Sounding like the septic system of their Philadelphia headquarters backed up and sprayed its disgusting payload all over the complete works of Portal, Incantation and Vulcano, here comes the charmingly named Pissgrave.
Imagine a collision at a sonic intersection populated by the entire Cogumelo Records catalogue and drunken lumberjacks doing a little chainsaw juggling, and you’ll have an idea of the chaos within.
Pissgrave cherish and celebrate the raw-as-fuck ethos and could either be on the forefront of the future of brutality or a bunch of brats laughing at the public from behind a veil of stringy hair and denim vests. And there’s the catch: it’s difficult to tell if Pissgrave are the real deal, finding comfort in sloppiness and trying to move mountains and shake conventions with the vomit-strewn audio filth of Pain Enhancement and Fields Of Scattered Bones, or if they’re purposely going about the business of sounding like shit.
