YULE 'Harkening Of The Feast Zealot's Grim Jubilation'

Yule's latest unleashment of Christmas-obsessed technical death metal obliterates the field with brutal, nativitous cacophony. Lead guitarist and chief composer Yars Wlannfssonnb's ultimate achievement on this chaotically cyclopean, quite marvelous record is the sheer madness of "Incantation For Wassailinge Bedecked In Gilded Ornamenture", an incomprehensibly terrorizing, jolly wallop of undefiled, rapturous giftcropsy; at ten minutes and forty seconds, it stands as the longest Christmastide epic yet crafted by the self-proclaimed "Dark Elves Of The Workshop". The third track, "On Summoning The Engulfment Of The Ceremonial Log With Infernal Exuberance" opens with the cryptic, tender plucking of what inhumanly sounds like a harp, albeit a version of the instrument from a monsterously banished age, twisting immediately into such face-melting, crushing Christmas mayhem one would think that herald angels were screaming (instead of singing). Coming four torturous years after "Hill Of The Presents", their last gruesome, merry opus of Xmas morn, Yule have indeed given the greatest gift of all this year.

Track listing:

1. Frankincense, Gold, Myrrh
2. Decketh Thy Halls
3. On Summoning The Engulfment Of The Ceremonial Log With Infernal Exuberance
4. Twinkling Beatitude Of The Lodestar
5. Chucklement From Thae North
6. Evergreen Coniferous Aeternvs
7. Sinterklaas
8. Incantation For Wassailinge Bedecked In Gilded Ornamenture
9. Tremours In Campanological Syzygy
10. Sleigh

EXHORDER slaughter in the vatican (1990)

Exhorder, hailing from Kenner, Louisiana.

So this particular group of maniacs continue our foray into southern Thrash Metal. The big argument behind this band is that they were ripped off by another band that got huge. Essentially, Pantera wanted to be this band; they had been a glam metal wimpfest for years. Then Pantera became significantly more amazing than this band, and Exhorder got salty about it. What probably happened is that a scene built around of bunch of bands in the south moved through a similar sound at the same time, Devastation being the other example we have seen, and some of the bands broke and some didn't. Who cares, this album is pretty heavy, and the nearly identical Phil Anselmo-sounding singer is pretty cool to hear. Lots of throbbing metal going on, ok solos, all that stuff, pummeling as usual for 1990. Totally lots of grooves floating around in this piece, check out the end of the sample song. A solid addition.

Artwork. Wake up, Pope, time to go outside and WAIT, THOSE PICTURES OF CHRIST ARE AWES--IS HE CONTROLLING A REFINERY FROM A CLOUD? YES! POPE, DUDE, WHERE DID YOU GET THESE-- Yeah, I mean, I think the FBI or some other covert operations group with skinny suits wearing Oakleys and earpieces would be the last dudes the underground 'Kill The Pope' movement would hire out to go b'head'n that thar Pope. This Pope is going to the guillotine in a crowded square, and that is definitely Thrash, if not a little old-school and French. Still I'm saying that the crowd out there, and I see a mohawk or two, they're gonna guillotine those two Secret Service losers right after the big man is eternally biffed. Sayin'. Love the logo, because you can't tell if the perimeter is some kind of soul-incinerating lightning blaze or, just, red fur.




NUMBER 14

DEVASTATION idolatry (1991)

Devastation, hailing from Corpus Christi, Texas.

Here is a clear example of a band from the scene Pantera punched their way into our hearts from. Devastation's last album knocks it down with a sheer wall of destroying, relentlessly pounding Thrash of the righteously Sacred kind, my friends. Many bands got that part right, only to carelessly allow their vocalist to flail around in a wacky, hilarious dance of mediocrity, but Devastation did not; this is where that real Texas feeling kicks you. This singer is raspy and punishing and always perfectly anthemic, a truly southern kind of Thrash approach. "Texas Always Moves 'Em" is right.

Artwork. Classic chaotic emblem just right for t-shirts, runic representations of every religion ever, all brought together by a particularly handsome cranius, blindfolded for our pleasure. I can't make fun of it, and you can't beat it.




NUMBER 13

MORBID SAINT spectrum of death (1988)

Morbid Saint, hailing from Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

Morbid Saint's only album is an early example of the least-dated style of The Sacred Thrash, something called 'Death-tinged'. What this means is that the vocal attack sounds absolutely demonic, but not growled or monstrous. More like a crazy witch with throat polyps. This album has a raw, ruined quality of recording, which gives it a terrifying heaviness. It's as if the music is spiraling straight out of Hell like one of those vacuous superplanar clouds from the Poltergeist movies. There's just an endless barrage of wild shredding all over this piece, with solos and riffing of above-average consistency. This is a great album, nothing hokey about it, and extra brutal.

Artwork. That's a candid moment with the singer, from the classic moment where you get to try out funny wigs and costumes while you're waiting to be judged at the end of time. You have to be judged at the end of time a few days before each LP you release to be considered Thrash Metal, especially now with the internet.




NUMBER 12

POLTERGEIST depression (1989)

Poltergeist, hailing from Augst, Switzerland.

These dudes threw their Thrash scepter into the giant pile of the turn-of-the-decade overload with crunchy precision and totally rad soloing. Their tone has hardly dated, which is always a solid feature, and the vocals do the job: they're not amazing, but they're at the right level and the use of overdubbing and group shouts is liberal. Riffwise, nothing spectacular, but nearly every track has great stretches of varying solos weedling out of their geetars.

Artwork. Well, that basically sums up depression. The little ghost kid (I'm guessing you don't have to pay the Ghostbusters royalties if you're from Switzerland) is so put out, you know? I mean, when he used to haunt that mechanic's garage, they did alright biz. Now it's just a bunch of broken windows and a hairy monster limb floating around getting in your way when you're looking around for a spanner or something. Ghost steals a nice old car, and it conks out on you after you score a haunting date with some ghost girl at the ghost mall. Might as well shoot yourself in the head, again. I've been there, man. We've all been there. Come on, though, Poltergeist, what kind of flung together logo is that? You get the "Parents-Most-Obviously-Didn't-Help" award on that homework.




NUMBER 11

XENTRIX for whose advantage? (1990)

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

SACRED REICH the american way (1990)

Sacred Reich, hailing from Phoenix, Arizona.

Sacred Reich brings little to the Sacred table of Thrash Metal, and so I hesitate to call their 'Reich' 'Sacred'. These bozos were trippin' if they thought their slow mo metallic noise would ever truly represent such a sweet name. Sub par vocals, nothing classic or fun. They chug away like the rest, and you can't remember a damn thing about it. Hey, though, why not? I kind of imagine that if I had been delivering pizzas in 1990 I would have wanted all the Thrash tapes I could get my mits on.

Artwork. Look at the picture. See it yet? Look again. See it? Yeah. You see, the Statue of Liberty has been eroded by toxic fumes which have made Manhattan, or perhaps all of the North American continent, inhabitable only by skeletons. I'd say that's a good representation, metaphorically, for The American Way. This was right after the Ghostbusters Nintendo-controllered the ol' babe to her most metal moment, so they wanted a little of that triumphant action.




NUMBER 9

I.N.C. razorback (1987)

I.N.C. (Indestructible Noise Command), hailing from Fairfield, Connecticut.

I'll never go to THAT hospital again. They'll let ANYBODY be a Doctor these days. This particular example of The Sacred Thrash is moderate at best. The recording is pretty poor and the vocals sound like a test track, and the emergency room sounds DELICIOUS and the songs are written sloppily and performed even sloppier. I think that the allegory of the Corporation (I.N.C.?) wheeling you around a hospital as a crazed, I'm thinking amphibian? mutant orderly is pretty far-fetched. I mean, when has that ever happened? I don't get what they're trying to say. Also, hey guys, at least get, like, an 8th-grader to draw some kind of insignia or emblem, instead of that cheap, regular old one; Whiplash did it. To sum up, I don't think they had the budget. But they did have the RAZORBACK!




NUMBER 8

EVILDEAD annihilation of civilization (1989)

Evildead, hailing from Los Angeles, California.

This is one of the bands which form the basis for the fun-loving, graffitti-the-planet resurgence of Thrash and Crossover that has exploded in the past couple years. You'll really want to add this to your collection for a number of excellent reasons. Let me describe.

The Thrash is Sacred, the shredding is mostly untouchable, the vocals are pissed but who-cares, and the last song is called B.O.H.I.C.A., and that stands for 'Bend Over, Here It Comes Again'. The old dude, probably called Ed (my personal favorite Thrash mascot, even above ol' Vic Rattlehead) has a Club Dead towel and Club Dead soda cup; the air is polluted beyond cleansing by factories in the distance; there are jets; there are three skulls on the icon; there are toxic waste barrels carelessly splayed before the beachgoers; the beachgoers are crackling and mutating openly;

Why wait?




NUMBER 7

RAZOR shotgun justice (1990)

Razor, hailing from Guelph, Ontario, Canada.

Ah yes, shotgun justice. Not too many of us get a chance in our time on this wretched wasteglobe to really exercise some good fun. What I'm talking about is shotgun justice. And what I'm talking... about is peeling back half the skin from that ol' face to reveal the secret skull lurking beneath, opening up that mean leather jacket to reveal a hazy, mildly rippled midsection replete with one huge VORTEX of a naval, dusting off Debby (he's named the gun, I think), painting maybe one pinky with wood-brown nail polish, and really letting something (what was that stain, a seagull?) have it. I mean, the half-skull isn't even GRINNING! For God's sake, will somebody just give us some shotgun justice for God's... sake? Sacred Thrash at the turn of The Last Decade done real Crossover fast and ripening the decibel-ed air for a certain Municipal Waste. Ripening and ripening. Lyrics go something like "Roses are red, violets are blue, if I'm buying bullets, they surely are for you" you get the picture. Razor. Shotgun Justice, guys.

SONG TITLE HIGHLIGHTS: "Miami", "Cranial Stomp", and let us not forget "Shotgun Justice"




NUMBER 6

THE GREAT KAT worship me or die (1987)

The Great Kat (Katherine Thomas), hailing from New York, New York.

I'm just going to rip something from another site for a second:

"The Great Kat burst onto the scene in the mid-eighties, a ball of energy, scantily clad and mugging for the camera at every opportunity while loudly proclaiming to one and all that she was the fastest guitarist of all time. Truth be told -- while her image makes it hard to take her all that seriously, the fact of the matter is that she's an incredible guitar player, apparently a graduate of the Julliard School where she played violin (which she still does). Two full-length albums were released in the late eighties, basically speed metal with her hyperactive classical guitar work front and center. Eventually the novelty seemed to wear off, in that she more or less faded from world-wide view, but in fact she's still at it to this day, image and attitude fully intact."

This album is sort of terrible, but it's not all novelty. The Sacred Thrash is shredded to the end of the universe on this thing. I like that she is snarling? Is she going to bite the guitar? That's pretty brutale?

SONG TITLE HIGHLIGHTS: "Satan Goes to Church", "Kill the Mothers", "Satan Says"




NUMBER 5

ASPID krovoizliianie (1992)

Aspid, hailing from... Russia.

The Sacred Thrash gets the cyrillic treatment on this rare, rare album from old country. You can only find it anywhere as "Extravasation", but the real name is Krovoizliianie. The songs here are meticulously written, unraveling in similar fashion to your average sprawling golden-era Metallica composition, but without such righteous riff moments as anything they ever accomplished. Some of the parts clash awkwardly with other sections, which provides for some real surprising moments if you happen to be casually listening. The vocals are pretty vile and sweet, and once in a while out of nowhere they pull of some new age keyboards and then cut them right off. A fascinating addition.

Artwork. That's right. You're looking at a vast metropolis ruptured from the depths by a fiery serpent demi-god waiting beneath the core of the venomous Earth, spewing fire and death galore. Is galore the best word to use there? I don't know, but I think if their lyrics (all in Russian) are about that city and what happened to it after that thing showed up, it'd be pretty awesome.



NUMBER 4

AIRDASH hospital hallucinations take one (1990)

Airdash, hailing from Helsinki, Finland.

Nope, that's not a Sega Genesis game. Can't you see how it would be, though? This one's just weird. Who cares about the details.

SONG TITLE HIGHLIGHTS: "Jungle Jim", "Vengeance Through Violence (No Bullshit)"

NUMBER 3

ATROPHY violent by nature (1990)

Atrophy, hailing from Tucson, Arizona.

Here, an unusually non-brutal setting, the sandbox, serves as a chilling terrorscape for the brain-washing of children into ruthless, possibly occult-obsessed, ubermilitant, goalie mask toting burier/killers by a bitter, elder God. Atrophy's logo and artwork choice says, in so many words, humans are children who bury people before playing with our tanks, and that's life. The album is really very good, a perfect example of The Sacred Thrash when the arena was tragically too crowded to last. It is aggressive and well-produced, laden with righteous, strangely memorable solos, and the vocals are Exodus style with a smattering of Testament singability in just the right places. Can you say that about your own life? Well. At least Atrophy can say it about their second, and last, album.

SONG TITLE HIGHLIGHTS: "Puppies and Friends"

NUMBER 2

WHIPLASH power and pain (1985)

Whiplash, hailing from Passaic, New Jersey.

A classic cover. You've got grotesque bald muscle men, gigantic cyborg skull-grips, raging airborne electricity, lacerating screams, EVERYTHING. The summation of both Power, and Pain. Whiplash's logo is just as classic. While most metal logos are painstakingly thought out and drawn with great skill, having to reach a sublimely elite level of disgusting, aeon-reaching brutality, The Sacred Thrash has in classical times been the true slacker. The idea was to draw that shit up, throw on some Umbro shorts, and let's get to work. The Thrash speaks for the band, not the logo. Whiplash's Thrash is in every sense a true Thrash sound, a tribute to the early days when Kill'em All was the very pinnacle of achievement, and it is done more than well. A sick example of The Sacred Thrash.




NUMBER 1