Marazene
MachiNation
5.8
As long as there are angry thirteen-year-olds, tattooed twenty-somethings will pander to their hormonal purchasing power. It’s just how that segment of the music economy works: think young, write lyrics that the acne afflicted will scrawl on their notebooks, and reap the rewards of the mighty “alienated teen” dollar. It’s a scheme so prevalent, I’m convinced that they must sell books on this stuff during late night infomercials ("Just follow these simple rules and you too will soon be snoozing on a bed stuffed with fan letters that all read, 'tHaNk U!!! u R tHe OnLe 1 tHaT gEtS mE!!!'"). So, with that in mind, I can’t say I’m shocked that Marazene, a group of twenty-somethings, would pen nonsensical nuggets of confused faux-wisdom to bait those in the throes of puberty. I also can’t say I’m shocked that they have their own little fanbase, dubbed the SkumF***er Nation, who nod along to angst-ridden nonsense like “Give me a whore, I’ll fuck it/ Give me a chance, I’ll blow it/ Show me some love, I’ll choke it,” thinking, “Dudes, exactly. Give me a whore and I’d fuck it too! This is my bible!” But, while they’ve built an impressive allegiance among the few, the proud, the fuckers of scum, one believes that the Nation’s membership has reached a plateau. The thing that keeps Marazene from reaching their popularity potential, the thing that keeps them from selling stickers of a hatchet-wielding bottle of 409 raping a filthy shower door (I can’t be the only one that interpreted scum fucking that way, right?) to all of America is the dead genre they’re trying to ride to glory. No kidding, D-E-D dead, because what you’re in store for on MechiNation is watered-down industrial meeting the nu-wave of aggressive rock, or, as you might remember calling it during its long gone heyday, nu-industrial.
Thing is, even if they come off as dated, Marazene largely succeeds at what they’re trying to accomplish, something you can’t say about the rest of the bands that rode in on Orgy’s Candyass caravan. And, while it’s hitting the streets a good five years too late, looking at MechiNation strictly in the style over substance terms that have largely governed this sub-genre of the nu, it’s easy to see why some consider this to be one of the better albums to surface. Granted, saying that Marazene is on top of the nu-industrial heap is like saying that SuperBabies: Baby Geniuses 2 shits all over the intelligent baby movie genre: it’s something that might be true, but you never actually want to take the time to verify. But, the band, on MechiNation at least, sets themselves apart from similar outfits thanks to their attention to detail, and it’s that attention to detail that makes their greatest trait, the stellar production, into a force that’s almost able to turn this into a tolerable listen.
Unfortunately, when it comes to the music, it’s the same ol’ song and dance. There just aren’t enough surprises, as a clear cut Ministry and Fear Factory influence is dumbed down and almost drowned out by blatant ear candy, such as the vapid techno breaks that Crossbreed managed to run into the ground after one single. But, rays of hope do shine through. Underneath the electronic fuckery, there’s a guitarist that desperately wants to groove, turning out riffs that are similar to a simplified Biomechanical converting Dimebag’s legacy into ones and zeros. Marazene also tries to break away from the nu-blueprint by forcing the closest thing the album has to a hook into “Self-WorTh” and by showing their slightly experimental, arty side on the segues that sound like someone in the band has been listening to The Axis of Perdition (especially on “A Prayer for the PaTheTic/The BirTh of wRaTh”). It’s these little moments that show that there might be more up Marazene’s sleeve than previously thought.
But, for every “Self-WorTh” and for every genuinely interesting texture, there’s a line like “Push into me!/ Pull it out me!” or a heavily Marilyn Masonized dance section that sets Marazene back. Too bad because, if you removed the Dope-esque singing and stripped away the more egregious nu-gimmickry, one wouldn't find this as offensive. After all, there’s something inherently likeable about a band that puts this much effort into perfecting their craft. Sure, not a single Metal Review reader is going to anything of worth here, but we’re not the target audience. We’re not thirteen, we don’t yell at confused onlookers in the mall like David Draiman trying to hit on an orangutan, and we don’t have three foot liberty spikes jutting out of our head that have slowly decimated the local pigeon population. For what it is though, MechiNation isn’t that bad and if you’ve been a long suffering fan of nu-industrial, you finally have something to be excited about again. And, if you’re thirteen, well, break out the ballpoint pens because you need a temporary SkumF***erz tattoo ASAP.
