Mate, you ever been in a proper shithole of a pub, the kind where the barman’s got a black eye and the air’s thick with fag smoke and bad decisions? That’s where Sodom’s The Arsonist lives. These German thrash nutters, led by Tom Angelripper - a bloke who sounds like he chews gravel and chugs whiskey for breakfast - have been kicking heads in since your dad was still nicking his mate’s dirty mags. This album’s like a Molotov through your letterbox, a full-on thrash metal riot that makes you want to down a bottle of cheap plonk, set fire to your neighbor’s wheelie bin, and scream ‘til your throat’s fucked. If you’re some posh wanker after a tune for your yoga playlist, sod off - this is for people who like their music nastier than a fumble in a festival portaloo.
The sound is grimier than a chippy’s grease trap after a Friday rush. Sodom went full caveman, hammering the drums onto a 24-track analogue tape machine, and Angelripper’s crowing like he’s just shagged the landlady in the cellar. “No plastic!” he roars, and you can tell. The guitars snarl like a knackered chainsaw ripping through a pile of scrap, all sharp and vicious, ready to carve your ears a new arsehole. The bass is like Angelripper’s thumping your chest with a brick while laughing his bollocks off. And Toni Merkel’s drums are battering the kit like he’s got a vendetta against it, every hit smacking you like a slap from a pissed-up bouncer. It’s got this warm, scuzzy vibe, like they laid it down in a burning skip while dodging flying bottles. It ain’t clean or fancy, and that’s why it’s got more nuts than a brewery’s grain bin.
Angelripper, Frank Blackfire, York Segatz, and Merkel - got pissed on cheap lager, locked themselves in a shed, and started swinging. Blackfire’s got these riffs that are pure Sodom, all snarly and catchy, like a punch you didn’t see coming but can’t stop humming. Segatz is throwing in these big, epic hooks that make you feel like you’re charging into a scrap with a pint of stout and a hard-on for chaos. Merkel’s not just keeping time; he’s chucking in guitar parts that make the whole thing feel like a gang of mates losing their shit in a burning garage. It’s thrash, proper (TRUE) thrash, but it’s got this filthy, blackened edge - like if Motörhead and Venom got hammered on knock-off gin and started a fight in a kebab shop.
Angelripper’s lyrics are all about blood, death, and the world going to shite, delivered with the kind of grin that says he’s loving every minute. It’s not poncy poetry, thank fuck - it’s the kind of stuff you bellow while kicking over a table or burning your ex’s old love notes in a bonfire. The whole album’s a big, sweaty “fuck you” to anything soft or sensible, with this raw, wild energy that makes you want to strip to your kecks, turn the volume up, and scare the crap out of your neighbor’s goldfish.What makes The Arsonist so fucking cracking is it feels like Sodom are having a proper laugh. This ain’t some washed-up band flogging old hits for a packet of fags; they’re still full of piss and vinegar, ready to shag the competition into next week. That analogue sound’s got a heart you can’t fake - it’s the difference between a proper, messy shag and a sad wank in the bath. Every riff, every growl, every drum hit lands like a pint glass to the head, and it’s got this mad, unhinged glee that drags you into the riot. This is thrash for people who like their music loud, their fights dirty, and their beer tasting like piss and regret.
So, grab The Arsonist, crack open a can of something that smells like a bad idea, and let Sodom fuck your night up proper. This album’s a rude, crude, fire-spitting beast that’ll leave you battered, grinning, and ready to burn the world down. Long live the filthiest bastards in thrash - Sodom’s still got it, and they’re shagging the rest of ‘em sideways.
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