When Dracula Thinks “Look At Me”
Knowing full well that the true power of metal(lics) lies in absurd humor and cartoonishly extreme violence, London’s superlative Trencher traces an invisible line between the scatological punch-ups of Anal Cunt, the teethgrinding confrontation of Whitehouse, and the conceptual thrashings of Chicago’s late ’90s No-Wave revival, especially Lake of Dracula. And those lines, of course, form a pentagram. When Dracula Thinks is that sort of (revitalizing) spastic heaviness that made early Napalm Death, Boredoms, Autopsy, and the aforementioned Anal Cunt so fucking exciting and fresh in the first place — the crucial difference being that much of Trencher’s sound is formed and forged from cheapo overloaded Casios — the end result being that, nestling beside exhilarating breakneck thrash is the wailing and humming of what sounds like one of those sound-triggered Halloween ghosts you used to be able to buy from drugstores a few years back. Or maybe a broken down Simon Says game. Either way, it fucking rules.
Vocals are screamy, scratchy and unintelligible — just the way we like ’em — two vocalists running the register from an androgyne shriek, to a ragged rasp, a muffled growl, to a kicked in the groin moan. A downtuned and distorted greasy bass does the work of a phalanx of guitars, while paper-thin keyboard drone adds a chirpy video-game-ish spine (like you’re in-between levels on some ancient disco-themed Nintendo game) to an otherwise abhorrent noise; the drumming fucking rules, all avant-jazz pounding and rolls.
John Peel apparently loved Trencher. Does this surprise me, absolutely not; When Dracula Thinks holds the same spirit as early grindcore like Napalm and Extreme Noise Terror that the man championed. Don’t let that sway you or anything, these 14 superfast attacks do as the old hardcore discs used to do, totally charm and beguile and punch you in the ear, and then race out of there before they lose their welcome. Abrupt.
Southern Records: www.southern.com