Visceral.

That is one hell of a word.

It just works. So well. And once you understand the etymology of it, it hits even harder. Viscera. Organs. You know, those wet things that are sloshing around inside of you.

Guts.

Lamb of God writes music I can only describe as visceral. It hits you in the gut. It pulls no punches. It rips and tears. It leaves you bloody and bruised. Their songs are happy to rearrange your insides a little, leaving you feeling like you’ve lost a battle with a bear.

It is one of the reasons I love their music.

And lately, that’s the headspace I have been in: That, maybe, what we need is a little ripping and tearing. The world might be better off if certain things (people?) lost the battle with the bear. Based on recent comments from vocalist Randy Blythe, I think he agrees. He might offer to help with the bloodletting.

Do you hear?
The dead blows echo, meet concrete seam
Voices hollow, flap in machine
Bloodletting memories
Dead blow echoes, let it bleed
Let it bleed
— Blunt Force Blues

Lamb of God is one of those bands I was familiar with long before I became a fan. It wasn’t until their 2015 release, VII: Sturm und Drang, that I finally took the plunge. Something I now embrace about the band was my main source of reticence: Randy Blythe has no qualms telling the world off.

It’s in the air
Oh, vengeance
Vengeance is in the air
I am the black hand of God
(The third time’s a fucking charm)
— Bully

Still, despite diving in and loving many of their albums, Omens, their most recent outing, never really clicked for me. I couldn’t put a finger on an exact reason, but given how I felt about it, I was a bit reluctant to get excited about Into Oblivion. And then I listened to the single “Sepsis”.

Lamb of God has always sat somewhere between the intersection of thrash metal and groove metal. But one thing I hadn’t heard on a LoG album was the sludgy, filthy, fuzzy bass that kicks off “Sepsis”. Instantly, I was intrigued. The song plods along for about half its runtime, and then kicks into high gear in a classic Lamb of God manner.

It delivered everything I was looking for.

My interest was now piqued. And subsequent singles stoked the fire. Last Friday, the full album dropped. I haven’t stopped listening to Into Oblivion since.

You don’t come to Lamb of God for long, intricate songs. This album clocks in with 10 songs at a lean 39 minutes. There isn’t any wasted time. You aren’t going to get long buildups, extended instrumental passages, or carefully crafted atmosphere.

If you want that, there are plenty of other metal bands happy to oblige.

Lamb of God is about immediacy, aggression, and violence. Lots and lots of sonic violence. Into Oblivion delivers all of the above. Randy’s vocals are as vicious as ever, scouring the flesh right off your face, yet still managing to be one of the more intelligible growlers in modern metal: you can actually understand the vitriol he is spewing.

Mark Morton and Willie Adler’s guitar attack is just that: and all out attack on your ears. Staccato riffs, heavy grooves, and shredding solos all abound. This is the most aggressive their guitars have sounded in over a decade.

And the rhythm section brings it as well. Art Cruz pounds the drum with power and insistence. John Campbell’s bass has never been more present. Into Oblivion is a powerful showcase of the entire band.

There are still some slower moments. “El Vacío” almost feels like a ballad. But worry not, there is plenty of aggression to be shared. And that is really what elevates this album: the aggression. Songs hit, and hit hard. The band isn’t holding back and wants to share their anger and frustrations with the world with each of us.

Few bands sound as perennially angry as Lamb of God. The world deserves that, a righteous anger. For some, that is an immediate turn-off. Cool. You do you. But for me? That anger and rage are why I choose to spin any Lamb of God album. There is a catharsis, a release. The rage speaks to something inside me, allows it to have its expression, and then I can move on.

The vitriol punches me in the gut, and I feel it.

Viscerally.