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HARDWARES

EKTOMORF

Black Flag

(AFM)

Reviewed by : David Perri
Rating : 7.5

I've always been amused by Hungary's EKTOMORF, the group essentially the world's longest-running SOULFLY and SEPULTURA cover band, even down to the Brazilian-accented English vocals, despite the whole Hungary thing. And while latest record Black Flag, from its title to its continued reliance on Cavalera-isms, is proof positive that the creativity department is obviously not the strongest division in the Ektomorf Inc. office, the band writes what are, undeniably, impressively effective and highly listenable straight-hate anthems, to the point where you immediately want to get Max, Iggor, Andreas and Paulo together at somewhere legendary like Sunlight Studios, spin an Ektomorf record and then uncryptically ask the very pointed, "You sure you don't want to reunite?" In that vein, all Ektomorf is lacking in terms of becoming a rabid summation of the Sepultura catalogue in its entirety is a couple of old-school thrash anthems; add elements of 'Dead Embryonic Cells', 'Slave Of Pain' or 'Show Me The Wrath' and Ektomorf instantly becomes Morbid Visions to Roots, all in this nifty Hungarian package. Existential questions are sure to be abound, of course, 'cos if you're not actually Sepultura, how can anyone claim you represent that band's entire catalogue fully and completely? Sounds like a L.A. GUNS vs. TRACII GUNS' L.A. GUNS question that'll lead to some serious fisticuffs at '80s Night at the Whisky on the Sunset Strip, so let's put that bout of identity politics aside for now. Just know that despite the intrinsic Cavalera-ness of Ektomorf's entire existence (including, but not limited to, (i) the maddening eastern moments that Max will enthusiastically dive into right as a song is hitting its stride; and, (ii) the I-hate-you-for-talking-behind-my-back-and-I-will-vanquish-over-you-motherfucker lyrics), Ektomorf has always written enjoyable, acerbic records that are one part metal-as-life contribution to the genre and the other part jumpdafuckup dance tunes. And, hey, at last count, that sounded like the exact recipe for the guiltiest of guilty pleasures.



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