And get this: that bootheel grinding your temple into gristly bits probably juts off the sole of a sleek women's size eight. Yep, the purveyors of all that gruesome skullcrushery bear names like Vanessa, Roxane, Joannie, Jessica, and Marie-Audrée: the Slice Girls! As in ready, willing, and eager to slice to shreds your moon face, to slice open your complacent soul, to slice off your revolting genitalia and shove them... in my mouth! You already know if you need to hear this. Do you love dense, beautifully played dark metal skimmed over with the clumpy leavings of its recent swim through a full and failing sewage facility? (What? It can't be just me...)

Everything about this album rules. Precise performances? Check. Consistently disgusting vocals? Checkola. Sweet riffs and solid songs? Uh, checkerino. Injections of piano and clean womanly vocals to heighten the experience? Waiter, please bring the check! The very musical piano accompaniment pervades the entire album but never softens the murderous aggression. Wanton slaughter ensues, and any tonal ivory tickling and pretty voicings simply make the gleeful almacide (massacre of souls) so much more hopelessly final. A bit more space in the production (or separation in the mix) might really bring the bouquet of knives through your speakers into slashing reality, but what do I know? I sure ain't complaining.

I think I might want to marry Aenygmist. All of them. Actually, I think they would kill me. But that short time when I'd be not dead -and- married to all of them would be awesome. Let praises ring forth for _Creation Born of Trauma_, from every sentence in this article, from all who read it, and of course (everybody with me now)... from my mouth!