THE ARRIVAL
Every year we get twenty of the sickest throat cancer patients and line them up in front of the hospital to sing Christmas carols, but this year we’ve asked "Sweden’s #1 metal band" HYPOCRISY to fill in and sing the track "Born Dead Buried Alive" on the maternity ward. We expect them to sound very much like our typical carolers, the only exception being some added lyrics about alien abductions and anal probes.
Those doped-up fetus-carrying teen sluts won’t mind though, especially since the event will raise money for anal-probe victims’ charities, and in the process, celebrate HYPOCRISY’s ten years of aggressive, underground death metal torture with their latest,
The Arrival. (From my late-nite rounds on maternity, I know first-hand that these skanks love it in the brown-eye while listening to brutal doomsday music.)
While this trio headed up by vocalist Peter Tagraten may rule their niche in the Scandinavian death/goth scene, they should see how I rule my favorite nurse’s niche with a knee-reflex hammer. Most of the songs you can only make out every fifth word, but they do have enough musical variation so you can tell, let’s say, "Slaves To The Parasites" (one of my favorite titles ever) from "Dead Sky Dawning." Lars Szoke’s fierce drum work (not to be confused with the far superior Lars of METALLICA) succeeds in beating you into submission through most of the album. Maybe after he and the group blow out some babies’ newly forming eardrums on their hospital gig, he can come over and bludgeon some sense into my rich-bitch wife with some heavy-gauge, steel-reinforced drumsticks. If he puts her face down by the foot pedal, even better.
Give singer Pete a hand for coming up with a few catchy riffs, as he is also the lead guitarist for this magically pain-inducing experience. Though UFOs and extraterrestrials went out with the late-90s, I can’t blame him for raging about those scrawny yellow-skinned fucks with big almond eyes, since I have to put up with enough of them sushi-gobbling, sticky-handed nightmares during my regular office hours. You try acting professional when what looks like duck sauce is oozing out of someone’s ass, probably because while cooking in the kitchen, a rat got away, snuck up their hole and died.
If they want to stick with the ET theme, HYPOCRISY maybe should call their next album something like,
Anal Experiments In A Bangkok Cat House and record it with a choir of Asian sex slaves making UFO noises in the background— then I could send all those drippy-dicked bird flu delights home with a post-exam souvenir.
