Album Review: Serj Tankian – Harakiri

By P. Blood

This sounds like System Of A Down… slightly less satanic, and more politically and environmentally conscious in places. Serj’s lyrics are just as fucking baffling though I think. And still pretty morbid and gloomy. I don’t think he can do anything else when he breaks into his characteristic vocal exercises…

I got over Tankian and his band in the early 2000’s like the rest of the alternative set. I’m not buying this new offering as anything new or progressive. It’s predictable. It’s so much like old SOD that it kind of doesn’t even warrant a listen – unless you really, really, really like SOD or Korn and their ilk. Serj does some hippity hop rapping on Ching Chime, and sings over beat boxing on Deafening Silence with some female guest vocalist. Not exactly ground breaking…

I’m dragged, kicking and screaming, back to the days when I got my underage drinking on – losing my shit and stomach contents courtesy of Sambuca shots on the dance floor – just happy to not be listening to anything played on the radio. Those days were fun. They were also naive. I’d prefer not to be reminded of how naive I was, so this automatically feels like a pretty awkward self-conscious exercise.

Seriously, I have nothing to say about this. The album name is cool… If you don’t know, Harakiri is the Japanese word for death by suicide, usually to restore a samurai’s honour. That’s cool. But that is the coolest thing about this whole album.

For a dose of nostalgia (if that’s your bag), or if you’re seriously pathetic and still rock your circa 2005 SOD, Slipknot and Korn shirts, you might want to get this. I just hope there aren’t actually people like you on the planet though. Please crawl back under your rock and don’t come out again. We’ll find you when we smell the rot after you’ve died. Don’t worry; we won’t do anything to your corpse. We got over that in the 2000’s too…



P Blood

Suffering from an inexplicably large ego and ignoring common courtesy, Mr P. Blood indulges his opinions about whatever comes to his cesspool of a mind, and strangely people don’t seem to hate him for it. Making him a writer, of sorts.


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