You wanna talk about the end of the world? Here it is; top-decibel, well-crafted chaos-crush smacking you in the head like an iron thunderbolt. Bald Langouste is a controlled substance that abused; the music hit your system like you had been dusted, sent the listeners into spasms of frenzy with stars and dead birds twittering around their skulls struck by the unruly walls of wallop that they had honed to the bone. The guitarist, Max(Endless Exhale), is maniac magic-user, gripped in a bizarre mechanized tone-mime, channeling the chopped and smooth nadir of notes that must come from some nether-nether land in the sky. A radiated wind from the corroded core is waved from their weird wands, and they turned the knobs that turned the riffs into strange, scintillating symphonies and psychotic, sinister Hell On Earth sonatas that echoed the backs-to-the-walls of razor wire in front of firing squads, "NJ - Only the Strong Survive" state of mindless they called home. The leads were equally alien, they flagellate like R'lyeh rainbows birthing cat-o-nine-tail tentacles and things that resemble man-o-wars ('cept they fly through space as well as the sea). The drums boom like Barisal guns, and make the titanic clash march into an ordered anarchy of raining buckets of obliteration. Not to mention bassist Serge, a punk rock coppertop who was solid on his bass as his head is bald. The band rose further from categories such as death metal, the crossed wires of styles transcend the sound beyond language limitations and faint descriptions in comparison to the real sound and raging aggression, live and in studio. Bald Langouste are tightly wound around their wounds: I scream, you scream, we all scream...
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