There are some go to bands when looking for something
tranquil to fall asleep to. New London’s Ferocious Fucking Teeth is not one of
them. Though they are tagged with terms like sludge and stoner metal, they
operate without the hazy layers of reverb or infinite drone that the genre is
associated with. Nothing is masked with counterfeit noise, leaving only amplified
copper and the human voice to carry their trudging weight. Distortion is the primary discernible effect, and that’s just from shear loudness. On Ferocious Fucking Teeth’s 2011 EP, Hounds, they concentrated mostly on the
immediacy of bluesy doom. With their first self titled full length, FFT decelerate
the raw ferocity of classic hardcore and meditate on the often ignored details,
while maintaining the fierce charm of their earlier material.
Down tuned baritone
guitar replaces the standard issue bass, giving the low end a grim twang
reminiscent of dusty western films. Dueling drum kits create towering serpents
of hissing brass and rabid snare pops. And like any outfit with two drummers,
there’s an omnipresent backbone of tribal rhythm. “One Bright Light” sets this tone
with a battle cry of Pequot’s charging into war. The brawl between cowboys and indians
continues on the groove laden “Hinkly”, which seamlessly rolls between blankets
of riffs and ritualistic chanting. “Daytona” touches on the pretty before swiftly
shredding apart into a mighty dirge of weeping solos.
Ferocious Fucking Teeth seem to pride themselves on playing
with structure while vying to abolish the listener’s trust with any whiff of
predictability. Vocals serve to puncture, and are delivered with the ardor of a
megaphone wielding warlord. They range from snarled gang unity on “Don’t Go,”
to whistling on “Putting the O Back in Country.” Instrumental preludes don’t
graze on longer than necessary, or become redundant. You’ll also notice a lot
of foundations being built, and then tested with battering obscurity. Highlights
include “Pony” and build-to-destroy “River,” a swarm of antsy percussion that
recalls the currents of the Thames.
“Fred” is an exemplary case of dense punk that keeps melody in its back pocket, with rock-bottom heaviness at the helm.On tracks like “Mule” and “Fuck on a Weeknight,” FFT start to take on a swampy southern sludge sound, which makes sense as New London is kind of like the Dirty South of New England. Though FFT mostly chop down whale poachers in the style of Harvey Milk, “Fuck On A Weeknight” has that Kylesa jungle crawl that I anticipated. Standout track, “Haunted” employs driving rock that breaks apart into a strangely catchy crescendo.
“Fred” is an exemplary case of dense punk that keeps melody in its back pocket, with rock-bottom heaviness at the helm.On tracks like “Mule” and “Fuck on a Weeknight,” FFT start to take on a swampy southern sludge sound, which makes sense as New London is kind of like the Dirty South of New England. Though FFT mostly chop down whale poachers in the style of Harvey Milk, “Fuck On A Weeknight” has that Kylesa jungle crawl that I anticipated. Standout track, “Haunted” employs driving rock that breaks apart into a strangely catchy crescendo.
This is an album for
those who prefer their metal unfiltered and weird. Bring it with you on your next
spirit quest to the desert.
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