Coroner
R.I.P.

I will never tire of thanking my maternal uncle. I will never forget his affectionate presence on those cold winter nights when my mom worked nights. I distinctly remember, between a caress and a pinch, his lullabies that made me feel protected, with a flourish like Ian Gillian and a Black Sabbath classic (with Solitude I collapsed as if hypnotized). I owe him alone, to his refined chromosomes, my overwhelming passion for Rock and Metal, as well as my fervent animal curiosity that led me to sneakily rummage, on Sundays, through his imposing baskets full of vinyls, looking for the first "diabolical" cover that caught my eye, ready to be tucked under my shirt and brought home, being careful not to fall into my mom's puritan radars.

There was a Sunday when, having less time than usual, my choice fell on a record that I had consciously avoided in the past, attracted as I was by other tones, by other depictions. A black background, with a distorted image of a cemetery without colors but with various shades of yellow. Below three dotted letters, an R, an I, and a P. Above, a word I had never heard before that since then will echo in my head forever: Coroner.

The next day, when at exactly a quarter to five, my mom grabbed her bag and cigarettes and went to work, I wasn't as eager as usual to put that kitschy and eerie 33 RPM record on the player. But its formal strangeness won me over. I settled on the big bed just as the faint notes of the piano, accompanied by flute and keyboards from the "Intro," resonated in the air still polluted by the stench of nicotine. A bell toll and then... one of the most brilliant riffs in metal history, a shocking and intricate sound at the same time, a horrifying chorus, the underworld compressed in 5 minutes: "Reborn Through Hate."

"R.I.P." emerges imperiously, overflowing with primal charm and multiple references both to the Maiden's pre-Dickinson charge and the typical obsessiveness of fellow countrymen and friends Celtic Frost (Thomas G. Warrior had participated in writing their first demo "Death Cult"). Ron Royce's vocal lines, while tracing Warrior's granitic timbre, appear hysterical and sick enough to resurrect the wild attitude of the best DiAnno; Marquis Marky behind the skins delivers lethal blows, proving that even in Thrash, drums can take center stage. And then there's Tommy T. Baron. What can I say... I love his understanding of the guitar art in a visceral way; his spectacular neoclassical digressions (lessons learned from Malmsteen in those years) will become a hallmark of the group, convincing even the most bigoted critics that there was no need for a second guitar in the lineup.

All the songs in here are black as pitch and scented like the stench of a desecrated cemetery. Each riff is generated with surprising virtuosity and skill. Every chord, every single note is played with irreverent precision, each scale finely tuned to maximize depth and speed.

Coroner managed to achieve perfection with their first album. Tracks like "Suicide Command," the sepulchral title track, "Coma" (which tackles a thorny topic like euthanasia) or the more rhythmic "When Angels Die," the captivating "Totentanz," the instrumental "Nosferatu" (listen closely and tell me if it doesn't remind you of a certain Transylvania...) represent the first, untouchable, and dark piece of supremacy in the Swiss band's career. Depending on taste, one might prefer the Dark roots of "Punishment For Decadence," the decadent Techno-Thrash vein of "Mental Vortex," or the futuristic and psychedelic chiaroscuros of "Grin," but, as is well known, even changing the order of the terms, the result cannot change: musical excellence.

It's absurd how such creativity and effective sound fell into the most stubborn disinterest from the general public. I am comforted by the fact that true thrashers have always kept, still keep, and will forever keep them in their hearts.

To be rediscovered obligatorily.