It’s almost comforting how immediately the new Pissgrave plunges you back into the shit. Without a moment to spare, the Philly death-metal extremists’ first album in six years commences with what sounds like vocal cords being torn from someone’s throat. The jackhammering blast beats don’t let up for a second. Their guitar tremolos still buzz like they’re sawing a hole in your speakers. And, of course, the album cover features artwork of a real rotting corpse, maggots and all. Yes, this is the Pissgrave we all know and cherish.
It’s been 10 years since the band debuted with Suicide Euphoria, and you’d still be hard pressed to find a metal outfit with a more vicious sound. In a genre that’s generally averse to taking itself too seriously, Pissgrave are committed to remaining mysterious and legitimately frightening—whether in disturbing artwork that harkens to a time when metal bands were routinely and tastelessly off-putting, or in their almost complete lack of interviews, decipherable lyrics, or anything else to humanize their unholy noise. “We are under no obligation to make death metal friendly or palatable,” frontman Tim Mellon explained in a rare zine interview from 2020, in between taking shots at Incantation soundalikes, the gentrification of Philadelphia, and “hipster black metal” bands. The phrase he casually uses to describe his own group’s music is probably the most helpful compass toward their frame of mind: “hateful death metal.”
If Pissgrave want to scare off hipsters, then working with Profound Lore—a label renowned for bridging genres—might not be helping their cause, but maybe they’re just trying to hit the enemy where it’ll hurt. Either way, there’s little danger of them ever becoming a major crossover act, and Malignant Worthlessness (rumored to be their final album) actually muddies some of the clarity they established on 2019’s Posthumous Humiliation. Where that release brought a (relatively) cleaner sound than their debut, occasionally even slowing down to let actual melodies shine through, Malignant Worthlessness splits the difference, carving out slightly more intricate riffs without ever letting up on the beatdown. They still mostly operate on one frequency, but the more you let yourself sink into their morass, the more hypnotizing it becomes.
The biggest switch-ups come via Mellon’s vocals; his guttural enunciations are slightly more audible here, and his pitch-shifted growls yield a more varied array of sounds. He gnashes and snarls his way through the opening grooves of “In Heretic Blood Christened” before dropping his voice to a low chant on “Three Degrees of Darkness,” like some infernal beast baring its teeth before a kill. The queasiest effect hits at the end of “Heaping Pile of Electrified Gore,” when he distorts his vocals into a spoken-word passage that sounds as if he were cursing us in some ancient tongue—real druid shit. These psychedelic flourishes draw attention to longtime collaborator Arthur Rizk’s masterful production, and to how differently he handles Pissgrave’s sound compared to other projects. Where he might emphasize the more cavernous qualities of groups like Blood Incantation and Power Trip, with Pissgrave he takes an approach closer to his work with Primitive Man, drilling directly into the band’s flayed feedback and mulching it with their endlessly rolling snares into a cyclone of filth.
