Nominative determinism is not only a bastard to spell (two spellchecks and counting), but when the name of the band you’re attempting to unpick and make sense of is called Skumstrike (they must be fans of the previously excellent but now a faded pastiche of its former self Kerrang), then you’re halfway to knowing what is likely to spill out of the port-a-loo when you push it over. And looking at the band name, the death/punk crust cover art and logo, this Montreal based duo, have not only nailed their colours to the mast, but taken said colours and fashioned an armada of ships to sail off into the distance to uncover previously undiscovered fauna and flora on the Gallipolis Islands.
It’s almost as if they have gone into John Menzies (retro newsagents klaxon alert), found a periodical on punk/metal ‘How To Form A Band’ guides (buy each week and build your own studded leather belt in 172 issues) and have devoured and ingested each issue with a demonic and ferocious zeal. I already knew what this band would sound like before I pressed play and if this all sounds like a jumping off point to air my personal neurosis and hatred of life, then you’d be entirely wrong. Because, you know what, there’s nothing wrong or a hint of embarrassment with doing away with ambiguity and any pretence at a high falutin. These lads are as undiluted and uncompromising as you could hope for, and whilst there is nothing on this album that you haven’t heard before in some shape, way or form, it’s a gloriously, joyful romp of a listen and whilst the music itself, does not veer too far off the beaten track from a genre convention perspective, there is enough to keep you engaged for it’s admittedly minimal running time.
It’s almost as if this collection of songs were buried in a dirty punk/crust/death metal capsule that was interned within the Blue Peter (retro 1980’s children’s television klaxon alert) garden in 1984 by Sarah Green and Simon Groom, only to be dug up in 2022, to leap upon the unsuspecting, wet behind ears bequiffed presenter of said show and pour itself into every orifice, suffocating him/her live on air. This is dirty, uncomplicated, D-beat metallic punk that recalls a number of bands from my adolescence that are, but not limited to, early Nuclear Assault, fellow Canadians Voivod and a soupcon of ‘No Life ‘Til leather’ era Metallica with Mille Petrozza on vocals. It’s all 100mph, foot to the floor (other metal album review cliches are available in all bookshops) grimy, dirt encrusted two-minute blasts of cigarette smoke, bleeding speed encrusted gums and knee tremblers in a wet alleyway. This is the embodiment of the sticky floor at your favourite metal club at 1am on a Wednesday night where you’ve had too many beers and not enough scotch eggs to give you the ballast you so desperately require. The production is a big factor here, and it’s so evocative of the first time I heard Sepultura’s ‘Morbid Visions / Bestial Devastation’ on a tape traded cassette. All echoey, biscuit tin drums and high end, reverb heavy vocals, that despite the cack-handed recording techniques, the songs themselves still shone through despite the best efforts of the engineer. The same is true here really, but I think this production is a conscious nod to a simpler time and to be fair, the sparse production, isn’t incongruous at all, and perfectly captures what I would imagine the band were after.
A cursory nod to the past but with just enough modern sensibilities to steer itself away from being consumed by an amorphous blob of hackneyed revisionism giving a hand job to the past. Look, if you’re after technique, super slick production values and shiny, tied in a bow song structures, you are fishing in the wrong pond my fine friends. This isn’t edgy, cool or refined. It’s a dangerous pint of snakebite and black with shot of Pernod and a dash of Ketamine. If, you’re looking for a greasy dollop of early Slayer (think the slower passages on South of Heaven or Seasons In The Abyss) with some galloping D-beat punk rock/metal, then pick up the bottle of sauce named Skumstrike and spunk it all over your chips.
(8/10 Nick Griffiths)
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