If you’re going to name your band Cunts then I expect some vile shit. If you’re going to double down and go with Cunts (Ipecac Recordings) as the name of your album, then you’re really looking to summon the Kraken here. I’m ready to slam a forty ounce of Olde English 800, get bashed over the head with a folding chair and crawl back home only to fuck on the floor. Let’s destroy something beautiful.
What we get on Cunts, by the aforementioned Cunts, is a perfectly OK set of songs that seem like they want to dip their toes into Crust Punk or Thrash but never fully commits to anything. Again, if we’re bold enough to toss out song titles like ‘Cholos on PCP‘ or ‘Ass to Grind’ my brain is conditioned to expect some Agoraphobic Nosebleed or Brutal Truth levels of ear trauma. ‘Fuck You for your Service’ seems like a party at a glance, but the better part of four minutes is spent on whispery vocals and subdued guitars. We get a dab of the fury that could’ve been late in the song by the way of awesome drum fills from Kevin Avery, but by then I’m leaning on too little, too late.
Also, it makes little sense on this type of affair to have vocalist Matt Cronk to be featured so prominently in the mix over the guitars and bass. I like his melodic approach as opposed to the standard pure low guttural route, but outside of the constant use of profanity (I know, the irony of me talking about swearing) he’s not bringing out his best stuff.
I guess I’ll always be a caveman at heart so nasty speed and ignorant riffs will always work for me. I just wish Cunts would have brought the ugly.
5 / 10