Multiplied by the muscle of Merzbow, Full Of Hell pummel at the membrane of reality until it bursts open. There are moments where I feel myself flecked in sweat and at the butt of a wayward, flailing elbow; in the midst of a very human form of energy expulsion, surrounded by bodies clenching and releasing, smacked by blastbeats and buckled chains of guitar riffs, with everything threatening to snap under sheer velocity. Here, the grindcore of Full Of Hell manifests as bodies struggling to oxygenate themselves – movements made in anger and panic, fists thrown before thought and moderation can intervene. They are feral and dangerous.
Then, there are moments where the walls of the rehearsal room fall down. Drums start to sound like skins stretched across volcano mouths, booming and rumbling in alternations of impact and magma pressure; white noise and amplifier distortion collide in gigantic lightning bolts on either side; the landscape stretches as far as the ear can comprehend, encompassing distant winds of trumpet and feedback. I stand amongst a landscape wasted and scorched. Full Of Hell are now nowhere to be seen, in human form at least – they are a series of large-scale sonic elements and disasters, transcending the limits of arms, legs and throats to embody nature in all its apocalyptic potential. The final four tracks depicts this transformation most dramatically: the group turn from grindcore into a supernova of soaring voices and guitars like astral strobes, before emerging from within a wasteland of feedback like a rabid dog again, reduced back to networks of veins and muscle.