MELODY MAKER, MAY 30, 1987
BY MICK MERCER
Detractors of the Nephilim are often more inclined toward artier shite and thereby choose to spend three seconds peering at the hats and six months ignoring the music. This is how people come to miss out on the rumbling sprees we call "Slowkill" or "Volcane," ominous preludes to power both, gnashing teeth hard enough to desecrate gums, but with an undeniable grace.
Epiglottal rumpus aside, it is the guitars which arrest attention most, sneering and snapping their way through torrential mixtures of ridiculously sublime multi-textured sounds and song. Nephilim stride out of a gloom of their own setting, to throttle your record deck. You want whipcord choruses, tensile passages of anti-inertia? All here.
The band have constructed something quite magnificent in a dismal time, when everyone tends to ape things of indescribable putrescence. Unlike hip slop like Swans or Young Gods, some rattlesnakes wag their tails 'cos they're pleased to see you.