For those who’ve arrived wondering whether the latest Municipal Waste album has seen the party thrash pioneers take a serious turn and tackle mature themes and advanced song structures, we have an answer for you: No.
‘The Fatal Feast’ is Muni Waste being Muni Waste through and through, and though it’s probably not going to be regarded as their opus, it’s just about everything it should be;
Kicking off with generic space noises that wouldn’t go out of place on mid-twenties television and kicking into ‘Repossession’ with the “classic” MW sound, the entire album rarely sees the band let up or stray too far from the path. Though there’s no denying that you won’t find anything you haven’t heard from the band before here, overanalysing it kinda defeats the point, and it’s most definitely an album to crack out the caffeinated alcohol beverages out for this summer (if you like that sort of thing).
Fans of the band really aren’t going to have many complaints with ‘The Fatal Feast’, it’s basically just riff after riff after blast beat after blast beat, but it’s an album that might have arrived at just the right time for people who are new to the “heavy music” party – with the hardcore scene going from strength to strength with the return of some high profile bands and some experimental takes on the genre coming thick and fast, Municipal Waste are one of the bands that can provide consistant relief from the sometimes over-seriousness of the scene and just focus on just being fast and loud.
The song titles say it all really. ‘Covered In Sick-The Barfer’, ‘Crushing Chest Wound’ and ‘The Monster With 21 Faces’ set the bar for the lyrical content on the album, but Muni Waste get away with the ropey lyrics and cheesiness because every song just makes you want to smash a beer over your head and forget that you’re a little old for the mosh pit, and that’s entirely the point.
Basically, if the band wound you up before, they’ll probably still wind you up, but otherwise it’s the band carrying on as they started things on other records, and it’s best played fucking loud.
TOM AYLOTT