Xentrix, hailing from Preston, Lancashire, England.
Xentrix are an OK example of The Sacred Thrash, nothing really too cool to report about them; technically proficient, adequate vocals, whatever. They shred a polished enough Testament style to fit in with any massive collection, but nothing that particularly stands out. If you released an album in the cacophony of 1990, it had better have been a real killer piece, right? You had to be above excellent in those days to survive, and that's putting it like ultra lightly. Anyway, I guess if you can successfully read Punisher comics to the thing, then you got your "No New Taxes" worth.
Artwork. So there's this professional guy, and he's not too cool. The haircut is barfworthy, his shades are mondo putrid, the suit he's got taped to his slimy torso is creepgasm, I mean the dude is just a slithering worm on your itching spinal chord. He's trying to sell you something, you know? Those hands are out, and the hands themselves, beckoning you with their sweet, simple unknowing, are the clue. Wake up man! That glass tower of nothingness is his castle, and he has ascended the nasty stairs of the Dark Land to overcome your humanity and buy your give-a-shit. Personally, I imagine several uberdudes existed at the time of this heaviness, and each of them were in league with nuclear death companies, i.e. C.H.U.D. factories, so I'm down.
NUMBER 10
No comments:
Post a Comment