Artist: Age Of Ruin
Album: The Tides of Tragedy
Label: Eulogy Recordings
Tracks: 12
Length: 54:58
Reviewed By: Ben Bishop

I’m soaking in the pool the other day, attempting to simultaneously read Plato’s Republic and drink a Weinhard’s while preventing my basset hound from licking my head, when I hear footsteps crossing the portico, descending the patio and crossing the pool deck towards me. It’s my man servant, Reinhard. I greet him.

"Your mail, sir," he quips and turns to leave. I stop him and ask him to retrieve my robe as I think I’ve had enough of a soak for today, and yes the pink dressing gown, and do try to train Cleopatra a bit more on the head licking thing won’t you? I lift my chiseled, golden frame from the pool and adjust my pink speedo before wrapping myself in the silk kimono Reinhard profers. After dismissing him I slouch into my favorite casual pool chair, a lion’s hair and ivory tusk affair. I take the sterling silver tray holding the mail and leaf through it. Bills. Bills. Dinner invitation from Justin Hawkins of The Darkness. Bills. At the bottom of the pile I notice a thick envelope. It bears the fair Julia’s handwriting. I slit its throat. Out fall a couple of cd’s, some press sheets, a lyric sheet.

Bored to tears this fair July afternoon I decided to pop the first disc straight into my olympic sized pool’s olympic sized sound system. Consisting of fourteen strategically placed 35-inch Bose speakers, it would do Marty McFly proud. I glance at the two albums. I randomly choose the one by a band calling themselves Age of Ruin. I throw the switch.

My ears are assaulted by a din of such generic substance that I dare not elaborate on it here overly much for fear that you might contract something just from the hearing about it. Upon first contact with this audio virus, I myself break out in a rash for three days and all the Koi fish in my lily pond float to the surface, dead. The record is a collection of rhythms and ideas so exactly like everything else in hardcore today, the tired octaves, cheap "emotional" nearly operatic ploys, and boring song structures that it could be a gang of Agent Smiths from The Matrix disguised as mp3 files. Add lyrics like "Our souls wander in the darkness / A time of shadows and whispers / The cold wind blows again / caressing total silence" and you'll understand why I was left shivering, more from my disbelief at the crap coming out of my stereo than the chill breeze whipping through the silk.