“Dreadful visions of your dead world; a never-ending trip through the eyes of the damned.” This is how the unnamed ghost that haunts Insidious Poisoning’s website describes this self-titled LP.  He/she certainly hit the “dreadful” and “never-ending” nails on the head.  This is, without a doubt, the most worthless thing I have ever heard.  Brace yourselves… 

In the aftermath of what will historically be known as the ‘Xasthur Fellatio Period’, the world has seen a glut of one (and two) man suicide disciples spring from the darkness, most of whom possess a questionable level of talent.  Enamored with stark, desolate imagery and stock white-on-black logos, these legions have paid little heed to their lack of skill, forging ahead fearlessly with little regard for anything but the attainment of infamy.  Apparently, there are some among this horde that have taken aesthetic minimalism to new depths, preferring to eschew instrumentation altogether and create undecipherable noise under a misleading banner of “dark ambient”, all while clinging to the black metal imagery they crave so ravenously.  The truly hapless have found their blackened loophole. 

I was heretofore unaware that such entities existed, but in trolling the cobwebbed attic of the Metal Review queue, I stepped on the rusty nail that is Nommam Erytz.  Prior to being infected with this abomination, I’ve had the pleasure of avoiding this type of thing entirely, what with my predilection towards listening to and reviewing actual heavy metal and all.  Though, I suppose it really was just a matter of time, because if this is a product of some miniscule precedent, it’s proof positive that it doesn’t take much to get signed to a kvlt-as-fvck BM label these days.  All you have to do is stick a harmonica microphone in front of an oscillating fan, fire up a weed whacker in the background (but pretend it’s a chainsaw), and put some Old Navy flip-flops on your hands to play some “disturbing” keyboard dirges that sound more like muffled rumbling than anything resembling music.  In all seriousness, a significant portion of this recording just sounds like wind.  Wind, people.  I think there’s some breathing thrown in for good measure, to keep things “scary”, and there’s a healthy peppering of static throughout…but I honestly can’t remember anything of significance about my agonizing experience with this pile of garbage; when something is supposed to provoke uneasiness, this is the mark of total failure.  Nothing about this excretion of ambiance filled me with a sense of dread or despair, even for a moment; to be blunt, after hearing Stalaggh’s exercises in audio terror, Nommam Erytz is literally laughable. Well, it would be, if it weren’t so damn tragic. 

Whatever lengths this so-called “artist” has traversed in putting this thing to plastic (and from the sounds of it, we’re talking feet, not miles) have undoubtedly amounted to wasted effort.  Nommam Erytz tries to sound tortured and demented, but it’s painfully obvious that this is just the work of a talentless douchebag that’s either too lazy to create something worthwhile, or has been crippled by the fact that his vacuous mind is entirely void of artistic qualities.  If I want to hear some truly creepy droneage, Diagnose: Lebensgefahr will do the trick; sonic dementia is a hell of a lot more convincing when it’s coming from an actual mental patient, and not some dickhead armed with novice recording equipment who’s trying desperately to fit in to a scene that doesn’t really exist.  I’m willing to bet that there are about three people on the planet that find redeeming value in this self-titled bag of ass: The man behind the project itself; the dude who agreed to take the inevitable financial hit of printing it; and some degenerate, wannabe grimster in Methville, Nebraska that will probably kill himself sometime within the next three weeks, due to the fact that he simply sucks at living. 

Some will defend this record as art.  These are the same people that think taking a massive shit in a glass cube and putting it on a pedestal is art, too.  Listening to this album is the audio equivalent to licking the cube clean. For seventy minutes.