CORPSEFUCKING ART
“SPLATTERPHOBIA”
Album Review by Dark Juan

8/10

Corpsefucking Art are: Sicker than an entire hospital of gangrenous plague victims.

Mr. Daisy – Vocals. This man is a fucking genius. What a name. What a guy.
Andrea Cipolla – Guitar
Mario Di Giambattista – Guitar. This man wins the award for most difficult to type surname in the history of the universe so far. I have deleted and retyped this fucker half a dozen times. No, it’s nothing to do with the beer…
Marco De Ritis – Bass. I don’t get it. Why is this gentleman a De when the guitarist with the untypeable surname is a Di? Enquiring minds want to know…
Marco Coghe – Drums (on this record, according to the blurb.)

Well now. That’s fucking annoying. I like it. A lot.

I’m going to be brutally honest here. I chose this record to review with the full intention of tearing it into tiny little squirming pieces and to have an elongated and probably quite sweary rant about the humourless death metal and the fact it has not managed to develop beyond the Morrisound era in the 1990s. That and the fact that Corpsefucking Art is a fucking stupid name. Instead, I am confronted with a madcap bunch of somewhat demented Italians fronted by a bizarre machete wielding creature in a mask calling himself Mr. Daisy. If I could award top marks for sheer wonderfulness of nomenclature Mr. Daisy has already earned Corpsefucking Art one hundred million billion squillion out of ten. But no…. we must be objective and review this record without thinking about Mr. Daisy and the fact he has the most amazing death metal name ever known to man…

Arse. That’s also fucking annoying. The tunes are good.

Yes, Corpsefucking Art play death metal in the classic vein – fans of Mortician, Cannibal Corpse and that ilk will find much to enjoy on here, but all the songs are shot through with zany humour, 80s pop culture samples (I heard Schwarzenegger and Robocop in there…) and a proper sense of fun that’s missing from the more po-faced practitioners of the genre. And that sense of fun is what makes Corpsefucking Art stand out from the rest of the death metal crowd. Corpsefucking Art are to death metal as the irreplaceable Lawnmower Deth are to thrash – simple souls out to have as much fun as possible whilst caving in skulls with the power of metal, giggling like schoolgirls all the while. The record’s production is also very good, with some of the meatiest bass I have ever heard in death metal. Seriously, it’s like someone has implanted a cement mixer in your guts and put it on full speed. Gut churning. Just count yourself lucky these boys haven’t discovered the brown frequency yet, otherwise Splatterphobia could be an entirely different kind of listening experience. The guitars are sometimes overwhelmed by the bass, but I don’t care, and the drums are also huge in the sound. Again very bass heavy but the snare and tom are not overwhelmed although the cymbal sometimes is. Again I don’t give a fuck because this record is just too much fun. Granted, the sleeve looks like it has been drawn by a twelve year old who has been fed a shitload of amphetamine by a teenage sibling and the humour is infantile, but this is all why metal is escapism and fun and why the fans of it are one big happy, drunk family. Unless they listen to Tesseract, in which case they will spend an inordinate amount of time in their bedroom practising scales and discussing syncopation with like minded people over the internet and not drinking or having fun. Hell, masturbation isn’t even an option for them.

Bollocks. That is fucking annoying. Corpsefucking Art are a bunch of Italians. I wanted to hate them and their music and have a massive rant-a-thon and be really unpleasant and rude and obnoxious and basically do a Cemetery Lust or Warrior Soul job (previous reviews by the mighty and puissant Dark Juan found on metalgodstv.com about bands I really, REALLY hated) on them. I have fallen head over heels with the silliness instead.

Bastards. I love them.

The Patented Dark Juan Blood Splat Rating System has decided that Corpsefucking Art belong in the same exalted realm of silliness and amusement value as Evil Scarecrow and awards them 8/10 for a fucking great death metal record. I’m still not happy with them for ruining my plans for the evening. It’s been a hard day. I mean, how many other hellpriests have to fucking build a kitchen pretty much from bastard bloody scratch and then modify the cunt because Mrs. Dark Juan has bought some separate doors that don’t actually FUCKING FIT PROPERLY BECAUSE THEY WERE BOUGHT FROM A DODGY GEEZER WHO LIVED IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE AND DIDN’T TALK TO YOUR FACE, BUT TO YOUR LEFT FUCKING EAR? Cue a swearing marathon of truly epic proportions, breaking out the circular saw which is only meant for disposing of victims and basically cannibalising any wooden structure within a half mile of the village. And it’s still not fucking finished. I said I’d have it done for the false prophet’s birthday. Not to mention it has been colder here in France than Gwyneth Paltrow’s response to being asked if she’s ever had any fucking fun ever in her life, the miserable, macrobiotic bitch…

TRACKLIST

Splatterphobia. Not the brown frequency. Thankfully.
Satanic Barbecue. I don’t even want to contemplate it, thanks. Oh, too late…
Black Sheep Terror. Is it the sheep that is terrified or the terror itself
Tomator. A tormentor of tomatoes or a tomato that is a tormentor?
Nightmare City. That will be Liverpool, then. Or possibly St. Asaph.
Robocorpse II. Sounds like a cheap Chinese knock off. Have big fun action of life with Robocorpse II and features of light sound, enjoy and fun rebound toy. Batteries not included.
Devoured By The Sauce. If there’s chipotle hot sauce involved, I do the devouring.
Beyond The Holy Grounds. Normally it’s just a street, isn’t it?
Staring Through The Eyes Of The Dead (Excellent Cannibal Corpse cover. How alliterative!)
Blood. Knife. Mirror. This is my beauty regimen before hitting the bright lights of Guemene-Sur-Scorff and having a beer with Arnaud, the only other metalhead within a fifteen mile radius.

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