Dethscalator - Racial Golf Course, No Bitches (4 stars)

The depraved, baffling and stinkingly good debut album from the Hackney noise rockers

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Dethscalator - Racial Golf Course, No Bitches

If an album title is a statement of intent, then we’re on upsettingly shaky ground here. Is Racial Golf Course, No Bitches a meat-headed attempt at offensiveness? A satirical statement on the intrinsic bigotry of the golfing classes? Just some meaningless nonsense designed to confuse and antagonise sleep-deprived and over-caffeinated music writers? Track titles like ‘World War II Hitler Youth Dagger’, ‘Aids Atlas’ and ‘Shit Village’ don’t make things much clearer.

Slithering out of Hackney, Dethscalator have been titting around the place for about five years now, and ply a suffocatingly cacophonous trade similar to that of Hey Colossus or Racebannon or Blacklisters or Drunk in Hell – but if anything, this lot are even more magnificently unpleasant. Racial Golf Course… comprises 34 horrible minutes of deeply questionable and often baffling depravity. Their sound takes mechanically recovered remnants of US hardcore, noise-rock and old-school metal, adds bone-scraping noise, and then comprehensively chars the resulting monstrosity with a blowtorch. Dan Chandler’s vocals are greasy and foul and completely indecipherable throughout, and this is probably a good thing. He’s unlikely to be singing about buttercups and lollipops and platonic foot rubs.

Contemptuous opener ‘Black Percy’ consists of a howl of feedback, a grimy gallop and a stained middle finger, and is all over and done with in precisely 111 seconds. Elsewhere, ‘Grotto Crank’ suspends a thin, sinister King Diamond motif over seething background disturbance and unintelligible howling. The riff proper kicks in, weaving a barbed figure of eight before collapsing into punishing doom trudge and scathing cacophony. We get a blast of nigh-straight-up hardcore in ‘Midnight Feast’, perhaps the closest thing here to a traditional song. But that indistinct but super-heavy bass/guitar tone, infected with agonising feedback and pustulating with indistinct howling noise, is caustic enough strip the hide from a mammoth.

The highlight, though is the aforementioned ‘World War II Hitler Youth Dagger’ – not only for its ungainly riff action in the spirit of prime Unsane (only without that band’s sense of subtlety, finesse and decorum), but for the way in which it spirals off into a high-speed trance-inducing psychedelic noise outro.

In short, this album stinks. It’s been left out by the back court bins for months and it’s gone all rotten. It’s as pungent as a greying egg sandwich lost beneath a teenage boy’s bed. It has the malodorous tang of pooling embalming fluid on a night bus. It hums like the gristly hindquarters of an elderly pitbull. And it smells so good.

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