I'm normally not this pissed off. Hell, I was just zoning out to Sigur Ros' _( )_, meditating on fey elfin beauty or whatever. Admiral Angry made me this way. The L.A. band deconstruct Meshuggah guitar tones and time signatures and reassign them to the purpose of spreading Khanate-sized hate doom. The album's prehistoric pachyderm gait rarely achieves the frenzy of the former or the drug-slowed arrhythmia of the latter, but retains the perfect pace for 45 minutes of slobbering rage. Listing individual song qualities is like mentioning that there are multiple ways to use a rusty saw blade to inflict terrifying wounds: each yields its own distinct pattern of frayed flesh and sprayed blood, and how can you know which best expresses your personal state of anguish until you've tried them all? Every track is run through with skull-shearing guitar attacks, gut-thudding bass punches, tempo shifts that occasionally open up to highlight the drummer's dramatic percussive potency, and unflaggingly miserable shrieks. Sparse electronic elements sometimes take center stage, but don't be fooled. The robots conceal rusty saw blades all their own.