Pitchfork
67
Iron Reagan aren’t your typical political provocateurs. Forget fighting the two-party system: The Richmond crew, whose lineup comprises members from latter-day crossover thrash groups such as Municipal Waste, Darkest Hour, and Cannabis Corpse, would rather throw a party of their own, shotgunning beers and riffs while Main Street burns. Iron Reagan’s name may nod to punk’s longstanding war with conservatism, but their music hardly resembles a call to legislative action. It’s more of a drunken primal scream, the kind that issued forth from the throats of millions on Election Night as the Chyrons announced Donald Trump’s stunning victory. (Not that the band were rooting for his opponent: a simple glance at their merch offerings reveals a disdain for authority on both sides of the aisle, Clinton included.) Activism can wait; for now, it’s time to rage.
And that Iron Reagan do, on their new album Crossover Ministry. Like their first two records (2013’s Worse Than Dead and the following year’s The Tyranny Of Will), the band’s latest effort doubles as a vehicle for violent, nihilistic escapism. And it’s a compact one at that, clocking in at 18 tracks in 30 minutes. Songs like “A Dying World,” “Blatant Violence,” and “Bleed the Fifth” retain the same shoot-from-the-hip paradigms that fans have come to expect. Frontman Tony Foresta shouts himself hoarse over chugging chords and snare-heavy backbeats before yielding to his Municipal Waste comrade Phillip “Land Phil” Hall for a free-wheeling solo.
The single “Dead With My Friends” is an exception, then—an Anthrax-laced paean to whiling away humanity’s final moments with good friends and cheap beer. And a few friends take turns at the mic as well. Screaming Females’ Marissa Paternoster does some yelping on “Eat Or Be Eaten,” and David Wood of straight edge hardcore greats Down to Nothing presides over the bludgeoning, 14-second “No Sell.”
Is this approach formulaic? Certainly. Does Crossover Ministry challenge the mores of its genre? Absolutely not. Of course, such is the DNA of thrash metal itself, not only as a descendant of hardcore punk—a style similarly rooted in rudimentary parts—but as the booze-soaked musical equivalent of the reptile brain, which could give two shits about intricacy or subtext. The id manifests most thrillingly (and hilariously) on “Fuck the Neighbors,” which opens with the ring of a doorbell, followed by the entreatments of a dorky neighbor à la Ned Flanders, who asks the band to tone down the racket. Needless to say, Iron Reagan veto that request, eventually erupting in the song’s sophomoric titular chant. It’s the ideal anthem for left-wingers marooned in the Bible Belt, not to mention an apt sketch of our divided, pissed-off republic in the year 2016. But Iron Reagan’s revolution runs on ribaldry.
Sat Feb 04 06:00:00 GMT 2017