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