Out of this summer's furnace, their first album in five years. Oxbow, apostles from that small seam of true, gut-wrenching horror. Oxbow, who stink of phlegm and germs and unprotected sex. Oxbow, whose live shows frighten even the few converts who've come to see. Hard music born of slow, corruptive bile from deep down inside, not the tantrums of chugging cheerleaders of doom. They'll put the lie to your grindcore bands right quick.
With titles like "King of the Jews" and "The Balls in the Great Meat Grinder Collection," it's not hard to fathom Oxbow's lack of fame. But you'd think the foursome would at least be known for their frontman-- if only for the hecklers he's beaten down in his day. There are few spectacles like Eugene Robinson, more than six feet of black muscle standing downstage, thighs spread, brief-clad crotch thrusting forward, eyes rolling in holy fervor. The crowd steps back a few feet and eyes the exits.
The two-track opener, "The Snake & The Stick," finds him perched in the pulpit more than ever before. Cursing, shouting, screaming from the background, his cries come like those from the drunks you see stalking down the street, lost in their own private stew of hate. At the same time, he whispers up close with allure: "One Sunday morning, the preacher went a-trawling/ To the House of Fuck, he come a-calling." A raspy voice admits, "I got couch sluts of every stripe, sir, boys and girls and the in-between types," and right afterwards the band busts into an exaltation of Sabbath riffage. Might as well strip your clothes off, burn your Preacher comics and bask in the squalor because Garth Ennis ain't never going to come close to this freaky.
In times past, Oxbow sounded somewhat like labelmates Neurosis, or a spoiled Birthday Party. An Evil Heat cools the fire just enough for a slower burn. The main hooks of these songs seem blues-based, at least at the beginning, as you're reeled in. "Stallkicker" opens with a rough blues crunch, and the cymbal crashes resonate like electric shocks. It even ends with a brief coda of almost pretty guitar picking. But they return to their trademark queasiness-- a sidelong slither between noise-rock and metal-- on "S Bar X," on which former Swan member Jarboe guests. Her low moans circle his high-pitched keens until it all mashes together in a swirl of seething feedback.
Given all the old folktales of forks in the road and deals made at midnight, the whiff of blues here makes sense. Scent-words seem to be the most appropriate; there's an odor of pheromonal aggression that's just tangible on this record, and it alternately sickens and succors. Rarely have I been so thoroughly seduced after an averse reaction, and rarely have I been so driven to get up and thrash around and feel the blood pulse through my veins. "Skin," in particular, grips me until I'm aware of the sad state of my own flesh, what with the brutal whip of the snare and the tale of "the cockhorse, teeth like sugar cubes/ Play the blues, balls hanging/ Between his between, like crab apples... hating his hide, and hiding his hate/ Potentate of the small, and the great."
What wages do you earn after the sins of the first half-hour? The other half: a thirty-two minute (near) instrumental by the name of "Shine(Glimmer)." It builds in buzzing bass drones and dives back down into distortion, endlessly climaxing and clenching up and coming at you again. It's a primal jam, fueled by pure carnal libido, so get together with some inclined bodies and slap skin together. An Evil Heat may not be for everyone, but you're going to keep an open ear-- it's been too long since you've listened to anything this hard. So kneel yourself down now, and look upwards at old Eugene. It's time for your confession.
