Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs
Seven is the magic number. What's more, this is about more than the number of days in the week or continents in the world - psychologists have theorised that the human memory’s ability to calibrate information on a short term basis is mostly limited to a sequence of this length. Thus, it seems strangely fitting that Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs - the Newcastle-based maximalists whose riffs, raw power and rancour have blazed a trail across the darker quarters of the underground in the last five years, have made a second album in King Of Cowards which does its damnedest to take consciousness to its very limits.
This opus sees the band entering a new phase as a sleeker yet still more dangerous swineherd and a new approach being taken to its creation. The Iggy-esque drive to dementia, Sabbath-esque squalor and Motörhead-style dirt may still be present and correct yet the songs are leaner, the long-drawn-out riff-fests sharpened into addictive hammerblow and the nihilistic dirges of yore alchemically transformed into an uplifting and inviting barrage of hedonistic abandon.
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