Review: Praetorian ‘Pylon Cult’

I try to steer clear of letting politics or social commentary seep into my reviews too much these days, but as someone born and raised, and in turn raising two children it has felt like an increasing slog over the last several years, even before the world was thrown upside down in 2020. The seeming air of dissatisfaction permeates the air and, regardless of your flavour of administration, the sense of modern life not panning out the way you hoped is a common experience.

The answer? Well, in the case of Hertfordshire-based quartet Praetorian (named after the elite Roman guards), it is to channel that frustration into furious, sadistic, angry sludge drenched in lashings of dark, sardonic humour.

The band have been kicking and screaming since 2015, self-releasing a number of EPs that have sought to up the ante on the vicious racket that they spew forth, and through shows with future label mates such as Desert Storm, Mastiff, Barbarian Hermit and Goblinsmoker have earned a reputation for exhilarating performances that won them a spot on the bill for Bloodstock 2024.

Retiring to Bear Bites Horse studio in London with revered producer and engineer Wayne Adams (Petbrick) to record their full-length debut, Praetorian looked to challenge themselves and push the boundaries of their monstrously heavy sound, creating an album capable of smashing through the cacophony of modern life in an anguished howl of dystopian dissatisfaction that they hope will carry them to greater heights.

Opening with a growing, piercing whine of feedback, Fear And Loathing In Stevenage wastes little time in getting down to the business of ripping your face off. After a frantic jackhammer of drums, the track explodes into discordant, buzzing guitars with vocalist Tom Clements spitting and snarling like a feral attack dog. Super-fast and anvil-heavy, Praetorian blister the paint from the walls and the blackened scythe of Mark Wilkie’s guitar relentlessly works through chord progressions, battling with the dirty low rumble of Rich Stevenson’s bass.

The rabid vocals dual back and forth with the bug-eyed rasps of Clements and the guttural roars of Stevenson’s backing vocals to make a truly unholy maelstrom. Even when the band slows the pace, they sound like they have been dragged back from hell, and somehow this existence is less preferable as they writhe and crawl with revulsion.

Chain Of Dead Command starts with an eerie calm, the clean guitar melodies offset by the sound of scratching slides before they ignite with the accustomed fury. Surprisingly full of hooks and moments of euphoric head-banging, the stomping pace chops and changes between a brutal stomp and a manic, careening charge. When they slow to a thick, soupy mid part with the cavernous thump of the toms and a reprise of feedback, there is a sinister harmony and barely audible clean, mournful vocals that build to a swing that reminds me at times of Chicago’s blackened outfit Lord Mantis.

Pylon Cult looks at the world around them straight in the face and spits in its eye…

More deft work from Andrew Bisgrove on the drum’s ushers in Gutwrenching and allows the black metal-like guitar run to set the scene before they once again go about smashing all and sundry to kindling. Once again, lurching and fluctuating between a pounding groove, frantic pummelling, and unhinged, full-tilt savagery. The band blends EyeHateGod and Crowbar-esque sludge with deathly thrash in a violent collision of hardcore riffing and down tuned rhythms that are not for the sane of mind or faint of heart.

Tombs Of The Blind Dregs features a smouldering, atmospheric intro; the lush guitar tones grow into an echoing tremolo wash complete with taught drums before jangling bends usher in the chunky, stuttering beat on the swooping and diving verses. Unexpectedly, the vocals veer off from the ghoulish shrieks to hazy Alice In Chains like towering and nightmarish melodies. Slow and oppressive, the long-running track collapses back into moments of simmering quiet filled with unease before they bring the hammer down and seethe with ill-concealed malice.

The aural horror movie continues with a blast of electronics in the interlude Dormant Psychosis sets the scene for Remnants Of Head; the longest track on the album and another brooding, grinding piece of doom. The vocals dual between the mournful, clean melancholia and spiteful venom as the open chords get swept aside by chugging, battering lumps of tumultuous sludge that bristle with restrained power showing that Praetorian are experts in manipulating your visceral reactions. Even when they get quiet in a middle section dominated by a spoken sample, you know they are twisting the knife and building the tension.

The title track is an absolute monster. Like a prehistoric predator prowling through a cretaceous swamp, Pylon Cult itself stalks and lumbers through the landscape. Over a twisted blues refrain, Clements rages and vents with throat-scraping vitriol against the deathly growls. The drums clatter with a double-bass barrage that sounds thunderous under the sawing, swaying rhythm that never changes, only becoming more relentless as the band beats the listener into submission.

With one final death rattle, Burly Haemorrhoid shows the dark humour of the band as they deliver a complex, never-settling workout that encompasses a myriad of styles and smashes them relentlessly on the altar of filth that Praetorian vomit forth.

Dense and complex, this is a focused rage that shifts with tempo changes and no matter how much light they throw at the shade, the shadows cast here are long and impenetrable. As the track lurches to its self-loathing conclusion, Pylon Cult finishes with a ringing sense of disgust that leaves the listener bruised and in grim reflection.

For a debut album, there is no trace of tentative uncertainty to be found; Praetorian want to put themselves on the stage alongside their labelmates, some of whom have released the most barbarous and harsh salvos fired imaginable, and in a journey of bludgeoning drudgery and chaos, Pylon Cult looks at the world around them straight in the face and spits in its eye.

Label: APF Records
Band Links: Facebook | Bandcamp | Spotify | Instagram

Scribed by: Mark Hunt-Bryden