Lurking deep within Meatwound seems to be the tattered wraith of one of the many heavy, metallic crust bands who emerged in the wake of His Hero Is Gone: Artimus Pyle, High On Crime and all that good stuff. So far so stock, you might be thinking, but along the way something terrible seems to have happened: they’ve piled on weight, warts and muscle until their twisted frame can barely take the strain, and have been left on the brink of physical and nervous collapse. Cartilage creaks, tendons strain and the spirit shrieks violently, but against all odds it maintains its disgusting bristly form and lumbers ever on. Truth be told it’s pretty damn gross, but therein also lies its hideous, misbegotten charm
