FACEDOWNINSHIT
Nothing Positive, Only Negative
RelapseTrack listing:
01. Plasma Center Blues
02. NPON
03. Countless
04. Ten Strip
05. Association of Known Desirables
06. Fucked
07. Rough Sleep
So the question is: Why wouldn't you sign a band that released an album called "Shit Bloody Shit"? Well, that and the aptly described "southern fried dirt metal" will get an aptly-named band like FACEDOWNINSHIT a grubby spot on the Relapse roster. Take a little burned out punk rock soul, the heart of an EYEHATEGOD, and the misfiring synapses of a JUMBO'S KILLCRANE and you end up with "Nothing Positive, Only Negative", the Greensboro, North Carolina band's Relapse debut.
Hell, if the compositionally disfigured burnt blues crawl of album-opener "Plasma Center Blues" makes you feel a little queasy and unsure of yourself, then just sit back and enjoy it. It gets worse, and I mean that in the best possible way. After the crawl segues to heavy riff jabs and quicker tempos during the seven-minute tune's latter half, the title track kicks into a slightly speedier, rough 'n' tumble tempo of "NPON" that is, well, heavy as fuck, right down to the last burly shouts of "Nothing Positive! Only Negative!" Move on through three minutes of meanness ("Countless") and the equivalent of having your face dragged across broken concrete at a good clip ("Ten Strip"),and you run head on into a cancerous mass called "Association of Known Desirables".
Now that you are finally starting to enjoy the back-and-forth bouts of disjointed axe grind and coarse groove riffing, courtesy of guitarist/vocalist Jason Crumer, the distorted and angry throbs of bassist/vocalist Waylon Riffs, and the Bohnam-esque sledgehammer style of Ryan Wolfe, you're ready for the grand finales. "Fucked" and "Rough Sleep" send you barreling down a steep mountainside. The trio has a sixth sense of when to pull back and release, and there is usually a moment when the riff leaps out and strangles or the drummer flies off into a rage and clobbers you over the head, signaling a change of direction with tires screeching. Speeding gallops, hard right turns on to Southern Jam Street, SABBATH blues-smolder, and pinches of light trippiness meld together splendidly over these two charred and scarred tracks. Ugliness never sounded so good.