Blood-caked arms, the moon knows a secret, a backwoods beast whose one release is to kill you all. Sun-bleached ghost will wander the wilderness forever. He started wrestling alligators after he kicked every ass in town. He beat a horse to death with his cinder-block fists. He’s the world champion masturbator and he has his right hand technique down, the bad breath of life from the jaws of death. A massive silhouette in the corner of the frame, nearly but not quite human and cannot be tamed. Tree root muscle tissue, nobody’s going to miss you. Wander the wilderness forever.
Track Name: Human Howitzer
Wait until I get my hands on you, that perfect moment when metal and soft tissue connect, I’m as serious as a broken neck. Shake my hand and explode on contact, make a man-sized hole in the wall when I knock you into orbit. Happy landings, you piece of shit, I hope you break every bone in your body. The horror show unfolds like the burlap apron I use to protect my leather skin. I worship at the altar of a thousand gouged-out eyes from five hundred total assholes. A tiny compartment for every organ in my mahogany hope chest. Human howitzer, organic atomic bomb. Human howitzer, bubonic, organic, plutonic, bionic weapon.
Track Name: Leathermask Enthusiast
I transmit dark frequencies from my aluminum skull. I wear a barbed-wire halo to keep the bad thoughts inside. Hook me on systems, enslave me to my impulses. Yes men keep me in stitches; hatchet men kill off the cast, a twisted pantomime of sexual frustration. Classless heathen, the cuts erupt across my hands. Altered statesman, spread-eagled superhero soaked in sperm and ridicule. I sulk in silence, create companions, breath the fumes from the afterlife. It’s all gone too fast, why can’t your back break slowly? Why can’t this feeling last? I’ve got a head full of bad wiring. I’ve grown so two-dimensional in a 3D denial cube. I punch the lights out ‘because I’m so much less than human. Freddy Prinze with a mouthful of metal in a pornographic love affair. Gagged and bound by stereo sound, the patron saint of mind restraint blesses me with his cocaine crosses. I wander through your inebriation, a fear-induced hallucination. Hate-automated roving robot, failure to deal with all my failure, brain death.
"Curse These Metal Hands" parlays the UK bands' chemistry into a record which—for all its tinnitus-inducing ferocity and elegiac arrangements—practically drips with transcendent joy. Bandcamp Album of the Day Aug 18, 2019