Skip to main content

KHOST [Deconstructed And Reconstructed By] GODFLESH ‎– 'NEEDLES INTO THE GROUND' EP REVIEW


Khost's 'Corrosive Shroud' was an ungainly, unpleasant, coruscatingly timely and consequently FEARsome slab of nastiness from 2015. Here they aim at PEAK MAXI-BRUM CARNAGE by giving the tracks to J.K Broadrick and letting him vivisect seven shades of splatterfest shite out of them. The results are the finest noise you'll hear all year, filling you with the kind of tension (as they describe it) 'akin to being in the proximity of a large, unstable machine on the verge of meltdown. 
“If it was a painting it would be about a kilometer wide held up by old, thick metal supports and wires that creak in wind, in parts abstract, in parts quite hard to decipher, and the materials would be oil like and seeping, never quite drying out”'.

The thing I don't dig about alot of noise is its lack of purpose. And the fact it makes that purposelessness its point. This isn't happening here. Though never explicitly political or polemical this is a record determined to chart where we're at and where the band and JKB are at in relation to the global-shitfest that is 2016. Like I say, TIMELY as fuck.

Opener 'Inversion' lashes down a monstrous industrial throb, a pounding heavy-manners bass (JKB is incapable of not making dub music) over which shards of the original are put on the rack and stretched out until their skin films to a unicellular thinness and breaks - think of the heaviest bits of Ice/God/TechnoAnimal given a terrifying reanimation and kitted out with a whole new vibe of turbid doom and panoramic warfare.  'A Shadow On The Wound' finds a similarly bone-crushing groove and puts a whole mile-high dome of psychedelic smeared guitar and groggy vocals over it - like Terminal Cheesecake got really fucking miserable, while 'Revelations Vultures Jackals Wolves' emerges as somehow, impossibly, even more of a headwreck than it did on the original, every surge turned into an assault on your senses,  what sounds like an ebbing lost long-wave frequency pumping itself up with steroids and PCP and transmogrifying itself into the internal sound of hebraphrenia, a shuddering crack in the sea-floor of your consciousness from which all kinds of gigantic beasts and superbeasts emerge. What's gratifying is how scant the relationship of this rerubbed rancour to the original, but also how the visceral trajectory of the originals hasn't been sacrificed - Broadrick smart enough to know that the best noise is noise you can bang your head to, never arrhythmic until it needs to be, the track closing with whorls of sheer unmitigated din akin to Crowhurst but a fuck of a lot more concise and likeisaid purposeful. The closer 'Deathsset' is a completely new Khost track untouched by the hand of JK - grindcore vox, a bat that's pure Scorn/Unsane, a building sense of imminent armageddon and those slightly Arabic/ancient touches that take this beyond Brum (or rather more reflective of the real Brum than every other band from Brum is willing to be at the moment) and out to the burning desert, across the refugee camp, down to the junkie corner.

This is music that screams of loss, loathing, division and fear. Why isn't more music doing this in 2016? Essential.

'Needles Into The Ground' is out on Cold Spring Records NOW and you can get it HERE.


  1. As you say, essential, like the Sonance album, their split with Torpor and Primitive Man's two with Sea Bastard and Northless. Heavy music that does a whole lot more than just turn up the volume.

  2. As you say, essential, like the Sonance album, their split with Torpor and Primitive Man's two with Sea Bastard and Northless. Heavy music that does a whole lot more than just turn up the volume.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog


This was my dream. And it was so vivid it really happened. 
I hired a van. The expense was a concern but I needed the capacity. First the long drive north to Middlesborough. I knew he'd be at home, visiting relatives. Made sure my HeadBag was packed. Blindfolds and ballgags. Rope. Some starved, stroppy badgers. Maxi-pack of chloroform-seeped bogroll from Costco. Masking tape. As I eased onto the M1 I told myself again the story of how it was developed from the need for waterproof ammunition casings in WWII. I had to, I was bored, and it's a long schlep up to 'boro. Idly, after securing a mortgage for a bacon roll at Tibshelf, I had an argument with my other personality about whether Middlesborough was in North Yorkshire, County Durham or Teeside. 
Nothing got resolved. A plain-clothes officer pulled me off in the hardshoulder near Malton and issued stern words about punching myself while driving. No hilarity did ensue. I needed to focus. This was a serious business. By noo…


(photo by Pat Pope, full text)  MANIC STREET PREACHERS  ASTORIA, LONDON  SORRY, lifelong fan, but I’m a new convert. I got into them a week ago and here I am. (They start with “Faster and, after the dub and horrorcore they’ve played, it jarrs and fits perfectly.) OK, see it ain’t attitude cos anyone can do that, just cock a snook and suck your cheeks. It ain’t glamour. Glamour is boring. Glamour is loud pretty people who hug, hug, hug, giggling at your geek self all night. And it ain’t rock’n’roll; it was your rock’n’roll that made a nigger-hater the King, your teddy boys who Paki-bashed for Mosley, Notting Hill 1958, your rock’#n’roll build on SAMBO DON’T SELL. I ain’t interested and the Manics are way beyond that. (“Yes” is Stjepan Mestrovic’s “Balkanisation Of The West” turned punk anthem, as if it could be any more punk. No higher compliment exists.)    The four founding points of Manics songs – one: modern life is untenable. Two: no one ever gets used to loneliness. Three: if tr…


Tuesday June 28th, 2016.

OK, a week since the vote and hey, I know the drill. Similar to those habits you kicked back into after 9-11, after 7-7. Heads down. Don't notice the people crossing the road to avoid you. Don't register any reaction to the shop assistants who drop the change with a panic'd repulsion into your foul brown palm. Keep your eyes down, no eye-contact with anyone. Get through the street to safety because the street is a place where you are a target again now, just as you were as a child. Don't ever ever relax again because that moment where your vigilance slips, when you start doubting your own paranoia, is the moment when the van draws up and three pink faces look your way grinning, when the kids see their chance to have some fun, when the guy on his bike who you hadn't thought of leans into the pavement to spit his venom, when the words will come unbidden and deafening, those words that won't just fuck up your day but will haunt your sleep, …