I'm not much of a metal guy, but that's okay; neither is Justin K. Broadrick. This may seem like a strange thing to say about an early member of UK grindcore legends Napalm Death and a founding member of industrial metal powerhouse Godflesh, but Broadrick, especially in his various side projects with Kevin Martin, has long seemed impatient with orthodox metal, remolding it into jazz, dub, hip-hop, drum'n'bass, ambient music, power electronics, and whatever else strikes his fancy. It sounds like dilettantism, but it's really a constitutional preference for depth and groove instead of height and speed (at least since his frantic days in Napalm Death). Broadrick has taken metal to a lot of different places-- even, some detractors allege, beyond the pale, when he turned it into melodic shoegaze with Jesu.
Those detractors should appreciate the darkness and brutality of Posthuman, released on electronic label 3by3 as JK Flesh, which is being touted as a return to Godflesh form. But the striking resemblance to fashionable bands like Fuck Buttons and Liars? They might appreciate that less. A cratered terrain of heavy basses, guitars, and electronics offset by nervous percussion, Posthuman suggests the smoldering aftermath of a war to extinction. But as metal as that sounds, there are plentiful moments when it's just one notch of irony or ingenuousness away from being Salem or Skrillex, respectively. I have no idea whether or not Broadrick has a certain audience in mind for his music, but the record's sequencing feels like post-dubstep training wheels for wary metal heads.
Posthuman opens with a learning curve: "Knuckledragger" is dominated by a lurking guitar line and infernally garbled vocals; it sounds like metal reduced to a fundamental and abstractly loop-based essence. "Idle Hands" is anchored by charred, concussive chords, but sneaks in scissoring cymbals and bubbling synthesizers that tease some of the dancefloor calamities to come. After the crushing noise rock of "Punchdrunk", the guitar subsides and the machines take over for a full-bore post-dubstep record, rife with sinuous melodies, swerving rhythms, and infallible electronic processes, with the Jesu-like live musicianship of "Walkaway" waiting at the very end like a palate cleanser, or a reward.
While I find the record almost uniformly engaging, it's this middle run of songs where Posthuman really comes to post-life. Broadrick is great at building monumental structures that shudder with the internal pressure of propeller whirs and volatile basses, staggering half-step drums and shuffled double-time hi-hats, juddering ring modulators and arpeggiators, and circularly slithering guitar phrases that breathe out unholy fumes. The run of songs from the intensely body-rocking "Devoured" to the runaway wobble of "Earthmover" is especially gripping; the title track is a machine that manufactures pure violence. Posthuman might not fully win back the crowd that Broadrick alienated with dreamy Jesu, but you can't deny that at least he's back to trying to blacken your eyes rather than put stars in them.
