Welcome to Thrash 101. This Dowsers online course on thrash is produced in partnership with GimmeRadio, your free 24/7 radio station, with shows hosted by heavy-music experts. Want more metal? Check them out here.Thrash represents that pivotal point at which heavy metal turns extreme. Of course, extreme music existed before Slayer, Metallica, Megadeth, Anthrax, Overkill, Celtic Frost, and thousands of other vile shredders across the globe declared war on our ears in the mid-’80s. There was Motörhead’s mechanically chugging roar, Venom’s cavernous blasphemy, Diamond Head’s white-hot intricacy, and Void’s violently messy hardcore (which basically is proto-thrash). Yet these were mere glimpses when compared to thrash’s radical, across-the-board redefining of heaviness, speed, and volume, one embedded in the genetic sequence of practically every manifestation of extreme metal to follow: death metal, black metal, metalcore, grindcore, sludge, you name it.It’s generally understood that thrash is a collision of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal’s scorching complexity (including that scene’s innovative use of double-bass-drumming) with hardcore punk’s raw force and gang chant toughness. And while this certainly is true—it’s especially obvious on Anthrax’s “Caught in a Mosh” and Exodus’ “And Then There Were None”—it doesn’t fully explain the movement’s revolutionary newness. And that’s because thrash isn’t a mere blending of antecedents. When it comes to fully appreciating these sick jams, what isn’t heard is just as important as what is. Take Sepultura’s absolutely manic “Stronger Than Hate”—it was recorded a mere six years after Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills,” and yet it sounds decades removed. Melodies, ornateness, choruses—indeed, any semblance of traditional songwriting—have been ruthlessly excised. All that remains is a high-velocity explosion of vicious shredding, incensed howls and grunts, whiplash rhythms, and lyrics splattered in seething rage and graphic imagery.This last quality created quite an uproar during the disgustingly conservative and paranoid Reagan era, back when Tipper Gore’s vile PMRC and tons of Bible-banging parents viewed the genre, as well as headbanger culture in general, as the decline of Western civilization. (Too bad it wasn’t.) It resulted in thrash bands frequently being dismissed as a cross between Satan worshippers and knuckle-dragging brutes, when in fact their lyrics often tackled environmental concerns, nuclear war, genocide, and psychological alienation with a mix of holding-a-mirror-up-to-society morality and intensely black humor inspired by horror flicks. Moreover, thrash unleashed some of the most dizzyingly demanding music this side of avant-garde jazz. Far and away the most potent proof of this is the genre’s crowning achievement: Slayer’s 1986 touchstone Reign in Blood, a record that bludgeons like a club embedded with nails (especially the screaming dive bombs of guitarists Jeff Hanneman and Kerry King) while also sounding so stunningly precise, energetic, and intelligent that it’s difficult to fathom mere mortals creating such a jigsaw-like artifact.

Of course, all great thrash melts faces. That’s why the genre exists! But then there are those facemelters that go above and beyond the call of duty. They’re so violent, pissed, and chaotic they leave you feeling pumped, possibly a little dazed, and, in those rarest of instances, aurally violated.Certainly, speed is vital to thrash’s ability to invigorate/intimidate. Yet despite its lofty status among thrash lifers, it’s not the sole determining factor. After all, Exhorder’s “Homicide” comes riddled with dense, slower breakdowns, and it won’t just melt your face; it will chew it right off. Then there’s The Accüsed’s “Mechanized Death,” which derives most of its unhinged power from Blaine Cook’s puke-screech and the band’s stuttering primitivism, and Sarcófago’s “Sex, Drinks & Metal,” which certainly hits blurring velocities, yet ultimately smashes minds through its deeply nonsensical song structure. It’s kind of like the sonic equivalent of a drunken temper tantrum.Warning: This surely will piss off those who kneel before the Big Four, but outside of Slayer (okay—I’ll make an exception for Metallica when they’re plowing through ragers like “Fight Fire With Fire”), I’m of the belief that the sickest thrash (i.e., the most intense facemelters) doesn’t actually come from them. To subject yourself to true sonic fury, dive into the German outfits Sodom, Kreator, and Destruction: All three are downright cruel in ways that are unique to a Teutonic scene whose bloodlust for dense, mechanized propulsion has little use for melody or hooks. Brazil also has coughed up a bunch of sickos. Of course, Sepultura (pictured above) became megastars once they shifted to groove metal, but dig into early, cult-level thrash numbers like “Primitive Future,” and you’ll encounter a group that’s both terrifyingly unhinged and stunningly precise; ditto for the already mentioned Sarcófago, as well as the hyper-obscure Anthares, whose 1987 album No Limite Da Força is a grainy blast of Satanic phlegm bursts and feverishly raked guitars.If you dig these facemelters, there’s a whole lot more where they came from. After all, thrash is kind of like the garage rock of metal. It’s a sprawling, grassroots pastime that has sprouted far too many regional scenes and underground freaks to count. In other words, the facemelters are endless.This feature is part of our Thrash 101 online course that was produced in partnership with the good rocking folks at GimmeRadio, a free 24/7 metal radio station hosted by heavy-music experts like Megadeths Dave Mustaine and Lamb of Gods Randy Blythe. Check them out here and sign up for the Thrash 101 course here.

Thank you for checking out the 11th installment of our Thrash 101 program, produced in conjunction with GimmeRadio, your free 24/7 radio station hosted by heavy-music experts and artists such as The Dillinger Escape Plans Ben Weinman and Death Angels Will Carroll. Check it out here.Of course, all great thrash melts faces. That’s why the genre exists! But then there are those facemelters that go above and beyond the call of duty. They’re so violent, pissed, and chaotic they leave you feeling pumped, possibly a little dazed, and, in those rarest of instances, aurally violated.Certainly, speed is vital to thrash’s ability to invigorate/intimidate. Yet despite its lofty status among thrash lifers, it’s not the sole determining factor. After all, Exhorder’s “Homicide” comes riddled with dense, slower breakdowns, and it won’t just melt your face; it will chew it right off. Then there’s The Accüsed’s “Mechanized Death,” which derives most of its unhinged power from Blaine Cook’s puke-screech and the band’s stuttering primitivism, and Sarcófago’s “Sex, Drinks & Metal,” which certainly hits blurring velocities, yet ultimately smashes minds through its deeply nonsensical song structure. It’s kind of like the sonic equivalent of a drunken temper tantrum.Warning: This surely will piss off those who kneel before the Big Four, but outside of Slayer (okay—I’ll make an exception for Metallica when they’re plowing through ragers like “Fight Fire With Fire”), I’m of the belief that the sickest thrash (i.e., the most intense facemelters) doesn’t actually come from them. To subject yourself to true sonic fury, dive into the German outfits Sodom, Kreator, and Destruction: All three are downright cruel in ways that are unique to a Teutonic scene whose bloodlust for dense, mechanized propulsion has little use for melody or hooks. Brazil also has coughed up a bunch of sickos. Of course, Sepultura (pictured above) became megastars once they shifted to groove metal, but dig into early, cult-level thrash numbers like “Primitive Future,” and you’ll encounter a group that’s both terrifyingly unhinged and stunningly precise; ditto for the already mentioned Sarcófago, as well as the hyper-obscure Anthares, whose 1987 album No Limite Da Força is a grainy blast of Satanic phlegm bursts and feverishly raked guitars.If you dig these facemelters, there’s a whole lot more where they came from. After all, thrash is kind of like the garage rock of metal. It’s a sprawling, grassroots pastime that has sprouted far too many regional scenes and underground freaks to count. In other words, the facemelters are endless.

Click here to add to Spotify playlist!Controversy magnet Ronnie Radke and his bandmates in Falling In Reverse (who seem to change every few months) have made some of the densest, most outrageous, and devastatingly clever modern rock and art pop of the last decade—yet nobody outside of kids who attend the Warped Tour year in and year out pay them any mind.Some of the blame falls squarely on the shoulders of Radke. On top of boasting serious pop smarts, he’s cocky, moody, confrontational—let’s not forget he was fired from Escape the Fate in 2008—and at times misogynistic. As he sings in “Just Like You”: “I am aware that I am an asshole / I really dont care about all of that though / I got nothing to prove / But honestly Im just like you.” There’s also the fact that modern post-hardcore and metalcore bands aren’t given much space in outlets like Pitchfork,Rolling Stone, and Spin; it’s a black sheep subculture forever consigned to Alternative Press and Blabbermouth.Net.Falling In Reverse believe a rock album should be nothing less than an epic sonic experience, promoting a bigger-is-better philosophy preached by heroes like Queen, My Chemical Romance, and Andrew W.K. (Though, truth be told, Radke’s just as likely to name-check Katy Perry, Gwen Stefani, or Lady Gaga.) Their latest album, Coming Home, is no exception. Where 2015’s Just like You was a manic fusion of blink-182-style snot, glam pomp, chart pop, metallic crunch, and Eminem-influenced attitude, the more carefully paced Home clears room for post-dubstep spaciness and chilly, atmospheric synthesizers. For instance, the title track sounds like a cosmic collision between Muse’s “Madness,” Daft Punk’s “Give Life Back to Music,” and the ZAYN/Taylor Swift collab “I Dont Wanna Live Forever.”Of course, Falling In Reverse aren’t the only Warped cats suffusing their jams with electronic ether. Issues and I See Stars—with whom Radke has feuded—incorporate flickering EDM programming, while The Word Alive drench their brooding anthems in ambient-like textures and acts like Pvris and Tonight Alive incorporate electro-pop touches. Yet none of them can quite match Falling In Reverse when it comes to packing songs full of hook-laden brilliance. Radke, for all his faults and failings, is a tunesmith operating on a whole ’nother level.

Subscribe to the Spotify playlist here.This playlist shouldn’t be interpreted as a best of 2016 mix. That would be insanely presumptuous of me. Rather, it needs to be considered a useful tool for anybody looking to explore just a fraction of the heavy, propulsive, and oftentimes weird beats forged on the outskirts of boring person normal culture. Simply press play and get blasted: there’s mangled hip-hop stutter (Prostitutes), aggro industrial fist-pumping (Orphx, M AX NOI MACH), meticulously sculpted hard techno (Cassegrain), dub-smeared throb (LACK), and pounding white noise that sounds like the next evolutionary step beyond Lightning Bolt and Death Grips (Dreamcrusher). You’re also going to encounter a few artists who are more rooted in rock than electronic tactics, yet make no mistake: they’re just as doggedly loyal to raw propulsion. The New York duo Uniform slayed 2016 with their vicious iteration of cyborg automation caked in gutter scum. Lost System, meanwhile, are pulsating synth-punk upstarts from West Michigan (a.k.a. DeVos country) chronicling Millennial alienation, while America flushes itself down the toilet. I’d wish you a happy new year, but we noth know that’s not going to happen.

Subscribe to the Spotify playlist here.Honeyblood, whose sophomore album Babes Never Die was released on FatCat, are the archetypal Scottish indie band: exquisitely simple songs, hooks so clever it’s absurd, and quirky charm out the wazoo. Nearly every great band — and there are many — that the Scots have given us share these four qualities, while at the same time carving out their own unique niche. Where Belle & Sebastian craft hushed chamber pop perfect for sad-eyed art school dropouts, The Jesus and Mary Chain smother teenage symphonies to god in walls of seething fuzz. Mogwai weave lush, undulating hypnotics rooted in post-rock, while CHVRCHES veer into synth-pop polished enough for big time chart action. On top of all this, Scotland has churned out some of the best jangle pop, twee, and noise pop this side of New Zealand. That first Primal Scream album, the one before Bobby Gillespie and crew discovered acid house and ecstasy, is beyond dreamy. Then there’s the Fire Engines, spazzy, Edinburgh-bred art punks from the early ’80s who were pivotal in establishing Scotland’s very first DIY scene.

This post is part of our Psych 101 program, an in-depth, 14-part series that looks at the impact of psychedelia on modern music. Want to sign up to receive the other installments in your inbox? Go here. Already signed up and enjoying it? Help us get the word out by sharing it on Facebook, Twitter or just sending your friends this link. Theyll thank you. We thank you.The neo-psychedelic impulse is now so deeply embedded in modern rock that it’s damn near impossible to single it out as a trend at this point. Everything changed when The Flaming Lips’ cuddly, fuzzy, Kermit-the-Frog-gone-shroomin’ freak-pop entered mainstream consciousness in the early ’00s. It wasn’t long before bands as diverse as Animal Collective, My Morning Jacket, Tame Impala, and MGMT—all of whom certainly spent considerable time tripping balls to the The Soft Bulletin—began filtering indie pop, electronica, folk-rock, and beyond through their own, unique neo-psychedelic lenses. But while most of these groups do fall on the cute and fuzzy side, there also exist outfits like King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard and Uncle Acid & The Deadbeats, who prefer devastatingly mind-bending riff and roll.

For casual David Bowie fans who spin the radio hits and not much else, A Clockwork Orange may not be the first work of science fiction that comes to mind when chewing on the well-read singer’s labyrinth of influences from the realms of film, literature, fashion, and avant-garde art. After all, whether we’re referring to Anthony Burgess’ 1962 novel or Stanley Kubrick’s notorious film adaption from 1971, the story is a blend of pitch-black satire, graphic violence, and Cold War-inspired dystopia that feels worlds removed from the cosmic-hippiedom-meets-androgynous-space-alien quirkiness soaked into Bowie’s most popular expressions of sci-fi rock: “Space Oddity,” “Starman,” “Life on Mars?”—even the riff-fueled “Ziggy Stardust.” In fact, a more apt connection might be Kubrick’s other landmark from the same era: 2001: A Space Odyssey. Released in 1968 (just over a year before Apollo 11’s touchdown on the moon ignited a global fascination with space travel), the director’s sweeping meditation on human evolution, outer space, and extraterrestrial life slammed into psychedelic culture like an asteroid, helping to unleash a whole new movement in space rock.However, dig deeper into Bowie’s cluttered universe (lyrics, interviews, photographs, production credits, etc.), and relics of his fascination with A Clockwork Orange emerge in all corners. It’s a fascination that lasted throughout his career, right up through the release of 2016’s Blackstar, a brilliant, strange, and moodily intoxicating album awash in sci-fi references.Let’s begin with the singer’s ever-changing visual aesthetic: Bowie himself once stated to Rolling Stone writer David Sinclair that the look for his 1972 classic The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars reflected in part his love of the outfits worn by the sociopathic antihero Alex (played by Malcolm McDowell) and his ultraviolent droogs. Those costumes (black bowler hats, bovver boots, suspenders, codpieces) were the brainchild of designer Milena Canonero; by appropriating elements of “London street style,” she helped lay the groundwork for an iconic (and much imitated) look that wound up seeping into glam, punk, hardcore, and even heavy metal. Incidentally, Canonero and Bowie eventually worked together on 1983’s The Hunger, an erotic vampire flick sporting heavy Dario Argento vibes.Bowie again turned to the film for inspiration during the making of 1973’s Aladdin Sane, a harder-rocking album that finds the singer’s alter-ego turning mischievous, even nasty at times, much like Alex. In addition to sleeve art featuring airbrush work from Philip Castle, whom Kubrick hired to design the movie’s infamously outlandish posters, there were some seriously Clockworkian wardrobe moves, including Bowie’s classic printed silk turtleneck.Shifting from aesthetics to the music itself, let’s return to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. While touring in support of the record, Bowie opened concerts with a recording of Beethovens Symphony No. 9, yet another nod to Alex, who describes the piece as “bliss and heaven” in one of the movie’s most biting scenes. There’s also the use of the word “droogie” in “Suffragette City.” Though a fairly minor reference, it speaks volumes about Bowie’s intimate understanding of Burgess’ original vision. After all, “Suffragette City” isn’t one of Ziggy’s orchestral ballads, floating dreamily like an orbiting satellite. It’s gnarly proto-punk inspired by The Velvet Underground and The Stooges—exactly the kind of slasher you’d expect a violent street gang to blast before a night of smashing storefronts and busting heads.Again, this seems like an odd fit for the red-haired Bowie, who (truth be told) never fully embraced the sneering menace that would come to be associated with punk rock in the late ’70s. But much like The Rolling Stones’ Mick Jagger (who interestingly enough owned the movie rights to the novel for a short while), he certainly flirted with such notions. Bowie seemed attracted to the transgressive darkness that often surrounds youth culture and street gangs, especially as they are portrayed in the book and film incarnations of A Clockwork Orange, both of which, it should be noted, were censored and condemned on numerous occasions in the United Kingdom and the United States. They possessed a undeniable and dangerous allure. Back in the ’70s, any artist who dared make allusions to them clearly was looking to be edgy.But it was more than just trying to be provocative (though that always was a factor during his glam years). Bowie truly loved A Clockwork Orange, of which his most passionate expression pops up on the previously mentioned Blackstar and the cryptic “Girl Loves Me.” Pay close attention to the lyrics and you’ll notice how the singer, displaying a linguist’s virtuosity, brilliantly litters the song with the Nadsat spoken by Alex and the droogs (itself a Nadsat term). Originally conceived by Burgess, it basically is working-class British slang heavily inspired by Russian:

You viddy at the CheenaTruth is me with the Red RockYou be loving little zipshotDevotchka want ya golossSpatchka want the RussianSwear to dead fun is dang dangViddy viddy at the CheenaGirl loves meHey cheenaGirl don’t speakGirl loves me

Bowie was a sci-fi junkie, one well-versed in the writings of Michael Moorcock, J.G. Ballard, William S. Burroughs, and George Orwell. He especially loved Orwell’s dystopian landmark Nineteen Eighty-Four, which served as the thematic basis for 1974’s Diamond Dogs. On top of all that, he starred in the cult flick The Man Who Fell to Earth and in 2013 was inducted into the Museum of Pop Culture’s Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame. But the fact that Bowie returns to A Clockwork Orange on Blackstar, which he knew would be his last album, drives home the work’s stature in his personal universe. Deep down Bowie really was a droog.

Photograph: Misha Vladimirskiy/FilterlessJack White didn’t invent garage-blues, yet more than any other modern rocker the ornery dude has helped transform it from an underground phenomenon into a mainstream one. (And yes, The Black Keys certainly deserve major props, too.) There are now a wealth of high-profile musicians soaking bluesy, beastly jams in demonic layers of fuzz and echo-soaked string-bending. In addition to guitar-hero-in-the-making Gary Clark Jr. and, of course, the mighty Alabama Shakes, there’s the British outfit Royal Blood, as well as Deap Vally, a female two-piece from L.A. that turn all their angst into jackhammering, hip-swaggering, fist-pumping awesomeness. Our playlist also spotlights cuts from those artists in the 1980s and ’90s who were pioneers in the folding of rowdy garage-punk into the earthy mysteriousness that reaches all the way back to the Mississippi Delta. The blues, after all, are about tradition.

This post is part of our Psych 101 program, an in-depth, 14-part series that looks at the impact of psychedelia on modern music. Want to sign up to receive the other installments in your inbox? Go here. Already signed up and enjoying it? Help us get the word out by sharing it on Facebook, Twitter or just sending your friends this link. Theyll thank you. We thank you.The idea of psychedelic dance rock can be traced back to the late ’80s and early ’90s. This is when three bands in particular—Primal Scream, The Stone Roses, and the wildly eccentric Happy Mondays—started combining the neo-psychedelic jangle and reverb-stained textures of indie and New Wave with the euphorically funky grooves and ecstatic hedonism of the United Kingdom’s anarchic rave scene. Crafting a sound that both guitar freaks and club rats can appreciate, this trio of bands can be credited with setting the stage for a much larger marriage between rock and dance music that would wash over pop culture by the 21st century.In addition to featuring cuts from each of these pioneers, our playlist delivers a crash course in those artists who have proven gifted in submerging alt-rock and electronic-based dance music in trippy flavors and kaleidoscopic colors. Heavy on remixes accentuating groove, our mix includes prime cuts from Jagwar Ma, Caribou, Inspiral Carpets, Animal Collective, and LCD Soundsystem. We’ve even tossed in a few far-leftfield picks from exotic dreamers Peaking Lights and Golden Teacher, an absolutely killer project out of Glasgow that specializes in a brand of psychoactive tribalism that sounds as if it were recorded on Mars. Simply pressing play is sure to get you dosed.