BECERUS

In these sophisticated yet troubled times, heavy music often provides an excellent alternative to life's complexities. A death metal band with a caveman mindset and a veritable shit-ton of technical muscle to back up the grunts, BECERUS are primeval thugs of the highest order. Famously, they once claimed to have no actual lyrics, which (if true) makes them even more irresistible. Either way, "Troglodyte" is like being clubbed to death by a slavering, barking Neanderthal, while the world collapses to dust around our heat-ravaged ears. Excellent fun, in other words.

It starts with an ominous intro, redolent of the door being kicked in by marauding knuckleheads, albeit in woozy slow motion. The inevitable beating begins immediately, with "Obfuscated By Imbecility": a burst of fast, frenzied and blank-eyed violence that plunders old-school simplicity, using it to smash as many skulls as possible. Even further down the drool-chute, "Aggressive Illiterate" hammers another non-existent point home, shades of both CANNIBAL CORPSE and FULCI infiltrating BECERUS's maniacal methodology. Frontman Mario Musumeci appears to be trying to greedily consume his own head throughout, with belches and growls that billow up from a taut maze of riffs. This is ugly, thrilling, pre-civilization savagery. Even Musumeci's evil laugh sounds like it is emanating from a mammoth's colon.

BECERUS have a strong liking for brevity, too. Everybody loves a devastating death metal epic, but there is no denying the efficiency and impact of songs like "Pathetic Bovine Humour". In an out in less than three minutes, it retains only what is necessary and nasty, jettisoning any musical dead wood with audible contempt. Likewise, "Progressive Mental Retardation" is only 95 seconds long and sounds like a post-lobotomy sequel to CANNIBAL CORPSE's "Pounded Into Dust": brute force and ignorance, in perfect symbiosis. Meanwhile, "Serpicus Ebbeth Macagno" snaps from all-out war to slithering, slobbering sludge (and back again) with startling dexterity. Somewhere in these cavemen's brains, a spark of genius glimmers.

Concluding with the imperious, bandy-legged assault of "Grunt 'em All" — a manifesto, perhaps? — "Troglodyte" asks no questions and offers no answers. This is grinding death metal at its horrible best: muscular, malevolent, and concerned only with strained sinews and cacophonous carnage. It's clobbering time, folks. Loin cloths on. Let's grunt.