My brand of self-destructive tendencies (and mental illness!) have certainly taken me to a number of dumb and regrettable decisions in my life, make no mistake about it. I’m no stranger to the extremes of adrenaline-fueled, substance-motivated behavior. I’d dare say that it’s that proclivity for extreme behaviors that partially fuels my love for, ya know, extreme forms of music. But even my depraved, addiction-prone little brain has its limits!

So when I found out that Forcefed Horsehead and Shaving the fucking Werewolf were releasing a split? Together??

Are we sure about this??

 Allow me to briefly remind you that at helm of Shaving the Werewolf is… this guy:

I know we’re not supposed to be judging books by their covers but, some judgements are being made here – especially when the first track of the band’s half of the split is entitled (appropriately) “Smoking the Crack of Dawn,” and comes complete with the ravings of said lunatic screaming “CUT OFF MY BALLS” during the song’s devastating climactic breakdown. Mind you, before we even get to THAT, you find the man ranting about how his genitals often whisper menacingly at him. Apparently, his father also faced the same affliction, and HIS father before that so…. yeah! Go ahead and chop those puppies off, I guess! As already established, Shaving the Werewolf write music like a deranged fever dream, with the aforementioned track containing the kinds of discordant, disturbing guitar flourishes and psycho killer amusement park synths that have become the band’s hallmark, all giving their already chaotic brand of “disagreeable grindpunk” (their words) the listening experience of very quickly going fucking insane. It’s an absolute head rush that, despite better judgement, I cannot walk away from.

“Affordable Victims” keeps the pedal planted on the floor (as if the band had any brakes to begin with), opting for maximum aggression that allows no room for the listener to breath. It’s a straightforward, all-gas attack on your aural senses, with heavy nods to the likes of Converge, Botch and Agoraphobic Nosebleed, but while those bands are amongst the most aggressive and hostile to ever do it, Shaving the Werewolf exists more in a state of outright belligerence. “Complaining in Body Language” sees the band not only turning the heat up to it’s maximum level, but then ripping the thermostat off the wall, dousing it in pure ethanol, and setting it ablaze in a manic burst. Grind has always been about maximum aggression, but this band continues to somehow take it to a thoroughly unhinged extreme. Where The Dillinger Escape Plan gave the world a precise, Einstein-level mathematical approach to chaos, Shaving the Werewolf is the Ivy League valedictorian whose brain broke and now lives in a piss-soaked carboard box in Hartford’s seedier outskirts beyond the confines of Yale University. There’s a brilliant mind in there somewhere, but it’s currently churning out absolute nonsense that only Shaving the Werewolf themselves can fully understand – and that’s okay! I’m still finding it thoroughly entertaining.

Closer “Man Song” showcases the band, and indeed vocalist Ottar Skift at maybe their battiest, throwing everything at the wall from HM-2 drenched crunch, to tremolo-picked, blackened fury, to utterly destructive breakdowns, all wrapped up in a track that, so far as I can tell, is about proving one’s manhood to an abusive father through the most toxically masculine means possible. I don’t know what this man has been through, but for the love of god someone give him a hug. Make sure you’re wearing gloves, though. It’s a fitting, disturbing end that thoroughly cements the band in a league all their own. It’s batshit, it’s completely in-your-face, and I absolutely adore it.

By now, I’m sure you’re thinking “hey dummy, you did this all backwards,” and you’re right! Forcefed Horsehead does indeed kick off the front end of this EP. I can’t really explain why I opted to start with Shaving the Werewolf besides to say, once you listen to this record you’ll understand why they sorta demand your attention front-and-center, but it’s certainly not for lack of effort from the Pony Boys’ grinding attack. Indeed, the Naked Wolf  (I don’t know why we’re going with nicknames now just roll with me) are one of the few bands that could make FFHH seem tame by comparison, with opener “Promisebreaker” hardly taking things easy. The band’s more straightforward, Grinding D-Beat attack, paired with Audun Mehl’s seething, throat-tearing vitriol, is as delicate as a rabid buffalo in a live minefield (can buffalo get rabies? I digress). There’s even a distinctly blackened edge to the mayhem that makes the track cut all the more deep, giving the whole thing a thoroughly menacing and evil feel that I absolutely love.

“The Will of the Many” and the seething “Keelhaul” though, that’s where Equine Buffet really fuckin’ hits its D-Beat stride, the latter featuring some unnamed, but absolutely fucking scathing guest vocals that, along with a blistering blast attack, bring the intensity to a whole new level. It’s like Dani Filth after railing 3 back-to-back-to-back lines of coke and chasing it with a double shot of tequila, and I need more of it pronto. Both tracks hit like a goddamn heart attack and really showcase the band’s ability to go fully nuclear.

This split really ought to come with a Surgeon General’s warning, because HOLY SHIT. I feel like I need to dry out and go sober at an involuntary rehab facility for a few weeks just to get this thing out of my system. I may not have done actual crack or meth in my life, but who needs it when bands like these come together to inject this kind of absolute chaos into your veins. This one’s not for the feint of heart, but if you’re willing to take the ride, you’ll find yourself blitzed out of your mind with this absolute filth.

Look, I know that these Norwegian Grind/D-Beat/Punk Rockers ain’t exactly new to the block – in fact they’ve been menacing their way around the world of extreme music for over a decade at this point, but that moniker – I don’t care how many times I see it. Every time I picture The Godfather, right? But instead of Jack Woltz waking up to a surprise lesson in equine cranial anatomy, he’s strapped to that ornate mahogany headboard of his while a couple Corleone goons serve him up a million dollar horsey carpaccio. That’s a spicy meat-a-ball!

So yeah, some grotesque imagery here! But Forcefed Horsehead aren’t exactly here to hold your hand through a meadow of wildflowers and daffodils, are they? VIBE CHECK – a ride with these fellas, and you’re in for a chaotic mix of Grind, Hardcore and Punk, with an ooey, gooey underbelly of Sludge and dirty, dirty Death Metal permeating the entire thing, like someone threw a blanket over Mr. Ed’s rotting, decaying corpse and left it in the sun for a month. The end result is in equal measures shocking, revolting and utterly fascinating – the kind of scene you can’t help but stare at even though you know it’s going to be the fuel to every nightmare you have for the rest of your life.

Along with all the different influences at play in FFHH‘s sound, there’s also an undeniably Norwegian quality to it. When they aren’t obliterating your senseless with the relentless grind attack of tracks like opener “Every Death You Take” and the superb “Ruins,” or dragging you through guano-flooded caverns of Sludge and Doom like on “The Black Sun” or “And Then There Were None,”  that familiar rock-out, fun-loving sound perfected by the likes of Kvelertak and Turbonegro seems to shine through, giving the likes of “Futile” and “Iri” an unnervingly upbeat, punky sort of attitude that makes you reach for that extra beer or four well past the point when adding to the night’s tally is necessary or wise – which is of course, when the really ugly, chaotic shit starts going down. The driving beats and riffs of “Novgorod” are positively dripping with malcontent, featuring a dizzying mix of furious blast beats and Every Time I Die-inspired groove that will bring the walls down in whatever venue unfortunate enough to have to try and contain them. Similar story on the tongue-in-cheek titled “Übernecro,” which lays thick into more hardcore sensibilities, attacking with an avalanche of perky, muscular riffing that couldn’t get a frenzied pit moving faster if it released a live, starving tiger onto the general admission floor.

As mentioned earlier, when the band does decide to get real heavy, they are not holding back. “The Black Sun” brings the proceedings to a crushing, oppressive halt, pummeling the listener with slow, plodding riffs and monstrous beats that smash into you with the kind of devastation only a runaway locomotive could dish out. It’s a song that takes the Marshawn Lynch “run through a mothafucka face” guide to life truly to heart – we’re talking ten-ton hammerblows to the dome again and again and again for 6+ minutes straight until you’re a veneer of red liquid in the dirt. Closer “… And Then There Were…” follows a similar destructive path, though playing a bit more on the morose, dreary end of the spectrum, rather than outright hateful pummeling. The effect however, is just as devastating, not only doling out a physical sort of punishment, but mental and emotional as well (which any good Catholic knows is how you cause REAL lasting damage).

By the time I’m through with “Monoceros,” I’ve found myself with a bit ol’ grin on my face, because what this album really does is transport me back to a lot of really fond, nostalgic periods of my journey through the world of metal. More than once I found myself thinking back to the likes of Premonition of War and Burnt by the Sun – others, I’m dragged a bit more down in the mud – fondly reminiscing days spent discovering the likes of Bloodlet or Soilent Green, and just when you think you’ve got a general beat on what’s going on with Forcefed Horsehead, things get a little weird and you find yourself tangled in the chaos the likes of Today is the Day and Agoraphobic Nosebleed. It’s an absolute whirlwind of aggression and ill-intent, and damned if it’s not a goddamn blast of a listen. So even though I risk having the thought of a Bojack Horseman snuff film permanently imprinted on my brain with every spin of this record, the risk is well worth it. Check it out for yourself.