Scarecrow (15) ‎– Flesheaters III

CD, Album, Limited Edition



Special Edition, limited to 500 copies.

Barcode and Other Identifiers

  • Barcode: 7 07541 67599 4
  • Matrix / Runout: WWW.COPYCATSMEDIA.COM 9774-CD-0045 23-284-22
  • Mastering SID Code: IFPI LK13
  • Mould SID Code: IFPI 3V43

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September 8, 2015

I’ve been following Finnish thrash punks Scarecrow for the last couple of years, and they just keep getting better and better. On their 3rd full-length, Flesheaters III the band continues their winning recipe of souping up Misfits-esque sing-a-longs with the speed and harshness of Discharge and Slayer as channeled through an Entombed sounding production job. It’s a fuckin’ rush, and if all of my life’s work wasn’t done on my ass it would probably have me out running around the yard with a sickle in hand for no apparent reason. Me though, I’m the sitting type, so I’ll save my joy for random bouts of bedroom banger’s ball and imaginary, high speed chases in an elderly truck that can barely go above 45 mph without the wheels popping off in four separate directions.

Some of these songs were re-recorded from the Braineaters promo released early last year, and that’s a good thing…but I’m not going to point out which, because that’s old news. Female screams and a gothic organ open up “Killing Machine,” a militant thrash-fest with frenzied solos, sweeping riffs, and ungodly bass girth leading the song from Slayer-esque speed to a traditional, crust punk-chorded chorus with a shout along vocal line. It’s simple, to the point, and kicks your fuckin’ teeth down your throat. They manage great equality between no bullshit thrashing and catchy songwriting from the first note to the last. “Undead Nazi Bastard” sounds like Discharge crashing a keg party and having a helluva time drinking all of the beer and screwing the female guests. The chorus makes the wise decision of having the entire band gang shout the title…nothin’ fancy, just playing right to the part of the punk rock ethos I’ve always embraced, and even better…you’ll remember it after if it’s over as long as the track’s bouts of circle-pitting, hyper-thrash riffery don’t corrode the last of your brain cells. Little touches like the squealing lead applied to the second chorus give the song even more appeal, and it’s one of the band’s best for damn certain. The 2-minute mark is avoided on the brief ballast of “Eine Symphonie Des Gravens,” the moment where the grindcore crowd sneaks in and tries to rile up the punk rock kids. “Night of the Butterfly Knives” continues with forays into groovy, unrelenting thrash but slips a drunken sing-a-long into the chorus for maximum damage, alongside some highly melodic, decidedly Finnish melody on the lead guitar, leaving “Mutilated Sweet Heart” to mop up your thalamus with the incoming mortar fire of blastbeats and gonzo grind/thrash tremolo with nary a hint of harmony in the band’s “we cut ‘em, you buy ‘em” slaughterhouse.

Halting the pace with a nihilistic chug, “Flesheater Superstars,” plays out like the doom version of a crust/thrash blitz, the bass distorted beyond the point of human comprehension as the riffs writhe and lacerate amidst a backdrop of aggressive double-bass drumming, eerie keyboards, slavering, mid-range growls and gang back-ups. Reverting back to a whirlwind of old school punk, “Skullfuckers” showcases the band’s desire for a prominent chorus inserted into the business end of a no frills metal mince. “Miss Halloween” basks a straight-to-the-chops, punk-rock bass line and energetic beat in rays of synth and samples, but soon gets right to the point of fierce, catchy thrashin’ with gruff, shouted vocals mainlining enough melody for a memorable hook. It’s the ugly stuff played with a disturbing pop sensibility, the swift, sloppy songwriting of the Misfits gettin’ the snot slapped out of it by propulsive, clearly audible low-end muck and raging riff transitions that are played in the key of Slayer/Discharge and far away from anything that could be labeled “pop.” The album rounds out with a quartet of tunes that's probably the most pissed off stuff Scarecrow has ever laid down. A continuation of a track by track review of this album will just get in the way of you getting an audio brass knuckle to your face…so I’ll duck out of the line of fire and close out by saying that if you enjoyed the rest of the album, you’ll enjoy the ending!

Scarecrow is just how I like my punk rock; catchy, pissed-off, crusty, and devoid of industry fed ideals and all around crap. This is sick, fun lovin’ shit for the horror minded set, and the best bunch of songs these guys have whipped up to date…well worth a look for punk rockers the world over.