Formats Digital download
Formats Digital download
Producer Connor Finn
Mix/Engineering Connor Finn
Recording Studio Connor Finn Studio
(guitars, vox); Really
Big Audio (drums)
Rating 98.5%
Two hours before I was asked to write a review for Ritual Heresy’s 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴, I was in an accident severe enough to be examined for a broken neck, back and pelvis over two days of monitoring. Out before dawn, the morning in question was charged with the hubbub of hundreds of children, before I ventured toward seclusion and solitude a short distance away. Just over a minute later, I was racing toward ruin before all sound dropped out, and in a moment of perfect clarity, I waited for the great void to swallow me, as I ricocheted off the ground like a rag doll for the next ten meters, as though shot out of a cannon. How is this relevant? Because this chronicle is the physical comparative to how 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 unfolds. It is the aural equivalent of being the brick thrown into a discarded dryer.
𝙊𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙇𝘽𝙐𝙈, 𝙄𝙏𝙎𝙀𝙇𝙁
𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 is a curious EP from this Kent quintet that exceeds the parameters with which audiences are confronted at first blush. Although I would confidently classify this is a thrash album, there are strong elements of hardcore, crossover and more in what is ultimately a dense and complex (and hostile!) debut release.
When reviewing albums, I prefer to give overall impressions rather than fixating on a track-by-track analysis. With an EP, my attention is more focused, and while this review does get into the minutia in parts, I hope the reader can appreciate my reasoning.
The album —appropriately tuned down for maximum damage— begins with a series of three movements. Treading water in the blackened depths as squalus circle below, 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 opens with a false sense of security. On the bass (Matthew Burridge) is applied what sounds to be a number of twin reverb units pounding out an industrialized multi-tracked tremolo; think: Al Jourgensen meets The Smiths’s “How Soon Is Now?” By about 2008, Dick Lövgren was running his bass through a Line 6 Vetta 2 head, with master compression only. This produced a harsh and raspy sound more like a guitar because it favoured midrange over pure low end. With 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 the bass entertains a similar sound to kick things off, and later pulls back for the most part, vacillating occasionally between that bright, raunchy attack; and something warmer like a regular rock bass tone. Never dull, just full.
The beat of silence mentioned toward the front of the album (1:22) —when I needed to brace for impact, but couldn’t— is at the beginning of what we can consider the second movement. In a sense, this point of ignition betrays the opening cut. It’s logical, and no one can deny it’s the obvious outcome once we’ve all heard it. But did any of us expect such straightforward violence? This track, “Cauterized Eyes,” lays bare the definitive sound of the band. It has its roots in rock, it portends doom, and it delivers the cunning wickedness of ‘80s thrash through a rocket. We’re harassed by the rhythm guitar’s dominance (also Burridge) urging the tank forward, with flurries of axeman John Lockhart’s dramatic reverse divebombs shooting off overtop a cacophony of single stroke rolling as though drummer Jordan Brett is channelling Bad Brains’ Earl Hudson.
The third movement invites itself by way of a transition not dissimilar to how “Born Of Fire” nearly penetrates the opening notes of “Seasons In The Abyss.” With this, we are presented with a critical difference —and this will no doubt prove controversial, given we’re talking about peak Rubin— but I would posit that 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 does it better. Points have to go to the originators, of course. But every great is ultimately bested, and while a debut EP is in an admittedly different category to Slayer’s fifth (and 4th major) album, the finesse of that transition is [chef’s kiss] perfection. The sustained bridge of “Curb Crawler” —possibly the most dualistic track of the album— destroys, as though a never-abating torrent: relentless, sustained and concussive.
Improbably, it is not until this point that the listener’s first respite presents itself, just before “Gutters” kicks in your teeth. Which is mad, given we are now over eleven minutes and 3 songs into this brutal affair. Even by hardcore standards, this is heavy lifting.
The album exits with a banger of a rallying cry as the band chars the ground and leaves us for dead —a logical conclusion, all things considered.
𝙊𝙉 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝘿𝙐𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉
There is no denying shouter Terence Seager’s braun and stamina. But how he still manages to hold out for so long, at this level of intensity, is a bananas prospect. Interestingly, Seager sings at the very front of his voice. His output isn’t strained, but managed, and one has to conclude it is this controlled delivery that enables him to carry on with the endurance he has. He also manages an individual voice when reciting verses, compared to other passages when he opens his throat for a fuller roar. Depending on what parts he’s singing, more or less decay is applied and in certain passages, one has to assume a single vocal track was recorded with effects applied to it, rather than his having to hulk out in the vocal booth to twin his own recitation; a daunting prospect. Either way, his assault rings out with perfect clarity, and throughout, without a doubt, Seager sounds genuinely angry.
Lockhart’s bewhammy-d Jackson is distinguished with slightly brighter treatment, where Burridge’s guitar shouts through a more corrosive tone. The guitars are so tight, they often register as one, though they occupy different parameters within the mix and can obviously be distinguished when harmonized against each other. Or when Burridge’s destroyer barrels through like a bull. Lockhart’s ferocity is no less blunt, but the punctiliousness of his fretting acts as a fun distinction to the merged bellow of the rest of the band.
Despite the mix’s overall warmth, it is not muddy, but unified. Jordan Brett’s kick drum is quite flat, which I like, and it lands with a convincing thud. Toms, interestingly, are EQed to a mid-‘80s motif which strikes a perfect balance of futuristic hollowness and a morningstar caving your head in. And Brett’s snare has just enough reverb to give it life while remaining taut and conclusive. As a completely subjective critique, I might have preferred a harsher, brighter mix on the snare as its depth occupies a similar frequency to the bass guitar, but that veers into providing-a-solution-in-search-of-a-problem territory. Further, the reason the snare is thus mixed is because it fits into this album-as-colossus; a stray snare floating high above the rest of the mix —or worse, ringing because it’s so tight— would lessen the blow. I dig the stripped down simplicity of Brett’s four piece kit. This new wave of thrash drummers knocking out broad sounds and arrangements betrays the diminutive nature of their set-ups and epitomizes the simplified ethos of thrash. In its Golden Age, compositions featuring massive descents almost required a barrage of toms. But seeing what can be achieved with a compact kit, as from High Command, for example, it’s a treat to see this acute, rather than orchestral approach.
𝙊𝙉 𝙎𝙏𝙔𝙇𝙀
While there are some familiar notes or phrases here and there, happily, I find it difficult to offer a direct comparison to other groups. Ritual Heresy is unquestionably a metal band, but they are so much more. Sort of like Harm’s Way channeling Venom, or, more obviously, S.O.D. circa 𝘚𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘖𝘳 𝘋𝘪𝘦, with Ritual Heresy offering a later-generation approach to the same format.
In the 1970’s, funny cars —with their Hoosier drag slicks and tricked out pipes— provided an exciting unknown. For just as often as cars hurtled 1/4 mile toward the finish line before deploying their chutes, their engines would dislodge from their frames or explode. S.O.D. had chops to spare and, particularly live, they were that funny car from the ’70s. But of perhaps greater distress is that Ritual Heresy is a far more enraged band, and because the engine is part of the frame, itself, the machine will simply keep going, no matter how grave the damage it lays in its wake.
The album considers Issues of morality, self-worth and fatalism and fans of late-era Pantera would do well to investigate this band. While clearly different, there is a shared contempt for humanity’s exploit and weakness, as well as the relentless drive and downright meanness.
𝙊𝙉 𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙆
Interestingly, the album cover shatters many of the traditional mores with regards to marrying images and pallets to their subgenre counterparts. In this case, the band’s wordmark (it, and cover, by Kristian Borstlap) appears in the form of an Elder Futhark/Frisian Futhorc hybrid, whereas the album’s title is rendered in an Old English-style blackletter, and both of these elements are superimposed over a medieval woodcut of a dragon borderline ouroboros-ing itself. If someone described the above to me while playing the record, I don’t think I would have fully understood it, or, at best, I would have thought these elements too disparate. But all three components work harmoniously. Perhaps there’s something to be said for branching out, after all.
𝙄𝙉 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝘾𝙇𝙐𝙎𝙄𝙊𝙉
Timing out at a lean 18:50, this is right in line with perfect song-to-length ratio for an EP of this nature. I’m interested to hear a full length release from Ritual Heresy to see how they’ll handle the requisite ebbs and floods needed to regulate the stream of invective over a 40-ish minute timeline. This is a boss rock & roller in a compact package. For Ritual Heresy to spread their wings would be thrilling for listeners, but decidedly hazardous. If their stage show resembles the album, EMTs should be on speed dial.
I have whiplash and will so continue for the next many weeks. Whether that is due to the accident or 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 is for you to decide.
Review also available on Facebook and Metal Archives