kuruz

svratio u Denerov šop u Kopenhagenu, ispričao se sa čovekom i uzeo

ma ceo EP odličan, al ta pesma se baš izdvaja 😄 o ostalim albimima smo pričali davno, još pre Velikog Brisanja, pa me mrzelo da ponavljam (za razliku od priče o EP-ju 🙃) 666 International mi omiljeni album, a i o ostalom mislim sve što i Miloš, ko što rekoh

potpis na ceo post, na svako slovo

I smell sarcasm Traces of Reality kult

a Satanic Art? na njemu je najbolja pesma benda

https://insartrecords.bandcamp.com/album/zvjerovanje

meni Firepower dosta bolji od novog

+1

dobar opis njihovih albuma posle To the Nameless Dead

Brkovi >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> i naravno da ima šaljivih bendova - Korpiklaani, Terror 2000, pa i Tankard na kraju krajeva, uz već nabrojane

to važi i za sve što je Maks uradio posle odlaska, osim Dark Ages

ja u petak bio na dens areni od pola 4 do pola 6 i bio je pakao od gužve

ladno jeste

u može

Coroner bio fenomenalan, oduševio se i moj drugar koji ne sluša metal sjajan nastup Uada užas, a nažalost uhvatismo i 3-4 minuta Nemesisa i to je dosta neprijatno bilo posle išli na trens stejdž, najbolje neštoina tvrđavi, pa na dens arenu čini mi se da Engleza uopšte više nema na festivalu

gore u sredini je Daeva - Through Sheer Will and Black Magic

i ja sam ih gledao 2015. na Brutalu i to je bilo teško šurenje, fenomenalan nastup albumi posle toga su uglavnom prosečni, pa su takvi i uživo sad koliko vidim po snimcima, a bez Mika to svakako nije to

ide Coroner gas tek sad vidim da je Imaginarium istog dana ajme

http://myrrthronth.de/Specials/Reviews/gehenna_ww.htm ""I want you to get your lazy asses over to Elmstreet Bar. 7:06 p.m., tonight. If you don't show up I'll sue you for violating your contract, bloody whimps!" The deep, calm male voice resonated in Sanrabb's ears. "Whimp." One had to admit: an answering machine wasn't enough to irritate him, and even from tape, the unmistakable order from the mouth of Satyr Wongraven sounded threatening enough that shitting his pants seemed a more likely option to Sanrabb than not going over to Elmstreet. A glance at his watch informed the down-trodden guitarist: a little over 5 p.m.. Two hours left. He knew what his boss wanted: new stuff, a clear statement where things are going with Gehenna. He had a lump in his throat, the strong desire to throw up. "Whimp." He reached for the phone, dealt the number of his old friend Dolgar with shaking hands. They hadn't been talking in ages, ever since Dolgar had left the band actually. Hopefully he was at home and not hanging out in the studio with the idiots of 122 Stab Wounds. The phone was ringing. "What d'ya want", Dolgar rumbled. "Hi, Dolgar, old chap. What's up?" - "Screw you. What do you want?" - "Ehm... Satyr wants to see me. In two hours. Elmstreet." - "How does that concern me?" - "He's gonna kill me! You know I haven't done anything but the Forlorn-wanking. But even that doesn't bring no dough anymore. Dude, I'm out of money and totally finished. You gotta help me!" - "I don't have to do shit." - "Come on! Don't do this to me, please! At least listen to what he has to say. I really need the money... ... Dolgar? Dolgar?" He had simply hung up. 90 minutes left. Time was running out. Peeeeeeeep. He started his PC. Sanrabb wanted to give a listen to those few riffs he had recorded a while back. He thought to remember that they sounded alright, like the older material with keyboards and stuff. He actually had no clear picture, probably he had been drunk then, Sarcana had just dumped him. It took him half an hour to locate the files. Two riffs he had had to leave to Satyr two years ago, he bought them for the first Disiplin album. The rest sounded surprisingly boring. 45 minutes to go. He put his leather jacket on and started off to the stop of the local train. "Dear passengers of Line 88, the 6:20 train is cancelled because of an accident. We apologize for the inconvenience." Satyr would skin him alive if he didn't show up in time. Sanrabb wondered if one of those Suicide-Black-Metallers had thrown himself in front of the train. He thought maybe the Shining guy until he remembered that that one's from Sweden. Turning into Dronningens gate, he saw Satyr's silver BMW convertible already parked in front of Elmstreet, blocking the sidewalk, the top open. Three chicks with braids stood before it, giggling. He scared them off with his plastic machine gun which he had with him at all times - just in case he needed to impress somebody. A traffic warden approached the car, in her hand the device to issue a ticket. "You're one minute late, looser.", Satyr snarled without looking up from the razor blade he used to prepare two long lines of fine white powder on the table in front of him. "How long since your last album? Stop, don't say anything. Three years? Four? Five?" Sanrabb had to swallow. The lump was back. "Ehm, I think it has bee...." - "Shut up!", Satyr raised a threatening finger. With a rolled-up bank note, he sniffed the powder into his nose, whiped over his upper lip and looked absently at Sanrabb. "The last albums have been shit, and you know it. I want you to make something new, not this Death Metal crap. Something really good." - "Yeah, well... I wasn't particularly creative rece..." - "Can't you just keep your trap shut while I talk to you? I don't care what you were or were not. You have three months, then I want the album. Three months, not a single day more." From his jacket's inner pocket, Satyr produced a CD and an envelope and pushed them discretely over the table. A waitress came and put two beers on the table, glancing at the CD. "Piss off, stupid bitch, or else I'll rip your head off.", Satyr roared out of the blue. The girl dropped her tray and retreated behind the bar table, crying. "That's 30 minutes of music, written by me of course. You'll use that, no discussions. That method has worked with Khold, it worked out with Disiplin, with the Darkthrone drunkards, and with Thorns. And the insane faggots of Dødheimsgard will go along with it in the end, too. I'm just not going to release their album until they bend over." - "I have no line-up", Sanrabb whispered, blushing, his eyes cast down. "So what, screw that. You can rent Frost, he still owes me. The rest you can manage on your own, I hope, or do I even have to record everything myself?" - "No, no, I'll do it. I want to try to get Dolgar ..." - "Oh, Dolgar, Mister shit-for-brains. I have just called him. He is in the band again. 5000 euros. People are just after the money nowadays, terrible." Satyr's mocking voice echoed through the bar. It had become much darker by now because the windows where covered by German Black Metal fans, pressing their noses against the glass, staring over to their table. Next to them, a guy in pink latex pants, with inline skates on his feet, was sleeping on a bench, passed out in a drunkard's coma. Talking to him was a greasy, overweight man with a baseball cap who looked somehow German. Sanrabb just caught the sentence "I'm going to restart the project, you know, the flame loders in the underground, as always" when a slap in his face made sure that he was giving his undivided attention to Satyr. "Well then, three months." Mr. Wongraven stood up and, majestically, walked over to the door. Without turning around, he called back: "One more thing: you will put on make-up again and perform live. And you better get yourself a hair cut, you look like my grandmother. Some kind of Hitler-look would be better for business. So long." Through the glass in the door, Sanrabb saw Satyr jump into the driver's seat, remove the ticket from under the whipers, throw it out of the car and light himself a joint, which apparently he had ready in his pocket. He paid the two beers with his last 135 crowns and left. When Sanrabb opened the door of his flat, the LED of his answering machine signalled a new message. "It's me, Dolgar. Listen, I have thought it over. Count me in. Just for idealistic reasons, for old times' sake. We'll show them, won't we? Give me a call." Sanrabb was relieved. Dolgar was the only one not totally incompetent, no way it could ever work without him. He took Satyr's CD from the pocket of his jogging pants and put it into the player. In the envelope, he found some text fragments. Nothing beyond "death to them all" or "twilight fell above the earth", but it would have to be enough for now. The music sounded great. 6 songs. Really raw riffs. Everything was kept rather simple, except for some guitar gimmicks, he would certainly have to practise to get them right. It had a Mayhem touch. Was Satyr involved there, too? It was a general rumour that he is a ghostwriter. Even in Germany it wasn't really a secret anymore, and that country is full of half-blind idiots. But Mayhem? At the age of 15? Well, whatever. He listened to the CD a few more times and even discovered some true gems. "Flames Of The Pit", rather slow and frightening, was his favourite. "Werewolf", with its stamping beat and sawing guitars, surprisingly reminded him of Burzum and was slightly better than the ice-cold "Silence The Earth" and the again very Countesque "Pallbearer". Really, this material wasn't bad at all! No keyboards. The stuff was sufficiently sick and had enough melody in the lead guitars. That should do, no need for soft synthies. Sanrabb would show Satyr that he is no whimp. Together with his still gasping, snarling voice, this could sound quite morbid. Truely Norwegian, not as polished as the gay RayBan-Extreme-Metal people like Samoth (the old garden gnome) did nowadays. The remaining songs were quite fast and very straight, most likely because of the drum machine that Satyr had programmed in a rather simple fashion. Sanrabb didn't feel like changing anything major about that. In the studio, Frost would hammer away exactly like this. Any other drummer could have done the same, but well, if Satyr wants to rent Frost... the guy really is as reliable as a Leopard II tank, even though he looks like a girl. Yes, with the two songs he could put together using his old riffs, this would make 36, 37 minutes. Certainly enough for a comeback album. The stuff wouldn't sound like a Gehenna album at all, except for the vocals (unless Satyr insists doing those as well, just like he did in the Thorns case). But the promotional machinery of Moonfog would deal with that somehow, cover it up. After all, people do believe anything they are told nowadays, it just needs to be wrapped up nicely. "Gehenna have returned to their roots" or something along those lines, just claim that, and the morons are going to buy the album like crazy. Maybe he'd even make enough money to afford a girl friend. The last one had left him because her friends told her too much crap about him. And she didn't want to believe that he wasn't as evil as those wicked wretches claimed. Wicked wretches? Actually, that would make a great album title. Or wait, maybe not. But "WW", then one wouldn't know immediately what it stands for. It could mean anything, and he could tell each journalist what the journalist wants to hear. To them, "WW" could mean "World War" or "Werewolf", and why bother tell them the truth? Ha!, what a brilliant idea. "Yes, this could turn out pretty good", Sanrabb muttered to himself. For a moment, he felt almost as cool as his label boss. It was a close call, but in the end, he got off cheaply."

pi ja se ponadao novi Cobalt

jebo te sunce ladno Dome Runner sutra u Doljevcu

taj ima My Own Summer, to im je najbolja pesma od svih koje sam čuo