��� Back in stock. A classic slab of apocalyptic sludge from legendary Japanese band Corrupted, Nadie is once again back in print via the recently reactivated Spanish label Throne, re-mastered and presented in gatefold packaging with a large fold-out poster, all featuring strikingly grim images from equally legendary Japanese photographer Kyotaka Tsurisaki. As one of the earliest releases from the band, this is pre-piano Corrupted, pre-post rock grandeur, rising from the depths of their torturously slow, jet-black wall of sludge. 1995's Nadie captures Corrupted at their most primitive and putrid, rolling out three lengthy songs of filthy, glacial crustmetal carved from the slowed-down Sabbath-meets-hardcore of bands like Buzzoven, Eyehategod, and their diseased ilk, but put their own unique spin on this sort of abject torture by singing all of the lyrics in Spanish, and with their predilections towards exercises in droning, bulldozing mono-riffs. The two songs on the A-side, "Nadie" and "Bajo De Cero", are goddamn titanic, crushing slabs of molten slo-mo metal with smatterings of disgusting Black Sabbath-esque doom-blooze emerging out of the roiling repeato-riff tar-pit, singer Chew bellowing over the slugfuck heaviosity. In the years that followed Nadie, this sound has been copied by a ton of bands, but when this originally came out it really set a new benchmark for bludgeoning skull-caving sludge. And even here, Corrupted wove their eerie melodies into their quarter speed metallic crush, threading trails of phosphorescent melodic guitar and swarms of feedback that wisp off the skull-flattening riffage.

��� The flipside is made up of the side-long track "Esclavo", slowly rising out of a fog of droning feedback and squealing amp noise, the band summoning a thick miasma of electric hum and shrieking distortion that a simple, devastating riff slowly emerges from, that noisy intro leading into a barbaric dirge that crawls across the entire side, occasionally dropping out into brief stretches of howling noise before returning with another malevolent riff, gradually crafting an anguished, hopeless atmosphere while what sounds like electronic noise (but is most likely just some seriously overdriven guitar feedback) gargles in the depths of the mix like garbled Morse code transmissions. It's about as close to the sound of a collapsing planet as you can get in the studio.

��� A classic of ultra-bleak heaviosity. Limited to four hundred copies.