Review by killer.
“Scare them, scare them, scare them, make them worship.”
Somewhere between a sermon and a seizure, PRESIDENT’s “In the Name of the Father” kicks in like a dose of pre-apocalypse medicine — bitter, strange, and possibly blessed by the Devil. This isn’t just music, it’s a masked declaration of war on the numbing rot of modernity. We’re not in the safe zone anymore, friend. This is spiritual trench warfare wrapped in sub-bass frequencies and smothered in smoke.
The song lurches into motion like a machine waking up after a long hibernation, groaning with the weight of its own existential panic. It’s not a riff — it’s a ritual. A trembling pulse beneath layers of whispered blasphemy, echoing the sound of a confession booth set on fire. And then — boom — the chorus hits: “Scare them, scare them, scare them, make them worship.” A hellish mantra delivered with preacher-like conviction, part Orwell, part holy roller. If this is a sermon, it’s one held at the edge of a cliff with the wind howling and the crowd frothing at the mouth.
There’s no official face to PRESIDENT — just masks, suits, and enough carefully curated anonymity to send Reddit into a full-scale meltdown. But behind that veil? There’s a voice, rich with grief and gravitas, that some speculate belongs to Charlie Simpson — yeah, that Charlie — the man who walked out of pop superstardom and dove headfirst into a cauldron of molten post-hardcore with Fightstar. And now this. If true, he’s playing the long game, and he’s playing it like a prophet with a grudge.
“In the Name of the Father” doesn’t try to please anyone. It’s slick, yes — polished like chrome on a hearse — but also deliberately abrasive. It cuts between worlds, industrial dread and pop sensibility in an unholy marriage, kind of like if Sleep Token had a nervous breakdown and started broadcasting live from a church basement full of CIA documents and broken amplifiers. The spoken word section sounds like it was lifted from some lost Cold War emergency broadcast, dripping with paranoia and delivered with the assurance of someone who knows exactly how doomed you are.
The lyrics play like scribbled prayers written in the margins of a blacked-out Bible. There’s desperation here, soaked into every line — “Oh, Father, I can’t hear You yet / I want to feel You near, it’s suffocating” — as if clawing at the sky for answers only to find it’s made of concrete. Faith doesn’t come easy in this world. This isn’t about belief — it’s about survival, about noise and symbols and identity in a time where none of it makes any goddamn sense.
Whether PRESIDENT is a one-off stunt or the start of a full-scale movement, one thing is certain: this track doesn’t ask for attention — it grabs you by the collar, drags you into a burning cathedral, and dares you to look God in the eye. And if this is the beginning, then heaven help us all when the second coming arrives.
Until next time, I will leave you with this.
If taste was a fever dream, it would be like licking a 9V battery of pure opinion. These echoes of the void, are from the part of your brain your parents warned you about.
Kicked in the teeth by culture and fueled by caffeine, chaos, and questionable decisions.
This is gospel.
I bite Crowd Surfers
killer.
