Infernal Majesty
None Shall Defy

A saucerful of thrash - Episode V: "Ma come porti i capelli bella biondaaaa... Tu li porti alla bella marinaaaraaa..."

...let's take the Canadian tresc medal scene of the '80s, for example.

Too easy to repeat how great and talented Jeff Waters is with his big guitar.
Too easy to try to give oneself an air, be the radical chic of arc welding and fill your mouth with "Ahhh... the Voivod... what a band! what musical taste! what boldness!".

Because if you want to pet the silkiest molds, cuddle the plumpest worms, and indulge in the ancient smells that have long awaited the pleasure of being sniffed, you have to forget the big names, uncover Pandora's box (which is much better than panettone...), and dive hands and face into the undergrowth of a scene that is certainly secondary when compared to large European and US basins.

And it is precisely there, where underwear is only changed when flipping the calendar page, among the carcasses of bands evaporated in a red cloud like meteors in a few months, that you will find Infernal Majesty.
And, if there is a God, a universal justice, a cosmic balance, you will also find their hairdresser.

They formed in Toronto, in early 1986, standing out from the start among the most teased and/or worst styled quartets that medal history remembers.
After a few months, they recorded a 4-track demo with which they secured a record deal and a supply of hair spray from the famous Roadrunner label. They released the debut reviewed here the following year, and photos of their hair began to circulate globally. Specialized fanzines dedicated more and more space to their music, and the drummer published his autobiography: "Double Pedal and Split Ends - How I Tamed the Former. How I Defeated the Latter".
But success is ephemeral, much like the hair loss remedies you can find at the supermarket or pharmacies, and by the following year, they disbanded like an anise-flavored popsicle: the one - just to understand - that no one wanted at the summer camp and ended on the ground, half-eaten, forgotten in the dust.

"None Shall Defy" hit the record stores and lady's hair salons in September 1987, accompanied by one of the most ridiculous covers medal history remembers.
It is not a cornerstone of tresc medal. It's not an essential album to understand the genre. You could also not have it in ruby red picture disc, and no one could accuse you of not being thrash enough.
It's simply one of the darkest and angriest albums one could find in those years in the bins at the Autogrill around Toronto.

It starts from Slayer, and, perhaps, considering the historical period when it came to light, it could not be otherwise, but it also takes the luxury of visiting people of the caliber of Possessed and Dark Angel
From the best tresc medal band ever (that being Slayer, in case it wasn’t clear) they take more or less everything: the climactic gallops and the sulfureous atmospheres à la "Hell Awaits", the neurotic riffing and the tritones of "Reign in Blood", the scarred melodies and the "Grattusge de uma nota so" from "Show No Mercy".
From the band with the best medal drummer ever (that being Dark Angel, in case it wasn’t clear), they try to imitate the greater compositional variety, the taste for the anthemic chorus.
From the band which, it’s said, first contributed to the birth of death medal (that being Possessed, in case it wasn’t clear), they recover the raw grandeur and the vocal sandpapering of Jeff Becerra.

And, to be honest, the trick works for them to an extent.

Strengthened also by the raw growl (though in a rather advanced state of decomposition) of singer-bassist Chris Bailey, they churn out an actual guide to the Slayer sound, in a more ignorant, raw, primitive version (suffice it to say, for all, the opener "Overlord" and the mythical title track), peppered with episodes where the band desperately (hopelessly?) tries to stray as far away as possible from the path traced by Kerry - Mago Pancione - King and his drinking buddies. Take, for example, the successfully mid-down tempo "Night Of The Living", a homage to the putrid master's work, George Romero, or, again, the subsequent "S.O.S.", which features those same accelerations that, just a few years later, would herald the success of Morbid Angel's debut.

The result is an evil, dark, tense album,  where melodic concessions can be counted on the curls of a bald man, and which in the following years would be pointed out as a source of great inspiration for various bands in the extreme scene (including our very own Necrodeath).
An album that, however, certainly cannot aspire to the title of masterpiece.
The blame lies on not exactly stellar technical skills, a fundamental shortage of solutions that could be considered truly original, and a production that certainly cannot enjoy the laying on of hands of a "some" Rick Rubin. And, above all, certain obscene hairstyles of the band members.

A delight for every convinced thrashophile, completist, nostalgic.
A nightmare for every soap and water medalist, every sermon boy, every trend-setting hairdresser.

Dedicated to Fabius, who has had enough.