The crushed Cheeto puffs. The severed goat’s head. The intricate tie-dyeing station. The mass of matted drain hair. Together they can only mean one thing—the Ooze has returned. On their second album, the Summer Breeze vets and local neo-thrash idols open up their toolbox, expanding from their retro riffs into some bongwater soaked galaxy, likely never to return. Yes, the slaying is plentiful, as are the cymbals, and the droplets of sweat flying from each member’s facial hair. However, it’s now more than that. Teeming with bodily fluids, nearing the brink of destruction, Oozing Wound have figured it out. What it is, I’m not sure, but it’s brilliant.
