VIRUS is an apt name for this album. A biologist will tell you that a virus is a pernicious organism that survives by latching onto living cells, reproducing itself a zillion times, and finally exploding the cell from inside, releasing millions more viruses each one with a mission to find another cell and do exactly the same thing. That is not unlike what mallcore bands do – latch onto a music scene, reproduce themselves ad infinitum, and explode the scene from inside, unleashing countless ludicrous clones to wreak musical and intellectual havoc on the unwashed (brainwashed?) masses.
Pressure Square Inch is a dreadful band, and VIRUS is a dreadful album. Track after track of repetitive hardcore and metal leftovers, “spiced up” with hip hop vocals (some with a culturally tasteful Hispanic barrio accent) and the surefire marketing bonanza of street themes and urban angst as lyrical material. It’s boring, it’s repetitive, it’s artificial, it’s cynical, and it’s devoid of anything that metal fans would find of value. The only positive thing I can say for a disc like this – except its excellent properties as a coaster for my Heineken – is that the production quality is excellent. There. This isn’t a totally negative review.
The climax of this interminable tour through the junkyard of mallcore sensibilities is the final track, “Rude,” the lyrics of which the band thoughtfully reproduced on the album sleeve. “I can say anything I want…Bitch, Fuck, Ass, Pussy, Cunt…I can say anything I want…fuck you up!” Yes, well, this is my review and I can say anything I want too. I say, this is one for the trash can. Avoid Pressure Square Inch, and their album VIRUS, at all costs.
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