Imagine picking a scab, seeing the wound beneath open up before your eyes, and staring into the blood and tissue within. Suddenly, the wound is stretching open, yawning out like a great, snarling, undulating maw. This flesh wound suddenly expands into a massive mortal gash, growing deeper and wider, swallowing the body around it, and eventually pulling you and everything you love down into a living abyss festering with vile fluids and vexing organic noise. You spend eternity in this wound-hole, and are digested whole, slowly, forever.
Leviathan’s “True Traitor, True Whore” is the auditory equivalent of the previously described experience. A bizarre album to say the least, and at best, a masterpiece of the highest caliber, if one has ears to hear such things. Disturbing and mournful, “True Traitor…” is a shifting mass of hateful, living soul-swallowing sonic plague.
Towers of Rust 