Zyklon SS – Iron Division tape
Zyklon SS – Nigger Torture Chamber tape
Zyklon SS – Anti-Personnel Explosive Device tape
Shift / hh – Full Weight Of The Opposition 10"
There's nothing else, but violence, the violence of Zyklon SS, byword for grim, unsmiling, celebration, fetishization... of the reign of steel, of the pounding of artillery, of der bombed out, smoke-filled, bunkers, of lots of stuff blowin' up. To the slow march of whanging metals the Iron Division rolls proudly forward, grinding slowly, methodically, through decidedly traditional shit-stomping grounds paved by der meisters. Here, on the field of battle, the many and splendored ZSS predilections culminate, heavier on the electronics, with a sizable chunk of pointed speechifying to lend proceedings a decided thematic heft. Woozy machine-like murmur meets deliberate hammering thunk over which presides dominant vocal, the blood in your veins, the cancer in your brain, the motherfucking Black Dog. What really sets Iron Division apart from past efforts is the fully fleshed lyrical content, delivered with all expected spite, to really bring home a much more personal set of convictions. For whom does the voice speak and do we really want to know? Inarguably this is a voice which brooks no argument. As you were soldier, cause I for one have no intention of taking on the cancer in my brain. Don't even speak to me about the damn dog... Soon a hetting up of pace, thumping-er rhythms, straightened murmur-tronics, chanting crowds of heiling Spaniards, over and done before central highlight "Industrial Cancer" presents national klan gathering brought to life by repetitious thunk 'n grind, distorted sputtering machine-ics, growing increasingly unsettled, well-crafted atmosphere to soon putter out in the face of the self-explanatory "Bring Back The Camps". Marching rhythms, harmonized drone-wooze, carefully chosen words, pitch inexorably upping, tension to release only in the closing seconds, very well put together Side A. As for Side B, there's nothing else, but violence. "Kriegseinnsatz" slams with all force into the steel-booted thematics of yor, chopper-like atmos fighting extended distorted Germanics funneled through buried iron gratings and slowly gathering industrial-powered densities, grumbling engines struggling to splutter to life. Then to slowed-down sawing electro-rhythm against the voice of racially-charged incandescence, subtle grit-textures lending the slightest pinch of murk. Three tracks deep and the rhythmic elements morph into constant, down-tuned, metallic buzzings, thudderings, judderings as a brief, looped, history lesson cuts through the raw and unsettled field. Lest we forget: There is nothing else, but violence. So sayeth "Devil's Guard" and what way to go - out - with a bang. Layered woozings, swimming in and out of prominence, a rush of singed, whitened, bedrock, warbled echoing vocals, and r-l'd iron hammer thunk. Downright cinematic, but perhaps not quite to the documentaryesque flavorings of Nigger Torture Chamber. Nigger Torture Chamber: far more grim, raw in general tone, favoring subtly filthed-up down-pitched darkened atmospheres to the heavy industrial densities of Iron Division or the brute force of Anti-Personnel Explosive Device. With no significant deviations in mood or pace, perhaps as befits the twenty-eight minute playing time, a uniform atmosphere prevails: grim, gloomy, ground down- in the fucking dirt- grimy as fuck putrescence. The title track sets the tone nicely, cycling steel crank dragging through bass-heavy rumbling underbellies and repetitive, heavy-handed, impactful crunch. Out of the gloom, echoed rust fragments screech and protest, distant rattle of chains, soon to be swallowed by deliberate, creeped out, sink into the heart of darkness. At this point the slow march of "Exiles" clearly establishes a thematic base, blackened flatulent oscillations verge on machine-buzz proper to underscore impassioned segregationist speech-rally and the periodic beating of somewhat muffled THUD-thudthud coming on like some racially aggravated thug pounding "the truth" into your filthy mind. Naysay as you will, but there's no doubt. It could happen to you. It's gonna happen to you. You fucking shitdick. From the deepest bowels of blackest ambiance, a genuine lyrical voice rips to life, to assault the 'holes, to advise, perhaps, a bit of soul searching. Oscillations crawl along the floor, bits n scraps of metals, sunk to the core, scour the base, the pressure unrelenting, unforgiving. Then, flip that ass over for the descent of steel, scraping gouging grubbing unto death's dark dungeon. Pure, filthed gutter atmos, layered muted howling, squeaky cycling protestation, rust-beshredded punishments meted out without respite. To close then with nine-fucking-minutes of "Klandestine" site recording. Site of some bitter, angry folk with an agenda and an apparent Bob Matthews fixation. Idling motors, or generators, or perhaps even the rough recording set-up itself, to set the dirge-like, grainy, ambient tone, assorted voices yelling and chanting in fits and blurts, dropping in and out. There is a sense of much more going on than the audio alone would care to grant, thus leave it to your filthy mind to boggle. Call it unflinching docu-ambiance verite. An interesting choice of presentation in any event and fitting end to this solid bitch of a brevity. Argue with the vision, but whether we like it or not, people still admire and respect brute force. The brute force of heavy metal thunder. If Iron Division and Nigger Torture Device trust in samples and lyrics to serve up the didactics, Anti-Personnel Explosive Device thrusts straight into pure, sonic-sensual, assault. Soundtrack to the war to end all wars. The machines, the metals, the legions of shit blowin' up... it's as though Jean-Marc Vivenza were driving a fucking panzer, full tilt, through a machine-works factory. I swear every time this shit is on I feel like I want to dive, head-first, into der fecking bunker. Or stand attentive, proud and true, and have my fricken head blown off. At the least to suffer a pretty serious "Blast Injury"- the crunch, clunk n clank of multi-pronged scrapmetals smeared with the muddy machinery of buzz n drone. Here Jean-Marc is just getting the tank warmed up, ready to commit a felony- or worse - for it is only a matter of moments before the crimes are set to music, marching music, huge and kaleidoscopic layers of collapsing ironworks, crashing thrashing banging and smashing, growing ever more vociferous, thunderous, the sheer majestic onslaught approaching orgasmic, tectonic, symphonic. Brutality made life. Life made brutality. The air emphatically cleared, the straight-ahead "March for Blood", honking shizzle-action meets electro-oscillations and evenly paced, head-nodding, thunk. thunk. thunk. From here it is back into the gouging grubbing metals, first gentrified with fuzzy, closed-ended, synth permutation, then to the carefully mixed and arranged "Psywar" explosive-percussive. A return of the symphonics, details to emerge through bursts of artillery, an undeniable attention to compositional detail. Brutal, but not in the harshnoise sense, more evocative of a certain atmosphere, of weighty, steel-fisted, brute force, a thing to admire and respect. Whether we like it or not. Atmosphere darkens on the flip-side, buzzing engine drones drop several cycles to allow low-flying aerials to swoop and stammer, textured grating to only occasionally burst the unwavering mold, bleeding naturally into the even darker, rougher, "Oath Of Allegiance", similarly textured but with the weirdly echoing ritual oath yielding a very grim picture, the unsmiling face of approaching doom proper. Tone is maintained through "Resistance Until Death", detailed, jerking, metal-spastics clankering through thrummed echoing throb, as a strident sampled voice shouts encouragement. And just in case that weren't enough for you, the cruel and brooding deathambience of "Gassed And Destroyed" clambers over the distended rabble. Slow, methodical, cinematic, oozing festering accumulation of death vapors, distant rolling wheels, squeals, deadened sirens, all compressed into a few short minutes of dank dungeontronics. Deed done, what's left but triumphal marching band to usher in continuous shelling, bombing, machine-gunning, stuff blowin' up, shrapnel lodging in assorted cracks, holes, nostrils, slow fade to... the fucking "Rain Of Steel" and the return of... sonic-sensual symphony of... factory of metal sound, ripped to bleeding shit. Multitextured, multidimentional, hammering, slammering, ka-blammering metalwerk fuckestra, Jean-Marc on non-stop fap-a-thon. Potent shit, but... Whether we like it or not people still admire and respect brute force.
Under the influence of, among other things, the "Rain Of Steel" to be found in Zyklon SS manifesto Anti-Personnel Explosive Device, I could not resist the urge to whip out Full Weight Of The Opposition, a kind of manifesto in itself courtesy of the combined missions of Shift and hh. This is, perhaps, exactly as expected, and that is most assuredly a thing of which to cheer. "Pigshit" delivers fully-loaded hh-orchestrated bevy of steelworks symphonics, multi-faceted multi-pronged, massed and unwieldy, yet somehow in the firm grip of control. Filthing up the floor, a dirge-flecked surging, heaving, undertow, what I would take for the Shift, continuously threatens to drown out the clanks clunks and kerchunks. Vocals hit and they are none too pleased, nor are they terribly discernible. Five minutes pass and the vocals acquire a pork-like pitch, a kind of ghost-whitened piggy squeal, perhaps only perceptible owing to the track title but in any case a most disturbing development whether intended or not. Flip over, fucker! "Truth Is Conflict" it says. Well, it is certainly more of the same, or, in any case, the familiar, symphonic, clank clunk kerchunk! A bit more spread out and wide cheeked, this kerchunk, the dirge-flavored filth-floor abandoned in favor of more brittle, wrinkled, shizzle-fizzle, nicely separated stereophonic scope lending a distinct vivenzational perspective. Clarity is the word, and into this clarity a deliberate, periodic, pelvic, muffled, thudgering. Bludgering. The vocal performance follows the beat, and the vocal performance: is pure fire. Coming in well-spaced fits of full-on, blood-spittled, rage, of doubt let there be none. Truth is conflict. Harm is the norm. Doom will not jam. But don't you worry, cause their fall will be harder than ours. A decisive shift to heavier electronic densities finds tempered, coherent declarations delivered in succession over heavy duty, looped bass-sludgerings, curdled agitations threatening to boil over, but only to grind inexorably forward, as though the skull were being dragged unceremoniously along the spiked and pitted filth floor. Would hate to fall, like that.
