Every band or business you heard or heard us yap about in this episode has one thing in common… busting balls and asses to get a leg up. Do them all a solid and like their shit on Facebook, drop them some comments to show some appreciation, and (above all) buy some merch! Support local!
In thirteen tracks, it manages to lure you in with a tasteful sprinkle of pure carny magic (“The Bottom”), kick you in the fucking teeth (either “Revolution” or “Noose”), promote love and unity (“Brothers”), and cover a 90’s hit with unholy darkness (Harvey Danger’s “Flagpole Sitta”).
Musically:Dirty, Heavy, Super-Tight.
Guitarwork approaches Downing/Tipton level interaction, drums and bass are practically welded together, vocal fireworks abound.
Thematically: Dark, Moody, Focused.
Mood and tone are obviously important to The D.O.O.D., because BUTTERCUP!!! delivers (from start to finish) the feeling of road tripping (with carnies), in a ’67 Stingray… with demon-hide seats. On fire.
Final Verdict BUTTERCUP!!! is death opera, and the world needs more death opera…
From the Man Himself (printed inside the package):
“You hold in your hand Tampa’s finest rolling papers. A portion of the cost of our products goes to feed the hungry through Random Acts of Kindness, South West Florida. Thank you for your purchase! RandomActsKindness”
What else needs to be fucking said? The man is a saint…
Lots of love and respect to Arthur McBarfson and Matty Bluntz for the brain-smashing new intro. Ordered, created, quality checked, and delivered… in a 24 hour period! The skill and professionalism these guys possess is second to none.
Whatever your audio needs may be, it can be done at Master Sound Tampa!
Some bands are monsters in the studio. Others are killers on the stage. Occasionally, a select few pop up that are masters of video. The truly rare ones, however, are fully capable of blowing your senses in any medium they want.
Sarasota’s own The D.O.O.D. (short-hand for The Distinguished Order of Disobedience) is firmly entrenched on that shortlist of acts that can (and will) snatch you by the hair and subject you to the thunder… in every way imaginable.
Dominating the stage and successfully channeling that theatric energy onto recorded tracks and videos, The D.O.O.D. is a talented band of charismatic fiends.
Guitarist Raynus has a riff-oriented, tasty style. It’s not only heavy as fuck, it stands out. Raynus offers up the kind of guitar work that jolts people into learning to play themselves so they can rock the hell out, too.
Jonzey(bass) and Rob(drums) are a diabolical, surgically tight rhythm section. Together they paint a solid, thumping backdrop for Raynus to do his thing, and they paint that backdrop without becoming part of the background. Rob is a staccato-beat leviathan, and Jonzey transitions between heart-beat throbbing and silky smooth bass lines better than you do anything.
The focal point of The D.O.O.D.’s particular brand of audio mayhem is the undeniable vocal ability of Brian Amoroso. He’s more than a lead singer… he’s a true front-man. From rough barking and insane screams to melodic growls and powerful cleans (complete with vibrato), the man’s voice is a well-rounded weapon that he uses to effectively bludgeon or fillet as he sees fit. Capable of both projecting a myriad of emotions with his voice alone (on recordings) and multiplying that experience by a factor of ten with his stage presence (live), Brian absolutely takes The D.O.O.D. over the top.
Everybody claims their scene is heavy. Until they hear what Florida has to offer.
Something truly brutal is clawing it’s way out of the depths of Venice, spitting fury, attitude, and music so infernal the only name that fit was The Vilest Breed.
It’s a damn good description.
Playing Tampa’s Brass Mug (as a three-piece), The Vilest Breed crushed the stage, the crowd, and every ear-drum in the house.
Greg Oliva, a fount of endless energy behind the kit, pummeled the fuck out of those poor skins. The drummer in a band this heavy has no choice but be a bad-ass (especially with no bassist), and Greg fits the bill. He’s more than capable of producing blast beats that cause internal organ rupture, and he did so with relish.
As the sole string musician onstage, guitarist Jay Hamilton had a helluva lot of responsibility riding on his shoulders. He brought down the house. Not only did he coax the sounds of hell out of his guitar, but he managed to take a text from his mother, throw his body around the stage (so violently that he left bits of clothing in his wake), and bellow fiendishly toward the mic…
Since we’re on the subject of mics and fiends, it needs to officially recognized that frontwoman Alice Oliva is a goddamned insane vocalist. Deep, powerful gutterals and howling, demonic shrieks, the whole death metal vocal range is hers to command.
How does all of this mayhem sound when it’s welded together and aimed at the audience? Loud, aggressive, and powerful. Between Greg thumping away on the back half of the stage and Jay and Alice carving up the front, it’s a wonder the fucking thing didn’t explode…