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Before they discovered the powers of melodramatic drum'n'bass aggression, Britain's Pitchshifter had consigned themselves to the more conformist side of bellowing industrial metal, which left listeners wondering why they shouldn't just listen to Ministry or Godflesh while in the mood for marginally intense, vaguely electronic temper tantrums. But at least Industrial is an obvious, though no less accurate, title for this sort of stuff. Besides the fantastically rude introduction, "Hate, I hate, you mother f*cker," the Clayden brothers would write and holler indecipherably in that Tim Curry-from-Legend technique that became commonplace in Skinny Puppy or late-'90s acts like Slipknot or Rammstein. They would also play riffs as thick as bank vaults with the passion of someone who thought they were being terrifying instead of trite. Without the political spit and the slight jungle psychosis of later LPs, Pitchshifter had built Industrial with little, if anything, to connect all of their predetermined fury, as if they just wanted to yell in funny voices in hopes angry teenagers would eventually catch on.

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