I Don't Hear a Single 666 Track-surfing the old-fashioned way

I've always been suspicious of singles, not to mention A&R men; I don't like to be told what to listen to, and I've always found the release of singles in itself to be a redundant way to peddle one's audio wares. With that in mind, I present I Don't Hear a Single: a round-up of non-single tunes that were either (a) too long to be a single, (b) too good to be a single, (c) too obscure/unreleased to be considered for single status, or (d) too jarring in one way or another to be singled out for mass consumption. Let's F-ing do this.

One of the best things about writing a column such as “I Don't Hear a Single” – besides the bitches, fame, cold-hard-cash, artistic achievement, and supermarket discounts – is being afforded the opportunity to examine a lot of older stuff that has fallen through the cracks. In many cases, dusty albums have stoked enthusiasm that was merely a ripple for many years. I had long assumed these tunes were a dead issue, the sort of albums that you only throw in if you ignore your current favorites and trust that your taste wasn't THAT bad in sixth grade.

And so, Tiny Mix Tapes heathens, yous-all are about to get fuckin' SERVED by a list of thrash/metal semi-classics you never knew you wanted to read about.

What is thrash/metal, you ask? Well, it's complicated. In my estimation, thrash is like the drunk cousin of straight-up dragon-metal, speed-metal, hardcore, butt-rock, and punk. You won't find the values of hardcore in most thrash, nor will you find the consistency of punk or the outrageous pomposity, evil imagery, and drastic separation between fan and band of pure metal; thrash, to me, always seemed a little more streetwise, workmanlike even -- hard hats, not scepters. And, like, say, your garden-variety pipe-fitter from Jersey, thrash bands wanted to get political points across and had a tough time articulating them (puppet metaphors aside; that shit... that shit was solid for sure).

Unsurprisingly, a few of the bands on this list were punk/hardcore bands that eventually crossed over to thrash and, often, pure metal. It all started with Motörhead though, generally. They birthed thrash and influenced the genre in many ways, one of their most overlooked qualities being their (i.e. Lemmy's) sense of humor, however sick, which presented itself in a lot of the bands 'Head influenced.

As always, I'm expecting that some knee-deep-in-old-Exodus-T-shirts dude is going to call me out for one reason or another -- "not ONE Exhorder track? Not ONE?" -- and that's to be expected. I mean, I was listening to this stuff when I was 10; my interpretations may progress, but they're still rooted in that same underdeveloped sense of music genealogy. Genre classification is one of the most hotly debated topics across the board, so let's just agree to disagree, mmmmK?

Besides, you're wrong. In that spirit, I present to you seven tracks that make an argument for what has become a relatively forgotten genre. God rest your sweet-‘n'-hot-chili-Doritos soul if you're a modern-day metal fan with none of these titles on your shelf... and please forgive me for being too young (by about four years) to buy records when thrash experienced what many would call its heyday in the early-to-mid '80s.

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“Finalè,” by Anthrax from State of Euphoria, 1988

Remember when I mentioned humor up above? Well, I never said it had to be actually funny. Not that Anthrax weren't funny; their Killer Bees compilation contained a faux-ballad in which its subject is unceremoniously hit by a truck, after which you can hear crying and Scotty Ian asking Joey to hand him a tissue. But “Finalè,” despite the line “I drink three six packs just so I can look at your face”, isn't funny (imagine THAT! yuk yuk); it thrashes too hard to be anything but a serious assault on the ears and, if you're coming off a bran-muffin-and-coffee breakfast, sphincter. Besides, State of Euphoria was the album where Anthrax started dabbling in political concerns … what an awful idea! Regardless, it's one of my favorite 'Thrax moments, and “Finalè” is the turbo-injected icing on a nitro-booster cake. A Metallica-ish intro starts things off, and in the thrash tradition, the intro riff has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the song. Instead, it segues into another crotch-crushing riff that underscores lyrics that are just plain lame. Really: “I hear your mama callin' you”? “The only graduate from Satan's school of charm”? Mention of “short hairs”? Ok, not exactly profound. And that's okay, because thrash eschewed all notions of profundity. So plug into this outlet and prepare to Anthrash.

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“You Say I'm Scum,” by DRI from Thrash Zone, 1989

As sad as Thrash Zone sounds compared to DRI's sound-barrier-shattering work on Dealing with It and the Dirty Rotten LP, it's a decent representation of thrash that made a shit-load of sense to me in junior high. “You Say I'm Scum” is a hilarious song about Not Fitting In (“Who are you to tell me / I'm not right”?), hating the Pretty People (“You had your nose in the mirror / all last night”), hating the Rich People (“You flew right by me in your Porsche today”), hating the Boss (“I won't get a job / And be punching your clock / Won't be another number / In your lay off slot”), the Inability to Conform (“I wanna play my music as loud as I please / I wanna grow my hair down to my knees”), and probably more than a little pandering to the Young People Trends of the Day (“Hand me my skateboard and I'll make my way”). Whatevs, I say; this song fucking rules. With all the cryptic lyric-writing making the rounds, it's nice to revisit a track that's not afraid to say things in English. And who hasn't felt at least one or two of the sentiments listed above? Exactly; you could do worse than to put Dirty Rotten Imbeciles at the head of your class if you're into heavy music. Just don't take them too seriously; they'd do the same for you.

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“The Catalyst,” by Insult II Injury from Point of This, 1994

Of all the bands on this list, Insult II Injury summon the “oh MAN, that was ME” reaction the most. The year? 1994. The place? Ft. Collins, Colorado. The terms? A friend called me and said he'd found a band that was equal parts Pantera and Metallica. After balking for a minute (naturally), I special-ordered a Point of This cassette, one of the first purchases I had made sight-unseen since buying Testament's The Ritual (more on that in a minute). I wasn't terribly impressed with the results at first, but soon I came around and started listening to the mook-tastic album all the time, even after I found out it was made by Canadians. The track I'm specifying, however, is the least-thrash track on the whole album, “The Catalyst,” and it's totally a sob-jobc n hbv. It's acoustic, it's quiet, it's ornate, and it has lines like “I gaze into / the bright lights / I realize why I take none over life”; not only that but ‘life' is pronounced ‘li-eeeeeeefe' in a jaw-jutting fashion Scott Stapp would turn in to ball-gagging gold years down the line. Still, “The Catalyst” spoke to me, and I've found that it still does after ordering Point of This for two dollars online recently. Insult II Injury, if you're reading this, PLEASE REUNITE. HA! Gotcha … still, you guys were pretty sweet and that's more than I can say about Armored Saint.

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“We Hate Everyone,” by Type O Negative from Bloody Kisses, 1993

Type O Negative's older stuff was much thrash-ier and less goth, but I can't listen to The Origin of the Feces or Slow, Deep and Hard without laughing my ass off, so a cut from Bloody Kisses will have to do. I'd love to mention the fact that “Too Late: Frozen” cycles through several styles during its 11-minutes-plus running time, shifting from a crazy processional march with creepy wizard chants to a beautiful metal-ballad with – seriously – John Lennon-circa-“Julia” vocals with more effects. But the best thrash-centric moment of Bloody Kisses is “We Hate Everyone,” a song that hearkens back to the classic Type O days without descending into self-parody. Well, okay, they do descend into self-parody, but instead of feeling sorry for them I want to sing along with them as they rant about “Right-wing commies” and “Leftist Nazis” and insist that all the controversy only pumps up their record sales. Not exactly the most noble aim for a lyric, but if you think thrash is a noble genre, you haven't been taking in the Sweet Knowledge I've been trying to spoon-feed you for seven fucking paragraphs now. Not Type O Negative's best moment, but one of their thrash-y-est. Fuck goth.

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“Holy Wars,” by Megadeth from Rust in Peace, 1990

If you've ever felt sorry for Dave Mustaine due to his unceremonious ejection from Metallica, just listen to Rust in Peace; it's obvious his talents were immense enough to stand on their own. Countdown to Extinction might be Megadeth's most well-rounded album, but Rust has high points dizzying enough to make an amateur metal fan nauseous. “Holy Wars” -- which at 6:24 is sort of a single-that-isn't-a-single single -- is the album's centerpiece despite its being plotted at slot no. 1. The only underlying surety here is constant change, killer-diller riffs cycling in and out of the terrain like prairie dogs tunneling through dirt. Mustaine's vocals, always considered the lowlight of any Megadeth release, never really bothered me as much as they did the critics, and he's in top form here, grunting clownishly at times then putting on his best gnarl-lipped sermon ever at the song's pivotal transition point, where distortion gives way to a brief Eastern raga and arpeggios cleaner than a baby's patoot. If you're listening at this point you're already locked in, but a bounty of surprises lay ahead. For one, Mustaine's singing becomes all sentimental and shit, to surprising effect; in addition, some of the best bleeding-guitar solo work you'll ever hear is just over the horizon, followed by a FUCKED-UP, thrashing (imagine that) stop-start sequence that brings the heaviness back like a sack of quarters to the jawbone. “Holy Wars” is somewhat epic but it never feels forced, and none of the shifts in mood/tempo feels haphazard. Thank the metal gods Mustaine is a bad drunk. If he hadn't been booted from Metallica, “Holy Wars” – whether in Davo's head or on Headbanger's Ball countdowns – might never have been fought in the first place.

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“Divine Intervention,” by Slayer from Divine Intervention, 1994

This probably looks like a curious choice. In fact, it IS a curious choice. Slayer had been introducing kids to Satan for more than a decade when Divine Intervention dropped in the middle of the grunge boom. Not to mention that Divine Intervention was probably Slayer's least-thrash album; it leaned toward death- and tech-metal more than classics like South of Heaven, Reign in Blood and Seasons in the Abyss (the album that introduced my friends and I to Slayer in ninth grade). ON TOP OF THAT, Slayer's punk comp Undisputed Attitude is amazing, worthy of being written up, and in my personal life I name-drop that glorious ode to punk/hardcore whenever I can. That said, how come no one talks about Divine Intervention? I wasn't even sure I believed in Hell until I heard Slayer for the first time, and DI was an astonishing plunge into the depths a blood-red nether region most of us can only imagine with the help of a Clive Barker novel/film. The title track? Ho-ly Fu-ck. Tom Araya might be the first vocalist I've ever heard to perfect the shriek one probably makes when one is on fire and screaming for help. The double-bass-ing by drummer Paul Bostaph – who had just replaced fan favorite Dave Lombardo – is fault-less, as was his performance for the entire album, and the twin-guitar joust of Kerry King and Jeff Hanneman, as always, fueled Slayer's entire attack. But back to the vocals; this is one of the first times Araya's voice didn't contain a hint of camp; pure desperation and remorse are behind his wails. To cement the urgency of this track in your mind I'll close by quoting the first few lines: “Awaken in a web like Hell / How did I reach this place / Why are they haunting me / I cannot look at God's face”. Jesus Christ man.

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“Tears of the Dragon,” by Bruce Dickinson from Balls to Picasso, 1994

Sometimes a song sticks with you like a salty-barf memory for bad reasons; in fact, I find I spend an equal amount of time enjoying my mental jukebox and trying to free myself from its clutches. “Tears of the Dragon,” by Iron Maiden all-star Bruce Dickinson, is, sadly, ringing in my head right now. And it sucks so bad, licks so hard, it's going to be tough to describe the extent of my frustration to you. You see, for about 15 years now this track has popped into my head unannounced. It's like your grandpa busting into your how wearing nothing but body paint and an ass-tattoo of your face: It's unwelcome and GODDAMN DISTURBING! This tune has one of those fucking obNOXious choruses. The singer not only sounds like he's preaching to you, at you and for you, but in you; that's how self righteous Dick-in-son is, as if every last note were written to show Iron Maiden what a mistake they made in “letting him” go solo (I believe this tune was constructed around the time of the Maiden's initial break-up but I don't suck enough to know for sure. The awful lyrics bear this theory out, however: Where I was / I had wings that didn't fly / Where I was / I had tears I couldn't cry / My emotions / Frozen in an icy lake / I couldn't feel them / Until the ice began to break. Sounds like martyr complex to me!). And his voice is still inside me, its blustery, pompous tone accompanying my every move, almost as offensive as that terrible “Dust in the Wind” acoustic riff that starts shit off. And the song … IS CALLED “TEARS OF THE DRAGON." And the album, IS CALLED BALLS TO PICASSO??? I mean JESUS CHRIST!!! From here I could go in any direction: I could post more of the hilarious lyrics; I could describe the nonsensical sight of Dickinson arbitrarily swinging a club on a beach (at his old bandmates?) while being taunted by a bald man in nothing but a tu-tu-looking outfit – not to mention flying gargoyles – in the music video; I could PROBABLY just post a link so you can hear the song yourself, but none of it would be enough (and I don't want to be held ‘sponsible) to prepare you for the overall hairiness of this tune. Just know: It's a lot like your great-grandfather's ballsac. Or Picasso's, prolly.

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