Apr 022014

(I’m getting all weepy remembering the days when our Tokyo-based comrade Phro used to write his inimitable reviews for NCS. But after something of a reviewing hiatus at his own web site — PhroMetal — the review you’re about to read appeared there a couple days ago. When I saw it, I convinced him to let me re-publish it here. And I’m not alone in having a shitload of fun reading it. The band liked it too.)

Flagitious Idiosyncrasy in the Dilapidation (in close running for the label “greatest grindcore band in the world”) have a new batch of their 2013 EP Wallow ready for our hot, waiting ears. So, I thought I’d take the opportunity to write about it. The is what it sounds like (and, because pictures are fun, what it looks like, too).


A deep growl explodes from the ground beneath me, vibrating the floorboards and sending shivers to the very roof of the house. The sound of furious bats with razor-edged wings and steel claws tear around beneath my feet, as they pound their wings, looking for escape.

“Since when did this house have a basement?” I wonder aloud before the floor erupts, a geyser of the demonic bats filling the room. Screaming like a little boy with his dick caught in a vice, I drop the bottle of Jack and fling myself to the floor.

Shredding the air, the massive creatures stir up a riotous wind, ripping books from shelves and dashing a mirror across the floor. A piece of the glass soars through the air and impales itself in my eye. I can just barely hear myself scream over the shrieks of the bats, their voices alternately shrill and deeply demonic.

Howling and rolling on the floor with my hands slapped across my face, I cry out, “Fuck, shit, cat anus sniffer! My goddamn eye!!”

Suddenly, I can hear my voice and, pulling my hands from left eye, look around. The vile creatures, wet with thick, black oil that dribbles off them and piddles on my floor, hang from the ceiling. Their eyes, glimmering red orbs, all fall upon me.

“Oh,” I murmur, giving the dozens of hefty, dangling creatures a small wave. “Hi.”


“Okay,” I squeak. “Well, I think I’ll just go to the hospital now…” Turning onto my stomach, I start crawling to the door, ignoring the warm puddle of my own piss I have to slither through.

With the calm detachment of an aged butcher sizing up a cow, the bats stare, their heads twitching back and forth.

Three feet from the door. Two feet. One foot.

Crack! Whooooosh! Thump!

“Oh, fuck, my ass!” I scream, twisting my head back to see the coat rack I’d just knocked over sticking out of my left butt cheek, the pointed arm covered in blood and chunks of ass meat.

Shrieking, the bats fall from the ceiling, furious at my whining. Their wings tear through the air like hail stones in a tornado and set upon me as I flail wildly, reaching for the door. Three-inch-long claws dig through my clothes and tear muscles out of my arms. Gnashing teeth rip skin from my skull. Sandpaper tongues lick blood from the hole in my butt.

Screaming, I whip an arm up and smack one out of the air, sending the little monster careening into a close door. Splinters zip through the air, and the bats tear away from me, dashing after their comrade.

Fingers fumbling as I try to yank the coat rack out of my butt, my breath rasps in my throat. A chorus of “oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck” marks my every exhale and plasma pours out of my wounds. With the wet splurt of blood shooting out of my ass cheek, the coat rack comes loose. Tossing it away, I scramble towards the door, push it open, and roll down the stairs of the house. Each of the five concrete steps takes a crack at my head, leaving dents in my skull.

Gasping, I wave at a stunned neighbor, who drops her groceries, cantaloupe cracking open on the cement. “Please,” I spit out. “Call an ambulance!”

She takes a step towards me and then freezes as the sound of furious beating wings fills the damp night air.

“Aiii! Bats!” she shrieks, spinning and running into her house.

“Shit,” I whimper as I roll onto my back.

“Let’s go,” the bats cackle in unison, their claws shining in the moonlight as they rise into the night, wings beating like enormous war drums.

As they disappear into the clouds, I sigh, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I’m alive!” I tell myself. “I’m ali–urk!” A chunk of bat shit rockets into my mouth, splattering in the back of my throat.

Jerking onto my side to vomit, I can just make out the merry lyrics of the bats’ song. “Here is the music I love. Let’s enjoy, it is a gig.”


Get news and information about FID on their Facebook page or on iTunes, I guess. I personally think iTunes is akin to malware, but it’s probably the best place to get it if you live overseas. If you’re in Japan, you can get it at Record Boy.

Here’s one of the tracks from Wallow for your aural enjoyment.



And here are some photos of the CD, jewel case, and the booklet. Beautiful packaging.





And now I need a shower.


  1. Reading this review makes me feel wholly inadequate as a writer. Goddammit.

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