“I take a seat in a cramped, rusted chair. Across from me sits a gorilla in some sort of crown and a man whose face could only be described as Abbathian. It’s time for my first performance review at AMG Headquarters, and things aren’t looking great. “Atmospheric nü metal/free jazz? German dance music? What are we, discount Pitchfork?” Druhm bellows between frustrated simian grunts. I turn towards the head honcho for mercy, but instead, he fixes me with an eldritch stare. The words don’t pass his lips—they appear directly in my skull like a psychic command: “Brutal death metal.” He hands me a grime-encrusted CD which reeks of beer and seaweed. German brutal death metal veterans Stillbirth are responsible for this fetid package, which lies before me. It’s Survival Protocol, their ninth full-length.” Surviving or thriving?
