Album Review: Speedrush - Division Mortality
Reviewed by Eric Clifford
This is a thrash metal fan. Typically cathemeral, though with a strong preference towards a crepsular or nocturnal schedule so as to ward off the more debilitating effects of hangover, this particular individual has emerged from it’s lair in search of a mate. Courtship rituals generally involve the animal's preference for fine denim plumage resplendent with faded patches, a faint odour of Carlsberg, and the act of ambushing females and screaming “SLAYEEEER” directly into their faces. If the species is somehow not facing extinction in spite of itself, it should also be noted that this courtship strategy is, nonetheless, seldom successful. In youth, the animal is notable for it’s luxuriant locks of hair; these display a tendency to recede with age in conjunction with a thickening of the animal’s waistline, neither of which will be acknowledged by the animal, a state which researchers of this fascinating species have come to refer to as “denial”. While the thrash metal fan cannot be said to be uniformly aggressive as a species, all examples of it can be easily coaxed into startling bursts of energy upon exposure to specific sound cues. Easily replicated – if ethically suspect – demonstrations of this have included driving past a specimen in the wild with a particular selection of sound cues commonly referred to as “Bonded by Blood” on loudspeaker. The subject was then observed to destroy a bus station, thereby incurring millions in property damage, in addition to the wounds suffered by innocent passersby during the event (both psychological and physical) which have never fully healed.
The sound cues described – colloquially referred to as “Thrash” - while venerated by the thrash metal fan, are nonetheless commonly limited to a specific time frame, namely the early 1980’s to around the early 1990’s. This period encompasses a concentrated outburst of activity with regards to Thrash, including it’s genesis and what is generally thought to be it’s most sustained period of creative output. Many albums from this period are both deeply familiar to and highly regarded by the thrash metal fan; however, the effect of more contemporary material has yet to be studied in depth. Beyond a brief resurgence of the style in the late 2000’s, thrash is to a large extent identified with it’s 80’so heyday. This leaves scope for examination of the aptitude for modern thrash as a stimulus to induce unrest in a group of thrash metal fans, to be referred to by the collective noun “thrashers”, with potential for the weaponisation of the thrashers in question. A clutch of thrashers could be parachuted into any given active combat zone where they would wander around aimlessly until their “activation” by the means of basting thrash into their earbuds remotely. They would then proceed to unleash horrendous, unthinkable violence upon predesignated enemy combatants including but not limited to blunt force trauma, dismemberment, and the ingestion of flesh. As such, the UK government has clandestinely authorised a live test.
The current test subject, Harry Strumscock, has been selected for numerous reasons: youth, and therefore theoretically higher reserves of energy and vigour. Ownership of “Sacred Reich” merchandise, which speaks to deeper appreciation of the genre than might be otherwise inferred from ownership of merchandise from one of the more prominent examples of the style such as a “Metallica”. And lastly, he appears to be shithammered. The inciting stimulus for this test is to be the upcoming “Division Mortality” release from a Grecian quintet, “Speedrush”. Strumscock is to be activated at 15:00 hours, in the forecourt of Leeds train station. While he is being monitored via satellite and security camera feed, on-site operatives are stationed in a nearby WH Smiths, pretending to browse the paperback bestsellers.
15:00 hours: Test initiated; the first strains of the intro lilt across the PA system. Comprised initially of demonic spoken word, it proves an ominous departure from the usual ambience of the train station, though not so much as to discomfort the lay populace that mills around Strumscock. Then, at 40 seconds, the first powerchord rings through the station, quickly accompanied by a muted “chugging” noise that seems uniquely appealing to the common or garden variety thrash metal fan. The effect on Strumscock is immediate; wide-eyed, he snaps his head towards the sound, as would a viper sighting prey. As the drums join with a mid-paced pattern, Strumscock begins hurling his head up and down at inconceivable velocities. His greasy hair is observed to leave splatter on both the floor and ceiling, and head lice are observed screaming in horror as they are flung airborne, cartwheeling into naught but empty air. As the song becomes faster with a section at the 1:17 mark with a riff that independent experts in the subject matter have determined to be “bodacious”, Strumscock’s behaviour alters; he foams at the mouth, not unlike a rabid dachshund, his eyes roll back into his head, not unlike the janitor on a bukkake set, and his hands form shuddering claws, not unlike a lobster at orgasm. At this early stage then, Strumscock can be seen to respond very strongly to the supplied stimulus; testing continues.
15:03 hours: “Ride with Death”, the second track, begins. As pneumatic kick drums join the fleet-fingered introductory riff, Strumscock can be seen lunging for passersby at random and bodyslamming them through any adjacent furniture in the surrounding area. Already, a nearby Costa will require almost total refurbishment after it’s patrons were systematically inserted into the coffee grinder. Yet as a section of the song displaying prominent mid-paced bass work that reliable 3rd parties inform me is “a bit like Iron Maiden” (whatever that means) Strumscock can be observed to pause atop the fallen body of a screaming pensioner, nodding his head with the facial expression of one who has via olfactory means detected evidence of flatulence within close proximity. Yet his most savage moments are reserved for a curious reoccurrence of common phenomena throughout all the auditory stimuli we offer to Strumscock; lengthy periods of remarkably accomplished noodling on one particular variant of stringed instrument. These components of the song will without deviation prompt Strumscock to stand open legged, as if in preparation for imminent childbirth, and flex his fingers in mimicry of the instrument being played. Bizarre. The song, having resumed it’s former brisk tempo, continues; Strumscock for his part has robbed a fishmonger and has now commenced decapitating people by throwing clams at them.
15:07 hours: Early indications of a possible correlation appear; the faster the song, the more aggressively does Strumscock administer ruthless beatings. For the purposes of this experiment then, our choice of auditory catalyst was wise, for “Division Mortality” is on the whole a speedy affair. As “Feeding the Carnivores” opens , Strumscock strides forth and selects fresh prey. The alternation between two quick but subtly different tempos appears to act as a form of antagonising agent to Strumscock, who appears to tear asunder a ticket booth with either more or slightly less demented fury depending on which of the two speeds the song is currently at. A terrified ticket attendant inside the booth howls a final anguished prayer before Strumscock effortlessly crushes the vessel and stands amidst a crimsoned sleet of overpriced train tickets. These stimuli seem of a type almost innately agreeable; at 2:37, the song switches to a riff that seems familiar yet no less satisfying for it. Rather, Strumscock revels in it, seemingly joyous for a modern iteration of a classic sound. He pounds of his chest and raises crabbed “invisible orange” (technical term) hands to the sky. It is here that a confounding variable appears: a female.
15:13 hours: “Sons of Thunder” begins and Strumscock launches himself through the air like superman with chromosomal abnormalities. Possessed by the unnaturally prodigious libido that exists in directly inverse correlation to the thrash metal fan’s actual social skills, I can only steel myself to bear witness to the ungodly apotheosis of cringe that is the thrash metal fan on the pull. Catchy, dance-inducing passages akin to Anthrax herald the unfortunate approach of Strumscock. The female quails in terror. “SLAYEEEEEEEEEEER” he roars at her.
“SLAYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRR”. Terror grips the female as the scent of stale BO lurking behind a cloud of Lynx Africa commits it’s own encroachment upon her personal space, flecks of spittle lathering her face as further bellows of “SLAYEEEEEERRR” flatten her eardrums to a planck length in width. Mustering what sanity she has left, she claws thick handfuls of party poppers from her bag, stuffs them in front of her eyes, and pulls the cords. Her head immediately disintegrates in a shower of confetti like a clown on a landmine. Based on their projected trajectories, one eyeball will later be found in Timbuktu; the other shall occasionally be seen in orbit around Neptune. Unperturbed, the thrasher charges away, thudding, impetuous riffs scoring the pumping of his “horns” gesture.
15:18 hours: I...I am not a religious man. Nor am I one for philosophy. That one matter may be said to be right, and another matter wrong, by some abstract standard or other...these are not questions of concern to me. I leave them for the ordained to ponder. Yet I find myself perturbed on some unidentifiable level. As the breakneck, lethal verse riff of “Blood Legacy” with it’s devilish trill sees Strumscock storm the kitchen of KFC...internal surveillance does not capture the event in full, yet the petrified screeches of the kitchen staff as they are seasoned and dunked into the deep fat fryer grant me stark promises of nightmares to come. I could end this, I think to myself. With but a push of a button, the Kentucky Frying of human beings could cease forever. Matters only worsen as a guitar solo – as I have heard them spoken of – leads to a drum fill which itself slides into more degenerate thrash riffing, the snarling vocal enunciations a perfect match for Strumscock’s own demonic sneer as he beats a KFC staffer to death with a spatula as they vainly attempt to crawl from the charnal house behind them, trailing crumbs of hot wings batter. I could stop all of this. But I don’t. In order to better document the experiment, our man secreted in WH Smiths detaches from his post and creeps towards the KFC; his breath comes ragged through his recording device...do I fancy I can hear his heartbeat, mingling with the pounding kick-snare interplay of the song? His video feed makes us witness to a massacre. Severed limbs poke limp and bleeding from bargain buckets. The sightless glare of a man whose last vision on earth was of himself being made into a zinger meal lands on me, almost serene, content that the hell he now resides in cannot be crueller than the hell he left behind. The feed blurs and freezes all of a sudden, and the camera crashes to the ground.
15:23 hours: “Divine Damnation” does not so much play as crash into being with feedback; when the guitars unify with the existing drum line, the video feed from our spy moves and refocuses on a wall.
Writing...writing appears in frame, in blood oozing down a grid of tiles... “I know you are watching”. Frozen insects skitter up my vertebrae. He cannot know where we are. How would he know? Our project was and is unknown to him, surely...how would our detection be actioned, still less our location suspected? Still...I cannot quell the undulating disquiet that rolls around the pit of my stomach. This song is constructed of a core of palm muted tremelo picking and powerchords, as is tradition, but it adds variation to it’s assault with more technical work with an upbeat, “bouncy” feel. This alteration in method appears to correspond to an alteration of our own subject’s bearing; grown weary of indiscriminate slaughter midway through demolishing a Gregg’s with an uprooted coat stand, he now stalks the hallways while a crowd of fear-crazed onlookers flees from him. To his rear, confused commuters step off their trains and wonder who set all these fires. At once, a nervous tension settles upon me, and I find myself most dearly wishing I had selected a different base of operations from the Wetherspoons pub around the corner.
15:27 hours: Throughout my examinations of the multifarious attributes that comprise the stimuli selected for use over the years of research in this field, the quality of “Heaviness” is one that has proven difficult to fully define. It can certainly be related to the key or tuning in which a given passage is composed and performed, but often the quality seems more related to something so exasperatingly nebulous as “feel”. What, the honest interlocutor might enquire, is it that makes “Iron Wisdom” the heaviest track on this album? The palm muted triplets? The string bend that heralds the guitar solo? It’s thematic references to various luminaries of the heavy metal genre as a whole? The vituperative speed of the endeavour? A combination of all above factors? Regardless, the impact it has on Strumscock is profound. Having sated his carnal appetites on an extended and obscene process of making love to every individual doughnut in the Krispy Kreme stand, he finds himself no more composed for the act. Rather, he is compelled to renew his search with a diabolical fervour, further ruminations on possible avenues for mindless violence set brewing by the rhythm riff at 3:34, with it’s homunculus downpicking acting to command forth each step with unhidden vicious intent. I hear him now, heavy footfalls approaching the pub, bleeding stragglers driven before him who will, in years to come, question whether it was good fortune or ill that saw them face death and yet live to quake in reminiscence of it.
15:33 hours: What a difference a half hour makes. Will my scientific rigour prevail over my atavistic urge to fill my trousers with shit and run for the hills? As Strumscock reaches the pub entrance I realise that here and now is when I must flip that coin. It is to be hoped that the less incensed opening sequences of “The Vortex”, which perhaps resemble a more vintage brand of noise as embodied by outfits the likes of “Priestly Judas” (I think that’s what the experts said). Strumscock appears receptive to these soundscapes, though they prompt a less virulent temperament. Shades of the young man he once was before possession by thrash occurred show through; I harbour brief hopes that some form of negotiation for my life might be possible. Then the song hits 1:45 and I realise that I am in fact utterly fucked. The song goes into a maniacal sprint and the room is suddenly an explosion of airborne chairs and tables. An unfortunate patron too sluggish in finishing his beer is launched over the bar, crushing the array of bottles behind it into atoms which are carried through the wall with him in a glittering nimbus of shards and liquor. I hammer down on the pause button, willing it as if by divine mandate to stop the song before doom ushers me to hades...yet the song does not pause! How?! How is this possible? Unless...of course! The government ...they knew this test to be fiendish and conspired for it’s creator to die along with it! They would have all the results they’d need and one less loose end! They disconnected my pause button! The absolute sods! Momentary respite comes as one of the very few acoustic breaks on the release shows up alongside some more soulful, blues infused solo work right as Strumcock’s fingers hang mere inches from my throat, but he is to be denied no longer. At 4:26, death pauses for the sake of my hubris no longer. Strumscock finds my neck and, with incalculable strength, squeezes until my head feels like it will burst any moment n...
*addendum following closure of experiment and all research staff confirmed deceased*
Following a brief outro, the “Division Mortality” album ended, and some manner of sense returned to Strumscock. Apparently oblivious to the carnage surrounding him, he located and ate some doughnuts which he described to be “weirdly salty” and wandered off to be accosted by a special forces team. He is to be deployed to the Ukrainian front line alongside a stack of Dark Angel albums in a fortnight. While the loss of the research team was regrettable, their usefulness was at an end, and their knowledge too potentially disruptive to go unchecked. Their families have been contacted and fed the comforting alternative fact that their loved ones were all devoured by cannibals. They should not expect bodies back, but by way of compensation have offered them a tube of pringles of discontinued flavour and a few salty doughnuts.
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