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.

Welllll I wouldn’t say I’m dependent on it, but I’ll admit that without that little kickstart of caffeine, it does take me a bit longer to shake the rust off in the morning. I’ve tried black tea, which gives a little boost but… it’s still just not quite the drawback-free jolt I’m looking for. Thankfully, the shot of energy I need to shoot out of bed like my friggin’ pillow is on fire just came in a tidy little four song package.

JESUS FUCK. Good fucking morning indeed!

What we’ve got here is a quick little split from a pair of hard-hitting, chaotic, no-punches-pulled hardcore acts from Norway, and let’s not mess about – it’s a fucking hand grenade. Four tracks of visceral destruction that scoff at the very notion of subtlety or restraint, hellbent on coming for you, me, your little dog, whatever the hell happens to find itself in its path. I’ve walked away from a car rollover less phased than I was after feeling the impact delivered by these two maniacs – and I can tell you, it’s just as much an adrenaline rush, without the annoyance of skyrocketing insurance premiums.

Starting the assault is Bergen’s Utflod, led by the positively nuclear vocals of band co-founder Oda (last name unknown). She and the band come bursting through the goddamn wall with “Bror” like a meth-and-Red-Bull-fueled Kool-Aid man desperately crashing through every house searching for their next fix. Imagine Every Time I Die dialed up to “11” and led by the world’s most pissed off Fisher Cat (I mean this in the most loving and complimentary of ways), and you’re starting to scratch the surface of the kind of ferocity on display here. Forget the friggin’ dark roast – just give me this 2-minutes of bricks to the face and I’m running out the door showered, clothed, and ready to tackle the day like I’m Lawrence Taylor on my fifth bump of the quarter.

But here’s the thing – Utflod has a lot to say and very little time to say it, so stand the hell back as they deliver the atom bomb that is “Boa Constrictor,” which just goes straight for the jugular with a fury of blasting drums, furious riffs and a total devastation of screams that genuinely make me dive for cover. It’s a blistering barrage that only lasts a minute and change, but trust me when I tell you IT’S ENOUGH, to the point that when the band goes for their piledriver of a breakdown to finish out the song, it somehow feels like a reprieve. Make no mistake, this is some of the most explosive material I’ve heard in a minute, so if it’s absolute aggression you’re looking for, Utflod have the goods stockpiled and ready to launch.

So even after just two songs, only a few ticks over 4 minutes of material, I could use a break, man! I’m nearing 40. I’m out of shape. I don’t need this abuse! Do you think Oslo’s Shaving the Wearwolf could take it easy on this weak, frail body? No. What they deliver instead, is some screaming. Like, a dude just losing his shit for 15 seconds of raw, naked screaming. It’s terrifying. If you don’t know, Shaving the Werewolf delivers the kind of unhinged chaos you got from the likes of Ed Gein, Curl Up And Die, and early The Red Chord, the kind that makes you seriously wonder “good god what are these dudes on?” But I’ll tell ya what, if you want a fuckin’ doozy of an early 00’s-inspired metalcore breakdown, “Eat Shit or Die Trying” most certainly has what you’re looking for. I FEEL YOUNG AGAIN.

Comparatively speaking, I guess you could say “Pyromantic Pleasures” seems… somewhat tame? At least until the massive breakdown the breaks out about a minute and a half in. It brings a real goddamn ruckus for a quick minute, a real pit-mover layered with vocalist Ottar Skift continued assault on his own vocal chords, causing me emotional stress in the process. By this point my brain is fried and wants desperately for some soothing whale or rainforest sounds or some shit. Maybe some Enya. Someone light me some incense and chant some healing incantations my way.

Uhhhhh look, this split rules. I know I made it seem painful, but I promise it was only in the very best kind of way. These two bands are absolute maniacs and I may just never sleep again, so caffeine problem solved, I guess! Hop on this little rage bus with me and lets get weird.