Shadow of Doubt illustrates a slight evolution from the band's previous two albums.  As 1992's Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame and 1994's Dusted concentrated more on the industrial aspect of the mix - barely discernable guitars manipulated beneath an onslaught of electronic drum beats, samples and distorted vocals - metalheads will be happy to learn that Shadow showcases more prominently the guitars.  Perhaps the reason is the almost completely revamped lineup - not unusual for the revolving door policy of band founder Adam Grossman - which, for a brief moment anyway, contained the likes of the one and only Bobby Gustafson, whose stint with Overkill helped forge the band's two most memorable works, Under the Influence (1988) and The Years of Decay (1989).

Despite the facts that one of my all-time favorite guitarists lended his expertise to this album and the guitars are afforded a greater deal of attention, Shadow still doesn't interest me.  The album does start off on a promising note with "She Said" - a psychotic circus intro that leads into a jackhammer riff that sets the tone for the entire album.  And it does.  So well, in fact, that I am left to wonder if the opening track is really that good, or merely the first of a highly repetitive batch, memorable only because of its placement.  Perhaps it is this newfound focus on the guitars that kills any interest in the album.  In other words, although the riffs can be downright brutal and assaultive, they go nowhere, annoyingly repeating themselves in a claustrophobic, seemingly infinite loop.

The result of the limited confines of the guitar work?  The more I listened to this album, the more it took on the form of background music - the boring soundtrack to this boring review.  And while some background music often enhances the emotion trappings of the scene it is to accompany, these are the types of tunes that lulled this listener into a type of attention deficit disorder - after a while, you don't even notice they are there.

I can understand why fans of Skrew would perhaps be bothered with this review, flooding me with e-mails stating, "You're Skrewed."  No one likes to see her or his favorites pooped on.  So instead of bombarding me with hateful e-mail messages, let me just answer you all right here:  I am skrewed if and only if being skrewed is synonymous with being pummeled into boredom.  And now I'm cranky.  Better go review a CD I like.