Last Stop China Town - Into The Volcano
And so it came to pass that not all metal of the new breed verily broadswording it's merry way out of Britain's bulging bile ducts numbered beast-slayers and lightning-riders in the traditions of the revered old guard. Maybe tis to be expected for the wayside is full of errant wanderers who easily strayed from the narrow paths of righteous volcanic riff venom. As one all for the re-emergence of good old anthemic boy's own metal rising against the nu-metal then emo hordes this is, disappointingly, far too unimaginative for all it's guts n' grit. While there are some pounding passages from Mechanical Sunrise's impressive starting-block disintegration onwards, this never raises the temperature and is a workman-like slug up a hillside, but more the Halesowen cribbage society's monthly hike to the chippy than a Hamburger Hill. If it was simply battle-ready bravado we were measuring this gets bogged down in marshy terrain leaving itself stranded as sitting targets for sniping practice. This bunch of Midland's marauders never venture beyond the mid-eighties mid-league of Maiden and early Metallica cannon-fodder. It could be a pastiche if it weren't so clear they're really striving though valiant efforts count for nothing when you've an army beleagured by trench-foot and lack of ammunition, even at times the wrong calibre for the weapons they do possess in working order. A perfect example of the ages old aphorism about sweat and inspiration and a salutary lesson showing how difficult effective thrash is to, like, totally execute. There's been a comment or two about their name in contrast to the defiantly trademark thrash symbolism of the rest of their branding, but as a moniker that could be listed in the Racing Post at the 4.15 at an all dayer in Halifax then this bunch are clear also-rans. Alas, not even close enough to catch a glimpse of the pearl-handled pistols never mind catch a whiff of the cigar.