Spotify: The new/old musical counter-revolution

I got two packages in the mail - a vinyl record and a compact disc. All on the day that Australian music lovers would point their fingers and laugh at my stubborn luddism. Hadn't I heard? Spotify had finally launched Down Under! I could now stream any song I wanted from a pool of over sixteen million tracks filled by virtually all the major labels and independents wanting to fill their own cups with a totally "new" musical model.

As many pundits would have you believe the Spotify "revolution" isn't one at all - it's not the Red Army storming the Winter Palace and declaring peace, bread and land for the people; it's like the bound and gagged family Romanov inexplicably sprouting laser turrets from their heads seeing the ghosts of Cossacks rising from their graves to mercilessly hound Trotsky and his troops back toward the Ukraine. Spotify is a musical counter-revolution aiming to quash the orgiastic "free" producer/consumer-led music rebellion once and for all.

It’s so deliciously evil it beats life back into Monty Burns’ desiccated heart and has him whistling Dixie and calling Mater. (Ahoy-hoy?) Here’s why.

The digital arms race
Ever since the dawn of recorded music, the industry at large has had its eye on one prize. That is, controlling the content, the media and the distribution of both.[1] When gramophone records first appeared it wasn’t uncommon to have the music on vinyl sold in shops that had totally vertical integration (ownership from top to bottom from producer of the content to the point of purchase by the consumer. Case and point: HMV or “His Master’s Voice.”) The Compact Disc was a shift toward higher-fidelity media and lower overall manufacturing costs per unit.

The CD was jointly developed by Sony and Philips in the late-70s, the format gaining acceptance among consumers in the late-80s when an economy of scale was established. Sony and Philips jointly paid for the research & development, marketing and manufacturing of both the Compact Discs and the machines that would play them. Then they could license the technology to other companies. It’s a no brainer – Sony and Philips were (and still are, to some extent!) multinational music labels with vast back catalogues and new talent ready to be pressed to polymer which proves almost pilfer-proof (until the late 1990s, as we all know.)

But what to do! The medium of playback and distribution went spectacularly rogue after a stylized cat roamed around harvesting the innards of beige boxes through squeaky telephone wires in the yawning sunrise of 2000 AD. The pirates, once thought guerillas with nothing better to do than trade tapes around and occasionally burn a CD for a few bucks a pop were now legion, moving torrents (oh I love this water analogy) of (almost!) intangible data across networks without proper authorization from their intellectual property holders. The content was there, like it had been since Tin Pan Alley and even centuries before. But the stranglehold on media and distribution methods had slipped the grasp of the industry virtually overnight. It felt like no amount of speech impeded Danes with expensive lawyers could ever halt their revolutionary advance.

Commodification ala mode and a cup of tea
So what now? Do the record companies under the aegis of RIAA and their cronies hunt down the pirates and strong-arm them back toward their sanctioned tripartite model of music consumption or do they spend more money than they’re prepared to on R&D to create a new medium and a new distribution method? The iTunes model seemed “revolutionary” at the time – you know, telling people to pay for something they could get illegally for free – lest the counter-revolutionary martinets bound in and lay down the(ir) law. “Our content was never yours to begin with and now we’re keeping it,” they bellowed. And lo, Spotify and its ilk emerged.

They own the content. That's a given. The clever rub lies thus: remove the medium and utilize a well known distribution network that has existed in its present broadband form for about fifteen years. They seek to change the concept or perception of content ownership back to an near pre-technological state much like in the age of travelling band shows of yore. Yes, you may hear the music but you can no longer hold it in your hands.

By removing the physical or even the illusion of physicality (files on a hard drive), the medium and the distribution is in a state of simultaneous allness and nothingness; it’s always “on” yet you can never “have” the music. It's "your" song when you choose it - like out of a jukebox - but once the last note decays, so is your claim over it (not that you really had one in the first place). You can “search” the (not your) collection but it’s never “yours” – they’re the gatekeepers and you pay for them to lower the drawbridge. Once inside their opaque vaults, they're able track your playing habits to sell you more of what you already want. Then you're their billboard as they publish every guilty play of Pat Benatar to your friends on Facebook. It’s like the IKEA of promotion – IKEA keep their prices low because they outsource the construction of the product to you. Now Spotify have got you to do their marketing for them, too.

If budding content producers are paid a pitiful commission, more so the better in the eyes of the industry. By melding (or abnegating) the medium, they’ve lowered the price of music and also its value. If Spotify spends the same amount of money paying for the rights to the new Gotye record (quelle horreur) and the entire back catalogue of Darkthrone, per se, then what is the differential of worth between the two? There is none. The only savvy trick the labels can pull is restricting the “supply” of Gotye (or someone just as horrible and popular) but that would distort the market and their profit margins (in this new medium-lite model). Make everything on offer the same (pre-paid) price per click, throw in some ads and the money rolls in regardless. Not much for those who wish to furnish Spotify with music, but big payoffs for those who control mammoth oceans - not paper cups full - of content.

But what really fucking burns my potatoes is that Spotify is the closest thing we have to the real pop music experience. Richard Meltzer in his inquiry/parody of the Aesthetics of Rock posited that rock and pop music is the act of making the mundane interesting and exciting. Shit, if you can make money off it, more so the better.

Spotify is accessible on a desktop computer which you more than likely stare into each day to earn those dollars to pay for, well, Spotify. For the fraction of a second your consciousness wanders toward the sublime tongue of rock and pop in all its tinned ferocity on your shitty laptop speakers, the music industry suits have not only breathed a sigh of relief, their tar-stained cackles can be heard from a blue million miles...

Like I said, it’s pure evil fucking genius.



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1: Jones, S. Rock Formation: Music, Technology and Mass Communication, Sage Publications: Newbury Park, CA, 1992 p. 185.

Interview: Robin Staps of The Ocean (the AU Review)

 Ever since Galileo was forced to recant his rather sensible belief that the Earth moved around the Sun by the Italian Inquisition, the burning desire to not whisper, but shout “Eppur si muove” (And yet it moves) in the face of dogmatic fundamentalists has not diminished since the Renaissance – in fact, it’s only intensified. Robin Staps, the “creatively despotic” leader of six member metal collective The Ocean took it upon himself – almost literally – to will the trials of reason against faith to resplendent and complex heavy metal music. Enraptured by the beauty and aggression of the craft, the Ocean have vaulted into the imaginations of discerning metal fans the world over and as Robin reveals, rather prominently in our lofty isle. Touring here almost presently, Robin immerses us under the depths of his proud Ocean.

Read the rest at the AU Review.

Interview: Steve Hughes - Still Mad, Still Metal, Still Funny (Metal As Fuck)

Got an issue? Sit down, let mystical heavy metal comedian Steve Hughes soothe your woes - for about three seconds. Your sides will hurt and your mind will too; I promise. He's back home and he's got a bone to pick with you...

Steve Hughes hails from parts unknown. Well, that isn’t entirely true. He holds no real fixed address. If you live on Her Majesty’s Isle and wait long enough in a local record shop, you might see him cackling with glee as he discovers a rare Venom record while he winds through on tour.

Read more at Metal As Fuck!

Live Review: Steve Hughes - Big Issues (The Pun)

I’ll admit, I’m a huge metalhead (well, I am 6’2” and I have trouble getting caps to fit, but that’s another story). Steve Hughes has made major waves in the global comedy community as the straight-talking, logic-twisting Heavy Metal comedian. This acclaim shows, he nearly sold-out the main room at Melbourne Town Hall.

Read more at The Pun.

Live Review: Brenna Courtney Glazebrook presents More Than This (The Pun)

Is there More Than This? Brenna Glazebrook wasn’t convinced a few short years ago. Staring heartbreak and paucity square in the face, she moved to spider-infested Sydney to start anew. This provides the inspiration for a comically solid fifty minute trip into Glazebrook’s life over the last couple of years. Accompanied by her “Swedish Paul Shaffer” Maya, the iTunes Enter-key presser sat to the side of the compact Spleen Bar stage.

Read the rest at The Pun.

Live Review: Who Killed John Bearington III? (The Pun)

In an unceremonious alleyway, borderline sociopath, racist and philandering billionaire John Bearington the Third lies dead. This ‘muppet-noir’ stares Dylan Cole as the slick-talking, dressed-to-the-nines Detective Cole Feltz (the only human with a speaking part). We watch as he interrogates five likely muppet suspects who all had their respective gripes with the darkly departed Bearington.

Read the rest at The Pun.

Live Review: Lessons with Luis – Luis Presents: Kidney Kingdom (The Pun)

Out of the way and next to the Yarra, Signal is a simple venue fitted for the simple lessons from a wide-eyed boy named Luis. Luis and co are embarking on an adventure to the Kidney Kingdom (riffing off of the Wizard of Oz) to find his kindly father a new kidney.

Read the rest of the review which was featured at The Pun.

Review: Barren Earth - The Devil's Resolve (The Big Issue)

A review of doom-death-prog 'supergroup' Barren Earth's latest sprawling opus, The Devil's Resolve. Read the review and as well as intriguing and fascinating stories in The Big Issue #404, available from vendors across the country. Only $5 and all proceeds help the homeless and unemployed.

Live Review: Michael Chamberlin - Joy & Despair (The Pun)

By his own admission, Michael Chamberlin lives in a constant state of either joy or despair – no grey areas to be found in his life of loneliness, bewilderment and often crippling neuroses. A screenwriter by trade, Michael has written for Skithouse, Rove Live and Adam Hills in Gordon St. Tonight, and has even lent words to the legendary John Cleese. A veteran comedy writer and stand-up comic, Chamberlin has won acclaim far and wide for the last decade, but it seems that his dream joyride has now run into a wall built by despair.

Read the rest as well as many more 2012 MICF reviews at The Pun.

Live Review: Dave Purcell - Mix Tape (The Pun)

Dave Purcell looked a bit cramped on the Butterfly Club stage for Mix Tape, flanked by an upright piano and accompanied by his guitarist and drummer. The audience numbered no more than 20, but the room which scarcely fitted 15 was heat-choked.  Our backs ached on the wooden “pews” during this hour long set comprised of stand-up, self-deprecating storytelling and music.

Read the review and all things Melbourne International Comedy Festival at The Pun.

Eulogy for Baba (25.11.1937-22.3.2012)

The following is a tribute to Svetlana "Anne" Valcanis, my Baba (grandmother) that was delivered to a small congregation of mourners at the conclusion of her funeral.

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If she were standing beside me, she’d probably wonder what all the fuss was about. Family, friends and other loved ones with rapt attention focused squarely on her – she wouldn’t even believe it if she saw it. “Who are all these sturry babas [old grandmothers] crying for?” she’d most likely say, before breaking into that hyena-like, hysterical laughter.

But with a life like hers, it’s easy to figure out the root of her constant self-deprecation. Born, by her own account in a lonely village called Bapchure in Macedonia on the 25th of November 1937 (or 1938, depending on how she felt that day) Svetlana Karlevski was swept up in the current of history. Tranquil as it was, by her ninth year her life plunged into turmoil. Within a week, Baba was a refugee on the run from both Greek fascists and Yugoslavian communists.

Fleeing the war with much hardship, she lived in Romania where she learned her electrical trade. When the Red Cross informed her that her parents had escaped to Australia, she made the journey through Hungary and Vienna and on to Italy, where she boarded a boat for a new, peaceful life. According to her, she ate nothing but spaghetti and pizza for a month. This may have been one of Baba’s many wild exaggerations.

Baba was a master storyteller. She could spin a yarn like absolutely no one else I’ve ever met. She could turn pulling weeds into an epic struggle with herself pitted against the Earth to which she would emerge victorious. For hours you could sit enraptured by her tales of struggle, survival and hope.

She was reunited with her brother Tunus, sister Sofka and cousin Jim. By 1951 she’d become accustomed to life in Australia, despite the restrictive yoke of her Father, frowning on her new found liberal attitudes. Lipstick, shorter dresses and flirtations with boys were clamped down upon.

She met Peter Valcanis at Fitzroy Town Hall in 1958, marrying in January 1959. She gave birth to her first and only son, Alec on November 29th of the same year. She was not one to rest on her laurels – she worked in factories, copping all the flak for being a “wog.” On June the 1st, 1962 her daughter Olga was born – she loved them both very much.

She continued to work stopping in 1983 when Alec and Mary Avramopoulos were married. Her first grandchild, Thomas was born in 1986 (she was the only one allowed to call me that, by the way.)

Alec and Mary worked long hours and I would more often than not see my Baba when I got up and she would be one of the last faces I’d see before going to bed. She would regale me with stories and jokes and insist I put a jacket on as the temperature outside was always “seven degrees” (turning on the radio to prove it only when her “predictions” matched reality).

In the dawn of 1990 she lovingly received two more grandchildren, Stephanie and Theodore within the space of two weeks. By 1992, it was not uncommon to see four kids running around her small backyard, with Christopher added to the mix, shouting at us in a mixture of Macedonian and broken English to “slow down” most of the time.

Baba Sveta never really slowed down. She was always out and about – films, shopping, day trips – she never sat back and let life pass her by. In the late 1990s and early turn of this century, she insisted she own a mobile phone and learn how to use a computer and the internet. She bought a cat (which now rests in peace) and attended regular yoga classes. She was frequently found at a local social club (a place simply known as “the club.”) Though looking after Peter was a full time job in and of itself, she could always be found doing something out of the ordinary.  A passion was cooking too – Baba with thick glasses on and pen in hand would sit in front of the cooking shows and write down recipes to attempt, though her signature dishes would invariably win her the greatest praise come Easter and Christmas time where family would cram themselves around her kitchen table. In fact, the first question she asked when we connected her to the internet was – “how do I get recipes on this thing?” Whenever someone was over, she would ask “what can I fix [for] you” insisting it was “no trouble.”

In 2009, she was diagnosed with a pre-cancerous gall bladder. She fought valiantly against it – though her trademark auburn hair receded into grey, her bravery against surgery and chemotherapy had it licked. Throughout 2010 and early 2011, she stubbornly regained her strength, scarcely admitting not being able to lift as much as she could. Her support network jumped into action – friends such as Lynne and family would try to help out, even though she would doggedly insist she could manage by herself.

In mid 2011, a lump appeared in her abdomen. By the end of last year, it was becoming apparent it would never go away. Despite her outward pessimism, her spirit was one of courage steeled in youth. Shifted from hospital to rehab clinic to palliative care, she was adamant she would return home regardless of the pain she felt. On a cold Thursday night on the 22nd of March, Baba slipped away, Alec by her side to the very last. After years of wrestling with cancer, it had claimed her. She was at peace.

We can take comfort in the words of Shakespeare's Hamlet –

"After life’s fitful fever, she sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch her further."

Where she is now, she feels no more pain.

We will miss you – Maiko, Teta, Nevesta, Baba, Sveike – whatever we called you, we loved you with all our hearts.

Rest in Peace.

Interview: Angela Gossow of Arch Enemy (the AU Review)

At the turn of the century, traditional heavy metal forged in the crucibles of Europe had been muscled out of the popular consciousness by an ostentatiously presented, teenaged television marketing campaign known to the world at large as nu-metal. Long haired metalheads hurled their steel cups of mead at speakers in frustration, wondering if the creative wells of their beloved genre had finally run dry, fingers crossed in a futile/paranoid gesture hoping bulldozers from MTV (sponsored by Monster Energy Drink) wouldn’t raze Wacken Open Air three to four years hence (Or have a band like say, Korn headline, which would more or less have had the same effect.)

But locked away in Gothenburg’s premier metal recording house Studio Fredman, the phoenix like Arch Enemy was preparing a new album with a new, Germanic recruit standing before the microphone. Oft-criticized vocalist Johan Liiva had departed. Angela Gossow entered. She turned how we had always thought about metal on its head.

Find out how she did it at the AU Review.

Media Consulting: HistoryWow website and app

Respected Melbourne corporate communications and public relations consultant Richard Craig, in a special project, has created a unique international website and iPhone app to deliver a "short, sharp hit of history" because history is, in his words, "fascinating and inspirational."

I wrote and edited content for screen (see our series of "introduction" videos) the app and website; organized logo, website and app design; liaised with developers, provided publicity support and consulting; technical support and implementation; intellectual property management; social media management; and trademark filing. It was project built to Richard's meticulous standards, exemplifying his unique adoration of history and one of the most rewarding ones to have taken part in.


Get your history fix at http://historywow.com.

Live Review: Slipknot w/ Trivium at Rod Laver Arena (Metal as Fuck)

I felt a certain sickly dripping on the end of my nose on Thursday night. Grey blanketed the skies above. I’d seen about three shows in as many days, slumber in short supply while working a day job to pay the bills. Worst of all, my fucking (handsome, charming and ever so intelligent) editor sent me to review Trivium and god damn Slipknot of all of the bands on the Soundwave tour, scowling in the knowledge that my beloved Paradise Lost was playing their sideshow a mere five minute walk down the road.

Bollocks.

Find out if I actually enjoyed myself or not at Metal as Fuck.

Live Review: Devin Townsend Project and Meshuggah w/ dredg at the Forum Theatre (Metal as Fuck)

Devin Townsend and his project played unforgettably at the Forum Theatre on that Thursday night. Meshuggah and dredg on the other hand...well...funny you mention them... 
 
Stuck in horrendous Melbourne traffic, I missed dredg much to my annoyance. Having been a fan of their Catch Without Arms record, I was relishing the opportunity to see them in an intimate club setting prior to my Soundwave adventure due in a couple of days. Alas, I was just pipped by the line which had snaked its way back behind the dingy alleyway of the Forum Theatre, much in contrast to the classical opulence of its facade and interior (Read more about the decor of the Forum here, if you’re into that sort of thing.) One newbie approached me and asked, “Is this the line for Devin Townsend?” How did the legion of metalheads not give it away? It was either that, or his name emblazoned above the door?

Find out why I forgot all about Meshuggah during their own show at Metal as Fuck.

Live Review: Melbourne Soundwave 2012 (TheVine)

It’s the time when metalheads and punks are vindicated for one week out of the year - Soundwave Festival. The event, now in its sixth ambitious year, is most likely the greatest expression of rock music Retromania that one could ask for. A phrase coined by acclaimed rock journalist Simon Reynolds (blame him for the term “post-metal”) in his book of the same name, which asks “is popular music addicted to its own past?” The short answer? You bet your arse it is.

The long answer? Read on.

Read the long answer at TheVine.

Live Review: Zakk Wylde's Black Label Society and Hellyeah at the Forum Theatre (Metal as Fuck)

It was an all Southern affair in Melbourne as the shred king addressed his subjects from stately chambers, occupied in the name of the Black Label Order. 

Sultry, rainy, miserable. To the perpetually meteorologically bemused residents of Melbourne, experiencing all four seasons in the space of as many minutes is a given; we see rain, take a piss and by the time our flies are half way done up, it’s sunny once more. Ho hum, pass the butter. After two days of summer, it rained and rained. Fortunately this humid night just lent itself to the atmosphere. With beer in hand as the aroma of cheap cigarettes wafted over me, I felt like I was back in Atlanta, GA hanging out with pre-fabricated good ole boys wearing denim and leather kuttes direct from the merch desk - the real 1%ers were most likely cooling their boiling blood with beer as they planted themselves on the edge of the pit, their arms as thick as oak trunks folded together and just as immovable.

Read the rest at Metal as Fuck.

Article - Currents of History (Full Version)

The following article originally appeared in the Big Issue (Australia) #392, All rights reserved.

I am posting this here as I've been informed that my Baba, the greatest person I have ever known, will not be with us much longer. I dedicate this to her. Please read so that her memory is kept alive.

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It is easy to underestimate older people – as Tom Valcanis realised when he learned about his grandmother’s life and noticed her electrical skills.

One frosty morning when I was six, I was sitting in my grandmother’s lounge room transfixed by Agro’s Cartoon Connection. As usual, I was toasting myself against her glowing gas heater. Back then, I knew my grandmother as my Macedonian “Baba” but, apart from that, I didn’t know much about her at all. For all I knew, her life was full of cooking, cleaning and telling jokes to keep us young ones occupied when there was nothing good on TV.

Baba always wore a simple, faded floral apron and cheap, unassuming clothes no matter where she went. This day was no different.

Leaving me to watch cartoons, she set up her ironing board and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea while the iron heated up.

Minutes later, my concentration was broken by the sound of Baba, back at her ironing board, muttering a string of Macedonian expletives at her unresponsive iron.  She whisked out of the room again and returned just as swiftly with a tool box in hand. What on earth was she doing with a tool box?

With deft precision and lightning speed, she opened up the iron, examined the parts, twisted some screws and, within minutes, had it up and running again. I watched in awe. “How… How did you know how to do that?” I asked. The answer was more remarkable and inspiring than I could ever have bargained for.

It started with Baba as a nine-year-old girl in the midst of a war that eventually tore apart an entire continent. After guns fell silent between the Allies and the Axis forces, another conflict engulfed the Balkans just a year later – the Partisan War. Baba’s village life on the Aegean coast was turned upside down as the fascists invaded. Her family fled into a cave, hiding for two days without food or water. Emerging unscathed, she returned only to watch her house burn to the ground, all of her possessions engulfed in the conflagration. Within a week, Baba was a refugee on the run from both Greek fascists and Yugoslavian communists.

As bombers choked the sky and bombs slammed into the ground mere feet from where Baba stood, the Yugoslavs separated children from their parents. “Give them your blankets,” the soldiers commanded. “They will need them.”

With nothing but their parting gifts to steel them against the bitter winter, these refugees were marched off to safe havens – Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland and Baba’s final destination, Romania.

During the day, they would hide in makeshift bunkers. At night, they would walk for hours and hours in pitch darkness. All the while, they felt nothing but pain, hunger and exposure. When they finally arrived in Romania, soldiers confiscated their blankets (“the worst part was over,” Baba said), but the refugee children were still shunted around between all sorts of buildings and temporary shelters commandeered by communist forces. Householders were ordered to take in the children when nightfall came, sometimes in grand feudal estates. “We even slept in a palace,” Baba recalled in her croaky, careworn voice. “Not in the good part, but, still, it was a palace!”

Eventually she ended up in a convent. It was there, as a teenager, that she was assigned a job like all the other girls and boys of her age. She stood in a line as an officer designated their new life-long occupations. The hand of fate chose doctors, bakers, boilermakers. What would Baba become? An electrician in Transylvania.

Baba’s next base was a plant near Bran Castle, the supposed residence of Count Dracula. There she learned her trade, mending fuses, constructing simple circuits (like those in her iron) and manning the power station that supplied the town. For foreigners and refugees, punishments for mistakes were harsh. Baba found that out when she inadvertently blacked out half the village, including the castle, during a training exercise. She got a beating for her error.

When the Red Cross informed her that her parents had escaped to Australia, she made the journey through Hungary and Vienna and on to Italy, where she boarded a boat for a new, peaceful life.

When Baba finished telling me her story, tears were trickling down into the contours of her cheeks. Even at the age of six, I could feel her gratitude for living in a country where she’d never had to go through that kind of pain again. Her former life under the grip of terror was over. For good.

An unbreakable connection with my heritage was made that day. I stopped whining when I was taken along to migrant reunion picnics and dances – I wanted to connect with my ancestry and hear others’ stories. I learned that through knowing Baba’s place in time, I also knew my own.

Sometimes we underestimate our elders, but their stories are worth so much more than the afternoon cup of tea we only seldom afford them.

Interview: Nick Holmes of Paradise Lost (the AU Review)

Nick Holmes, the stalwart gothic metal pioneer is a right ‘gobby’ bloke (for someone who's boring after three pints of lager, as described in his own self-deprecating Twitter bio) – it’s a requisite for the job as singer in the morose doom metal outfit Paradise Lost. In the early 1990s in Yorkshire, Paradise Lost seemingly channeled the lament of long-haired youth who were witnessing their metal greats blundering about aimlessly as grunge invaded the popular consciousness. In comparison, grunge’s flirtation with despondency was piecemeal in comparison to the UK doom scene’s dyed-in-the-wool, consummate romance with bleakness and sorrow.

Read the complete interview at the AU Review.

Review: Woods of Ypres - Woods 5: Grey Skies & Electric Light (Metal as Fuck)

The Grey Skies are wet with tears; the last recording made with David Gold (RIP) takes on a new, powerful Romantic dimension while still retaining their bitter cynicism and expert musicianship. 

 

There’s a particular twinge of grief that threads itself through this record – of course, the untimely passing of David Gold was as saddening as it was sudden. As he mournfully and sonorously rattled off his desperate words, screaming “Only death is real!” one’s eyes feel pregnant with tears and almost nothing can stem the flow. The heinous crime the Earth has committed in prematurely claiming our dark dreamer only serves to intensify this monochromatic vista of doom metal, like a portrait washed in rivers of hatred and modern bile, dripping with venomous, jarring guitar lines.

Read the review over at Metal as Fuck.