Why does David Draiman sing like he's just been caught short in a race to the toilet after a particularly heavy session on the laxatives, his squeaked despairs echoing the sound of a kid trying to sound tough when all he wants to do is get home and wipe the runny shit from his legs. Does he have to make all those unnecessary noises between rants about some mindless guff or other? Does he talk like this_ all the time, even when he's not murdering a perfectly cock-rocking riff with his lame attempts at singing? _Fuck me, if you were his mother you'd muzzle him.
Accuse these ears of having made their mind up before even playing 'Stricken' all you like - it's not wholly true, anyway - but this really does stink. The riffs, while super-sized to the extent where an album's worth of them might cause a coronary, are but recyclings of ones that even Disturbed should have grown tired of, and Draiman is the least appealing front man in contemporary music, regardless of genre. I'd rather that Hobbit-faced Cullum cunt mercilessly skull-fucked me, spunking his quasi-jazz jizz inside my brain to stay, than have to ever hear, or hear of, Disturbed and their irritating, follicle-challenged head boy again.
Damn Darwin for revolutionising our idea of evolution; if God alone was responsible for progression in its many forms, He'd strike down primitive half-wits like Disturbed without a second thought. That, or have them lick the shit from their own limbs as punishment for wasting four minutes of my life.
1Jeffrey Onions's Score