo sets off the mania of "Me Ves Y Sufres", the pace eventually drops and a series of "whhhooooaaaaas" kick in until the song fades out. The PRIEST wails pop up again, albeit briefly (replaced with gang shouts),during "Shovel", a tune that could pass as musical accompaniment to a tank division rolling over a group corrupt politicians, crooked lawyers, and pedophile priests. Some hidden track action for the last 15 minutes or so unveils filthy belly crawls and anarchistic speed romps. That does it for me. Time for a lye-soap bath.