(1989, Noise Records)
There has never been a more perfect form of the metal musics than the original thrash movement. Never. When shit got all fake evil with the hell groan vocals, that shit's kinda stupid and cartoony. And I cannot ever once cosign on all these college town ironic metal bands that emulate the original thick grooves, but are all hanging out with anthropology and art history degrees, drinking PBRs. Pure metal is made with ignorance and hopelessness. Plus long hair. You could always tell back in the day that Rob Halford was gay because he had short hair. Long hair, a lack of hope for anything higher in life than maybe getting a G.E.D., and with twangy hyper-speed guitars. That shit is perfect.
A few years ago, I blew a good chunk of a unearned tax return by trying to re-accumulate a bunch of my favorite records from inside the ebays from my reckless youth. Some of them stood the test of time, while others were not as wonderful as my fifteen-year-old, weed-hazy mind remembered them. But two groups really stood out as being just as fucking powerful and perfect as I remembered them - Kreator and Overkill. But especially Kreator.
I have an 18 foot camper behind my house that a nice gypsy lady brought here to leave so that I'd take good care of it, except I can't have things, so now there's a pile of trash in front of it, it's half tore up, but it's perfectly me. Sometimes - and I'm 35 now - shit gets on my nerves, and I need to withdraw and pull back, and I'll go out to the camper and turn the lamp switch three times so it goes to the red light in the bottom half, and I'll put on this album, loud as fuck. Sitting outside my house in a camper in a red light listening to Kreator. But you see, I've got a college degree and upward mobility, so I know I can't recreate that, not even for leisure. So I sit there and smoke a bowl maybe, and just enjoy the fruits of other's frustrations. And it soothes my minor frustrations. Which is supposed to be the fucking point of music.
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