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No betrayal of thrash's mid-'80s roots - 85%
“…you imbecile, your time is near…”
Man, haven’t popped in this one in like forever, or at least before hair started growing outta my ears. I remember hopes running high for this one when I found it seething in my mailbox: real D.I.Y. on pale blue paper (my copy is, anyway), the printed lyrics blotchy and faded like they used three different typewriters, a handwritten blurb borrowed from all-father Lemmy…sigh.
Anyway, California’s Betrayel, a four-piece, is thankfully not of the happy thrash variety even at this tail-end date, nor are they inundated with the tech-thrash sensibilities of the day. Nope, it’s all pretty pure and lethal in the ways of earlier works by Dark Angel and Whiplash and post-debut Devastation, and this I have absolutely no problem with.
Six-tracker Death Shall Overcome, their third demo since ’87, starts with quite a bit ‘o commotion while cradled in the claws of “Hypocrites Reign” and its dirty and unkempt din that isn’t wholly the work of the low budget recording (mind you, this is a good thing). “Scream in Darkness” follows the tremor already rippling across this thing and shreds some more before fading out in a shrilling display of wild quasi-solos. “D.S.O.” a.k.a. the title track clicks back the momentum for a mid-priced masher, but shortly “Born of the Jackal” and “Blood of Nam” explode again with wild abandon, a manic reaction that ushers in the tape’s finale, “Cathedral”, one of those stalkers that menacingly creeps along its entirety and concludes within throes of malevolence.
Lung-wise, Chris Campise is somewhere in the league of extra-ornery gentlemen with Bobby Blitz, David Wayne, Steve Souza, and every once in a while we’ll hear a churlish Rob Urbinati-like squeal shear a lyric’s end. The two James’ (Johnson and Carver) rotate whipping solos throughout the merriment while drummer Arlie Patton keeps things churning without merely thrumming along.
Overall, a mid-range B effort and execution.
'Duh' rule #1 for demos: always list your contact address somewhere on the damned thing.
