Birmingham may be the Bethlehem that birthed Heavy Metal, but it is the American South where it was perfected, distilled, and bottled.  The humidity in the bottom corner of the country has an odd effect on both people and inanimate objects.  July and August are nothing short of torturous as the air weighs heavy with a thick, oppressive smog, the collective surplus of perspiration.  Just as the climate warps all it contacts; the tale of Southern Metal could have come from nowhere else.  Among the meccas of this regional renown has been New Orleans, Louisiana, affectionately known as NOLA.  As the bands in Tampa Bay were unknowingly writing the rules of Death Metal in the late '80s and early '90s, the unique culture of The Big Easy yielded quite different, if not opposite, results as represented primarily by two legendary and often linked bands, CROWBAR and EYEHATEGOD.  These guys showed how the intensity of Thrash, Hardcore, and Metal could be combined and increased exponentially by embracing slow, methodical grooves.

It truly boggles the mind to think that EYEHATEGOD has been around since 1988!  I still have my "Dopesick" shirt from the '90s which, despite its great wear, still proves to elicit great pride when worn.  It has been seven long years since the band's self-titled last album, but they have long bided their time until finding it most appropriate to release new tunes.  Certainly, the amount of side projects Jimmy Bower (DOWN, SUPERJOINT RITUAL, ex-CROWBAR) is involved in contribute to such vacuous spaces between releases; thus, when a new EYEHATEGOD record drops, it is more than a big deal.  "A History of Nomadic Behavior" is the band's sixth full-length, features twelve songs, and was released via Century Media on Friday, March 12, 2-21.

When the record launches into its first track, "Built Beneath the Lies," the first thing one notices is the truly gargantuan sound.  Sure, EYEHATEGOD built its brand on noisy, feedback-soaked riffs on its albums, but seeing them live was the only way to truly experience the breadth of the band's overpowering sound.  It is immediately noticeable that gap has now been bridged effectively with the production.

It is the second track, "The Outer Banks," that really sets the album off.  Forged by dirge-filled, palm-muting, the song takes a different turn at the 1:18 mark as the band launces into a frenzied Punk-influenced circle-pit inducing rant.  Bower's guitar tone has never sounded so good.  It has much more girth transcending the typical fuzz sound that permeates the Sludge genre.  The nuance employed in assembling what could be deemed the "Sound of Sludge" is fascinating.  Bower has never been accused of lifting his tone or riffs off someone else, and in that same pioneering, free spirit, he has tweaked his sound yet nearer to perfection.

The focus should now turn to Jimmy Bower's co-conspirator, one Mike IX Williams.  If there was ever a front man who lived the outlaw life, it is this man.  Known for his blood-curdling screams and lacerating rasps, the words behind such exhortations are where the true genius lies.  Williams has seen it all, processed it, and now spins his tales of the darker side of the swamp with tenured legacy.  Such elucidation occurs in the third track, "Fake What's Yours," when he proclaims at the end, "Regardless of your purpose, I'm standing by the razor."  This is followed by the cleverly titled "Three Black Eyes."  His road worn wisdom pops up again in the eighth track, "The Day Felt Wrong" when he rails against "Mardi Gras and scissors."  Williams is nothing short of a grizzled Southern bard, someone embodying the cold realism of Faulkner, interspersed with double entendres and sly humor, and yet willing to examine the human condition at the intersection of its most depraved and desperate.  The frightful moaning in the middle of the fifth track, "Current Situation" reflects the maddening state upon which the song is based; however, it is the ending which reveals the focus of his ire in "Catholic relics of mania, a bounty of filth from heaven."  Simply put, Williams steers the ship through the waters of an ocean running through the depths of his mind, waters of infinite ebb and flow, violent, yet still august and hypnotic.

After a now solid year of what seems like an unending pandemic, the world deserves a new soundtrack.  There has never been a better time for a new EYEHATEGOD record.  Comprised of twelve tracks, the album flies by as one become enraptured, transfixed in all the sludgy glory.  If only they made joints that last for such a duration, but considering the boom in green business, it probably will not be long.  The intersection of Doom chugging, pentatonic-guided scale patterns, and tonsil slicing vocals is where the magic of this band is born.  When all else feels uncertain, having EYEHATEGOD offer up such a vicious collection of sweaty vitriol is like a giant gift to the Metal community at large.  Thank you, EYEHATEGOD, and rest assured, we hate you too.