(In this post, Phro provides an introduction to the music of Japan-based Darkcorpse. It has something to do with a wolverine’s urethra.)
Hey. I’m Phro. It’s been a while, but your asses are still surely elastic. So stretch ’em out and get ready for some really gritty black metal.
Darkcorpse is a band. They make music that sounds like someone injecting gravel into a wolverine’s urethra via a sandblaster. They have two demos, and you will love them (demo 2, in particular). That’s not a prophesy or a request or even a demand. It is a fact of life in the same way it is a fact that life isn’t worth living if you can’t go out to clubs, meet nice strangers, bring them home, cut large holes in their stomachs, shove in some rabid rodents, and then sew them up and watch the fun on an ultrasound.
Their Bandcamp page informs me “Darkcorpse play a no-frills crust inflected brand of Black Thrash with a touch of doom.” I, literally, have no fucking clue what that means. I mean, I recognize the words, but when it’s all together in sentence form, it kind of makes my brain feel like a cum-sandwich smoothy bubbling up from beneath my eyeballs and rolling down my cheeks. (“My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”)
However, if we look at the individual pieces of the sentence, it all makes sense. The vocals, in their crusty/black/trashiness, sound more than anything like the aforementioned wolverine howling in furious anger (not in pain though, that little fuck is more annoyed than anything) just before it rips free from it’s steel bindings and bites clean through your genitals.
The drums, swinging between a thrusting, pounding pulse and a slow, plodding rumble, are the crunch of your pelvic bones as the bloody-crotched wolverine gnaws its way to revenge. The cymbals are the pop of sinew, and the bass is the snap of your femur running up your body and rattling your brain.
The bass is the wolverine’s warm snout digging hungrily at your bloody wounds and nosing about for your now unconstrained bowels, unlooping and spilling gracelessly upon the floor. The wolverine likes this. It makes the animal hungrier and more ferocious.
Its claws, digging deeper into your meaty, sweaty, screaming, sobbing body, are the filthy, hot-and-dirty-engine-oil-sprayed-in-your-face guitars, alternately chugging and then scrambling wildly to rip your face off. Not so much bees in a cave as a wolverine in your rib cage.
You’re not gonna survive this one, I’m afraid. But that’s what you get for sandblasting a wolverine’s cock. Douchebag.
(Full disclosure: I met the guitarist for the band randomly, which is how I know about their music. He’s a damn good guy, who makes damn good music. Give them your money.)