Zoroaster Matador

Just a few seconds into Matador and you can tell that Zoroaster's amps go to 11. True story: amid the second listening of Zoroaster's new album, my rear surround sound speaker waddled off of the shelf—twice. Hatchbacks far and wide would rattle to bits trying to push this beast of out their bass bins. To put it bluntly, this band is heavy. And I mean Paul Bunyon—HEAVY. The first third of the record bears witness to Zoroaster's love of mud-drenched guitars that lumber alongside someone singing through a fan after gargling glass. The Sabbath-styled pot-metal is a headbobber's dream. Guitar solos soar in psychedelic, almost-prog passages that give their drummer an excuse to pulverize his kit to powder. "Odyssey" would make Homer proud with its adventurous overtones, albeit unepic duration. While Zoroaster has been known to put folks to sleep with their lengthy opuses, most of these tracks get by at a clip of around 4-7 minutes; sprints compared to their previous marathons. The Second Act of the album is where the meat is. After the punked-up "Trident," the murderous rage of Zoroaster is unleashed with the pissed-off monster "Firewater." The entire instrumental is awash with noise, static, and distortion, a frightening moment that is one of the best on the record. "Old World" is exactly what an old world would sound like: slow, sludgy, yet ethereal. Dudes can rock a riff like there's no tomorrow. Steadily measured blows repeatedly pummel until you look like Jared Leto's face after Fight Club. The tune "Black Hole" then boot-heels the spine with galloping tom-toms before breaking down into guttural growls over a knuckle dragging rhythm. Violent tremolo picking fades out with final screams so gruesome you can almost hear blood curdling in the throat. Closing the disc are the sequel song, "Odyssey II," a tune that didn't necessarily demand another installment, but the wet acoustic cool-down is much appreciated, and the album's title track, "Matador." A long deliberate intro sets the tone of nodding stoner sludge, before becoming a behemoth of a finale, swirling in psilocybin and a pounding riff that rocks back and forth. Bottom Line: Get big speakers. Then, buy this record. Then, turn it up loud. The album demands to be listened to repeatedly in order to absorb its massive thickness. But that's not a bad thing, because as the title suggests, Matador is killer.