Album Review: Speedrush – Division Mortality

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.