Japa-noose pill eaters Church of Misery have been bringing down the iron fist of all unholy DOOM on our puny planet for almost ten years now, and even though they’ve definitely helped inch it closer to the abyss, it’s still spinning on it’s rotten axis. Damn. It’s about time the world just fuckin’ ended, don’t ya think? While we all wait for the conclusion C.O.M already came to many years ago, Leaf Hound have been ‘kind enough’ (get it?) to collect all their pre-2001 tracks on one long, rambling suicide note of down-tuned acid-gloom rock. If yr not already a convert to this profane Church, the scripture is both simple and effective – churning, psyched-out Sab riffs reverberate in half-speed while some blooze warrior from the cool-ghoul dimension howls about his favorite serial killer in fuzzy Japlish. Now, writing an endless array of doom tracks about actual people eaters and grave-makers might strike you as bringing bad taste to a whole new level, but keep in mind that only the campy movie/newsreel soundbites that intro many of the songs are any indication that the songs are about ANYTHING ‘cept for impossibly groovy 70’s arena rock riffs. I mean, that’s what this Church is REALLY worshipping, man, Iommi’s signature licks on “Electric Funeral” and “Warpigs”, since variations of both color most of the songs on this collection. And what a collection it is, Jack. Ya get their first EP from 1998, “Taste the Pain”, which includes, among the Dahmer and Gein odes, a truly thunderous take on In A Gadda Da Vida. You also get their half of the legendary “Born Too Late” split with Sheavy, plus their ’99 Man’s Ruin EP, “Murder Company”, and ya get stuff that I dunno where they dug it up, like a bitchin’, snaky cover of Trouble’s “Come Touch the Sky”, and a mind-bending unreleased track, “Retal”, that’s SO druggy it practically leaves vapor trails. Obviously, this kinda noise ain’t for everybody- those with a lust-for-life are DEFINITELY not invited – but if wicked, creaky metal riffs and bright bursts of narcotic fuzz and tales of terror down at the farm are your bowl fulla noses, then this ought to have your head in the oven before disc two. Feel the doom, baby.