The Body are beating on the gates of hell

The Crying Out of Things is a nine-track album by The Body. But like most of synthesist/percussionist Lee Buford and guitarist/vocalist Chip King’s LP-length odysseys, the end of one track and the start of another often feels as arbitrary as it does organic. Even before opener “Last Things” rolls to a halt, the record has reached critical mass as a howling, wounded beast charging full speed toward oblivion. The seven brief breaks we’re granted before King’s distorted guitar grinds the closing track “All Worries” into an unholy ending are more mile markers than merciful reprieves.

King and Buford have been at this for a while. Prolific as a duo and even more so in collaboration, the Rhode Islanders have made a name for themselves over the past quarter century as one of the heaviest outfits in the world, out-harrowing some of the world's most harrowing acts. Most recently, they hooked up with Berlin-via-Jersey screamer/producer Felicia Chen (aka Dis Fig) for Orchards of a Futile Heaven, an album in which they largely play the role of “backing band,” but with such a fierce intensity it would be difficult to call their sounds supportive.

On The Crying Out of Things, King and Buford’s sound is completely distilled once more. The record is not a crude, all-out offensive; the death-march drums and murmured vocals that begin “Last Things” do little to prepare us for the hell lying just ahead, when King begins to strum punishing power chords into his guitar and his screams start lashing like wind. A track later, “Removal” plays out like the death rattle of a bombed-out Berlin club — its ultra-precise, bassy rhythm and dubby vocal drops underscoring unwieldy static and King’s untameable wailing.

The Body’s extremity is never tempered, but tracks like “Careless and Worn” and “A Premonition” — which both feature inspired, funereal horn playing from King and Buford’s frequent partner in crime Dan Blacksburg — are slow-churning enough to allow every facet of their heaviness to be appreciated. Album centerpiece “Less Meaning,” meanwhile, courses with a manic charge that’s deadly to the touch from start to finish.

As the record roars on, unyielding at any speed, its outlook grows bleaker and bleaker. Though dynamic in many respects, its ultimate end is monolithic. King and Buford never stop beating at the gates of hell, demanding entry in measured approaches and in bursts of desperation.

By the time The Crying Out of Things reaches its back half, its scorched atmosphere is self-sustaining, a matter of ritual. The mystery vocals that meander across “The Citadel Unconquered” are effaced from the primeval scrum of “End of Line.” And “The Building” throbs with a pulse that somehow sounds even more ancient and evil. An ominously inchoate guest spot from Dis Fig helps the latter track achieve this muddled sense of hopelessness before the song explodes into the album’s most satisfying climax, King’s yowls commingling with Chan’s more guttural vocalizations as Buford indulges in nu-metal decadence on the production side.

It would be a discredit to call “All Worries” a denouement to all this action, but there’s a sense of finality here that’s absent on the rest of the record. Buford’s drums slow to a crawl as King’s guitar becomes a dominant force, expanding to an orchestra as his voice takes the shape of a Gregorian chant. It’s as if The Body have finally been granted access to the eternal abyss, their earthly preoccupations disappearing as they descend to its deepest circle.