Bring Me The Horizon: Suicide Season

The 'cult of personality' refers to an instance whereby a political or religious leader uses propaganda to concoct a public image comprising nothing but flattery and praise; the 'cult of Sykes-ality' refers to an instance whereby the front-man of a band drags the entire team down with his obnoxious, disgusting behaviour, cliché ridden lyrics and the likability of a white-supremacist with body odour.

Normally, such personal tirades would not enter into a discussion of a band's output. A game-changer results when front-man Oliver Sykes decides to insert the lyric "and after everything you put me through I should have fucking pissed on you" into the track No Need For Introductions: I've Read About Girls Like You On The Back Of Toilet Doors. A lyric which references the event when Sykes (allegedly) did just that: urinated on a girl for refusing his sexual advances and then (again, allegedly) throwing a beer bottle in her face.

There are so many reasons to despise this band, it's unreal. The B-movie album cover which belies blatant misogyny and an aura so 'emo' it hurts; the fact that they further prove their bandwagon-jumping status by all but abandoning their deathcore 'roots' in favour of the more mainstream-acceptable hardcore electro-rock; the fact that every time a lyric is audible, ("I won’t give up on you/so don’t give up on me!") it recalls a level of cheese that will never be witnessed until Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck star in a remake of a Richard Curtis film; the underlying concern that the band spend more time on their haircuts than they do on their songs. Despite all this, though, somewhere along the way they managed to stumble across flourishes of musical aptitude mired amongst the putrid-swamp fest.

It must be said that any such results are a direct response to their gleeful tendency to rip off every over band they've ever listened to. Chelsea Smile steals the power-down technique from The Bled's 'Ruth Buzzi Better Watch Her Back'. There are countless similarities to Enter Shikari and a fair amount of vocals a la Frank 'Gallows' Carter. The entire album is also a retread of what Underoath did with The Changing of the Times and They're Only Chasing Safety, a band also from the depths of deathcore. Underoath, however, made their exit six years ago (2002) before it was the fashionable thing to do.

Throughout most of its time, Suicide Season is as generic as it comes: power chords, double-bass rolls with low-slung guitars, searing high-pitched note squeals, taking every opportunity to insert profanity, side-line electronic flourishes which are clearly a passing afterthough. The theme is competent, yet generic. It also makes you wonder: does it still count as a breakdown if the whole album is composed of them? Football Season Is Over sees the band go completely Gallows-esque with Sykes adopting Carter's exact mannerisms and accent despite the fact that they are from two completely disparate parts of England.

The Sadness Will Never End is BMTH's 'Reinventing Your Exit' where soft keys segue into a fast-paced metal anthem with electronically manipulated flourishes. Akin to 'Exit', the breakneck hardcore verses give way to a soaring, melodic chorus which features the surprise appearance of screams to back it up. Proceeding this, the band release all pretense of subtlety as they completely steal an Underoath melody while they chant "Close your eyes, we'll sleep in this bed that we made for ourselves" even introducing the glimmer of an American accent in the process.

Completing their 'tour-de-rip-off', it's no surprise to see that the longest track on the album is saved for last. A song which - gasp - features electronic passages and fades out with the various instruments gradually being phased out of the mix. If only I Don't Keep With Liars Anymore (The Bled), Ender (Finch), Okay Time For Plan B/Closer (Enter Shikari), White Walls (Between the Buried and Me), Burning Lafeyette (Hell is For Heroes) and countless others hadn't done exactly the same thing.

Intellectually insulting, monotonous, predictable and about as original as reality TV. Suicide Season, by its conclusion, is as appealing as a piece of art by John Wayne Gacy. You can tell he's capable of holding a brush adequately well, but the thought of finding enjoyment from something with that source makes the vomit-reflex twinge. Consider this rating as generous to the extreme.