You can say what you want about Philip H Anselmo, he’s heard it all. As the front man of one of the most revered of all metal bands he received adulation and approbation in equal measure, running into the minefield of addiction and inebriation and falling foul of his own brutal honesty on more than one occasion. It is that brutal honesty, however, that demands a level of respect for Anselmo which few metal stars at his level warrant. A fiercely passionate and committed individual, if he comes across as bullish in interviews it is often because he speaks directly from the heart, as he does with his music and lyrics, and the immense pride he has in the projects to which he has put his name is justified. This is the first project, however, to which Anselmo has directly put his name and it is a sludge-driven, monstrously heavy work of a man whose fierce dedication and discipline has seen him overcome not only addiction, but also an agonising back problem that required considerable surgery and correction. This is a man no longer driven by demons so much as a desire to always represent himself as honestly and as accurately as possible – no doubt a reaction to years of being over-analysed, over-interpreted and mis-quoted by journalists more interested in the story than in the man.
‘Walk through exits only’ is not for the faint of heart, or for those looking for an easy ride. There is a hardcore sensibility to these tracks that eschews any fancy production for a straightforward, raw sound that could strip paint from walls. Genre classification is also somewhat redundant as the album moves fluidly across a number of pastures, taking in militant hardcore, New Orleans-tempered sludge and heavy metal along the way. The great definer is Philip H. Anselmo himself, standing proudly at the centre of the maelstrom of sound his Illegals have crafted, his wounded roar a thing of naked power that sends shivers down the spine no matter how many times you hear it.
The album opens with the brief, utterly brutal ‘music media is my whore’, a raging slab of paranoid psychosis that plays psycho-analyst style word association with the theme of the music media, each word ground out through painfully gritted teeth as Philip slams the vultures who have picked at his flesh over the years. The track breaks down into a mess of noise and distortion before the unhinged ‘Battalion of zero’ surges into view, Phil demanding “heads up, hands down!” in an effort to get people’s damn faces out of their phones at gigs. It’s a relentlessly savage track that takes two or three listens to pull firmly into focus, but once it clicks you realise the naked, savage beauty of what Anselmo and the illegals are doing here, with hints of Down, Neurosis and High on Fire all floating through the twisted structure of the song. ‘Betrayed’ shifts style to take in ‘blood mountain’-era Mastadon as Philip asserts “this is a call for mass awareness”. The music here is complex, devilishly arranged and yet possessed of a power that can only come from the utter conviction with which Phil Anselmo has imbued each and every one of his projects over the years. The track ends on a creepy note, a damaged rotary organ coda that leaves you feeling ever so slightly as if you’ve shifted into Silent Hill. Things become normal (well, as normal as they ever get) with the chrome-plated metal of ‘Usurper’s bastard rant’, an awkward song with an even more awkward time signature that serves to shatter your already reeling senses with its palpable sense of rage.
If things have been intense up until now, then the title track easily ups things a notch as Phil roars “everyone ruins music, and not just me” over a searing guitar track that takes Dillenger Escape Plan as the template, throws in some Pantera and Megadeth for good measure. It is stunningly (literally) heavy, the sonic battering ram of the music perfectly augmenting Philip’s intelligent and open lyrics. ‘Bedroom destroyer’ is still rife with those damaging hardcore touches that make the whole work so unpredictable, and yet it is also the most accessibly brutal track here even as the guitars dissolve into furious harmonics and the percussive assault does the sort of forward rolls that would leave most people feeling seasick. It’s a nauseating, rage-filled assault on the senses that captures into primal urges that will make you either want to scratch the skin from your body or mosh until you drop. The adrenalin is hardly allowed to drop for ‘bedridden’ even though the previous track slips into ambient territory for a few, disturbing seconds, as the guitars come slamming back in with a force that is almost physical. A short track, it serves as a prelude for the unhinged might of grand finale ‘irrelevant walls and computer screens’, a scarifying twelve minute ride through the darkest stretches of Phil’s mind that slowly dissolves into some of the darkest psychedelic music crafted since ‘through silver in blood’. It serves as a perfect coda to an album that is, for the most part, unrelenting in its furious march through your tattered psyche and it leaves you in no doubt that Phil and his Illegals must return.
There is no question that this is not an album for everyone. This is, without doubt, Phil Anselmo’s least compromising work, a deranged, semi-coherent entry into the diary of a battle-scarred veteran who has viewed the kind of life most dream of without understanding the consequences of their desires. In recent interviews Phil Anselmo has often come across as being self-aware, devastatingly intelligent and incisive and fully cognisant of the media circus which surrounds the celebrity. He has been the victim of that media circus more than once, the victim of his own honesty too – his lack of obfuscation manna from heaven for the hacks who seek to make a living from controversy. He has seen the world change, the so-called digital revolution suck the life from youth and the energy from concerts, and he does not like what he sees at all. ‘Walk through exits only’ is too abrasive to be an unequivocal masterpiece, perhaps, but it is the truth in all its naked, ugly glory and it stands as one of the finest entries in a body of work that is beyond compare – essential, if uneasy, listening.
