Rotgut 24 Oz Cantrip Review
Once again, the gods of noise have cracked open my skull and shoved something in so violently filthy and oh so gloriously grotesque, that I nearly wept blood. I’m talking about a sonic sucker punch from a band that sounds like they crawled out of a toxic waste barrel behind a dive bar in Seattle, a three-headed, beer-swigging hellbeast called Rotgut. Never heard of ‘em, good. That makes you pure. Now go and ruin that purity.
Their bio reads like it was written on a napkin soaked in absinthe and puke, probably during a bender involving cheap horror flicks and possibly minor arson. Imagine Troma directing a Blackened Thrash opera with a Crust Punk orgy as the intermission. That’s the vibe. The press photo - three masked warlords of filth staring down the lens like they’re about to either murder you or become your new favorite Tinder matches. I don’t know what they’re hiding behind those masks, but I’d bet money they’re either ugly as sin or way too handsome to not get offered sex behind the dumpsters after the show.
Now let’s talk about the absolute maniacal masterpiece they’re about to vomit onto the world: “24 Oz Cantrip”, dropping June 20th, and destined to either destroy your speakers or summon a demon. This thing is a full-on RIOT. Crust Punk, Black Metal, and Thrash get tossed into a blender, spiked with battery acid and broken glass, and served in a gas can. It’s pure, filthy magic.
The moment I hit play on “Return of the Dead Without Eyes,” I knew I was done. Cooked. Brain pudding. I said out loud to no one: “This sounds like Dani Filth got possessed by a biker and quit his symphonic bullshit.” No orchestra, no pretense, just guitar, bass, drums, and pure, fucking madness. This thing doesn’t “play,” it runs you over and hits reverse to make sure you’re dead. Black N’ Roll perfection. And the fact that these maniacs aren’t signed? Get the fuck out of here. That’s a crime. Somebody call the cops and then throw them fuckers in the pit and show them how we do it!
“Under the Scarlet Cross” slows things down just enough to give you the illusion of safety before it crawls into your brain and shits all over your concept of melody. It’s moody, it’s mid-paced, it’s straight-up haunted. The riff is a zombie earworm straight outta 1986, and trust me, I was there. This track smells like old leather jackets, bullet belts, bad decisions, and the best night of your fucking life.
The whole EP is five tracks of raw, raging glory. “Bonemelter” lives up to its name, it’s a full-frontal assault on everything you thought Metal was. If you think underground means underpowered, this is your rude, screaming, beer-sprayed wake-up call. These dudes could easily go toe-to-toe with the so-called “big names”, all they need is a stage, a spotlight, and maybe a few gallons of fake blood.
And yeah, this will be on my year-end list. In ink, possibly blood. I want this on vinyl. I want this on CD. I want this carved into a tombstone and dropped on my grave. If you’ve ever had a hard on for bands like Midnight, Ghoul, Gwar, early Cradle of Filth, or even Venom, then this is your new religion.
It’s loud, it’s rude, and it’s an open-handed mouth slap to every poser in a crop top singing over a laptop. Real Metalheads, real, degenerate, road-scarred riff-fiends, this is your call to arms. Everyone else can get fucked.
Death to False Metal. Forever.