Scars of Tomorrow – The Failure of Drowning

By Andy

Has there ever been a more spurious genre than metalcore? I mean, does anyone legally entitled to vote, or even in possession of an IQ decent enough to get a McJob actually listen to this shit? Jesus, is this what we’ve come to? Irredeemable wank with song titles like ‘Your Hand This Vice‘ or ‘The Silence of Sorrow’, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of knuckles being dragged along the floor. Ask yourself if there is a genuine need for another band peddling self-obsessive lyrics and ripped-off Trivium riffs. Ask yourself what the point is of marrying supposedly ballsy music with some of the most insubstantial lyrics you could possibly imagine. Ask yourself why Victory Records exists, other than to feed shit to ignorant fucking idiots.

The thing that most grates regarding Scars of Tomorrow is that every song follows the same template. It’s like 11 tracks of interminable deja vu: riff, heavy bit, singing bit, growling bit, singing bit, beatdown, riff. It’s like variation is some kind of terrifying concept to be feared, an alien notion alongside originality that simply has no place in an album like this. But then again, it almost makes me feel bad – who am I to expect bands drowning in expensive guitars (oh yes, every kid reading this that’s wanted to own an ESP guitar, these fuckbags get them for free) to actually make anything resembling worthwhile music?

And the lyrics. Oh the lyrics. If your kid was a 12 year-old My Chemical Romance fan came home with the words “How do you awake with all of this pain? I see this picture of how it use (sic) to be. I’m still the same” or even “The glass is full and now it’s gone. Drowning in your sorrow, of an empty glass. The glass was full, but now it’s gone” scrawled on their rough book you’d beat the shit out of them, and rightfully so. So derivative it makes fucking Razorlight look like The Kinks. I physically do not understand how anyone other than the most meatheaded neanderthal floor-punching cretin could derive anything remotely resembling pleasure from this hideous abortion of an album. Fact is, if you like this then you shouldn’t be allowed to breed.

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