An album not absolutely necessary.
On an album with eleven tracks, five or six are salvageable—a clear sign the band is nearing retirement.
The album is a sonic assault that begins with the very first song.
Slayer fully returns to the violent and precise thrash of the golden era.
Slayer has never known compromises.
The album starts very well; the opening track is immediately engaging, flowing riff after riff while Tom Araya screams horrifying and apocalyptic verses.
This isn’t about a thrash band needing a raw, unpolished sound, but this production seriously undermines what could perhaps have been a half-decent album.
Even the production seems like that of a debut demo: ARE YOU KIDDING WHEN YOU SAY THIS ALBUM’S PRODUCTION IS GREAT OR HAS AN EPIDEMIC OF STUPIDITY SWEPT OVER HUMANITY?
This latest (hopefully not final) LP in the history of the L.A. Ripper is a major event.
Songs remind us why this band is remembered: to strike the instinctive chords of the listener.