If the band name, album title and self-proclaimed booty-tastic cover art haven’t given the game away yet, then allow us to let you in on a secret: XII Boar love metal. They REALLY love it, perhaps more than is healthy. Thankfully, they also know what makes it so great. Retaining the southern (albeit Aldershot, Hampshire) groove of last year’s ‘Pitworthy’ debut, but turning the excitable clatter down and the ‘runble jungle rhythm’ up, the three-piece return with a thicker, meatier sophomore that pours gallons of classic 70s rock gravy over everything to create a thunderous fantasy beast that threatens to cleave necks clean in two. The riffs come thicker than Joey Essex and faster than Usain Bolt, a seemingly non-stop barrage of pounding licks that take the Riff-Riff-Solo-Break-Riff motif to priapic levels. On top of that, the production sounds enormous, grounding the album in the kind of colossal groove that can divide continents, so deep and all-consuming that Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson is surely on his way to save the day right now. Heavier than lead and groovier than a fat kid’s tit tracks, the band are reminiscent of a Dungeons & Dragons-obsessed Motorcity Daredevils, or Orange Goblin and Valient Thorr snorting acres of cheap crank while jamming Lynrd Skynyrd. Grotesquely suited for Friday night beer showers yet still widely accessible, XII Boar are poised to become the breakout stars of the current crop that includes the likes of Mage, Pist and Ten Foot Wizard. The fact that they are playing support slots in dirtboxes like the Brixton Windmill and Camden Black Heart rather than festival main stages, despite the music’s natural magnetism towards such dives, is criminal. Any band that can throw in a cheeky mash-up of ‘Raining Blood’ and Grieg’s ‘In The Hall of the Mountain King’ mid-way through a track (‘Abyssal Lord’) deserves much more exposure. If it wasn’t already clear enough, I’ll let you in on a second secret. XII Boar are fucking brilliant.