This intriguing record is a collaboration between death and black metal veterans C. Ross and James Read, and Primordial vocalist A. A. Nemtheanga. It’s an interesting concoction, stirring the warlike death-battery of bands like Revenge (which has featured both instrumentalists) with Nemtheanga’s instantly recognisable, semi-clean full-throated wail-shout. The latter defines this as much as it defines Primordial, giving every line a raggedly emotional, almost spoken word feel. And here the effect is quite pointed because the lyrics are so confrontational, playing repeatedly and explicitly on disgust at the modern world of corporate globalisation, and fantasising about its violent overthrow. The album feels tetchy and swivel-eyed, like the sound of three misfits plotting a killing spree.

This being blackened death metal, that’s no bad thing, and it makes a change from gore and Satan. ‘I dreamt of blood and iron, of a storm of twisted flesh, of a god that wills my hand, to be his judgement… So lock the door and cock the rifle’, Nemtheanga shouts unnervingly on the title track, as I hurry to alert the police. Musically, this is the perfect accompaniment. Read’s drumming is great, clattering away at breakneck pace, blurting out hyperactive fills that seem to be seeking to derail the whole band. The guitars have a lacerated, underproduced feel. It is pleasingly varied, feeling, despite its darkness, quite open and accessible. It often has a dark sense of groove to it, as on the title track, which flits from almost Pantera-like riffing to crackling, chaotic black metal. Nemtheanga’s vocals, of course, provide a common thread sticking it together, and as he sneers 'I am atomic fucking power' at the song’s climax, the band seems to be exploding with suppressed rage and kinetic energy.

So everything about this- the lyrics, the percussion, the songwriting- feels unstable. Bite the Hand, Purge the Fleshopens with a spittle-flecked doom death crash, but ends up drenched in bouncing punk vitriol. The vocals remain its primary unnerving weapon. Salvation at the Barrel of a Gun sees Nemtheanga moving from muttering narration to garbled death squawking and wavering quasi-shrieks. It’s possible that, for all the reasons listed above, many may find this unfocused or just odd. For me, though, this is a distinctive album with a uniquely agitated feel to it