Road hardened and tightened the band have shrugged off their looser, sludge-blasted origins to reconnect with their American 80s post hardcore, pig fuck roots, with riffs n’ hooks worthy of Killdozer, Jesus Lizard, Unsane, Butthole Surfers and Fudge Tunnel but have mixed this up with giant slabs of monolithic doom, coruscating beams of white noise and whirling vortices of space rock.

However it is the deep, dub influenced production job; the way that layers and layers of feedback have been marshalled into a horrific orchestral wall of sonic horror and the brightly fizzing lysergic sheen to the whole shebang that will bestow a blessing on your ears. This is guaranteed to tweak your brain’s long dormant and atavistic proto-human god nodules and have you punching your walls like William Hurt as the multi-coloured amoeba man at the end of Altered States after he’s spent an afternoon in a floatation tank on Ayahuasca and seen a goat with 13 eyes nailed to a crucifix.

Howling drunkenly into the abyss has never been so much fun... and this time it comes with a free golf tee.

MUSIQUE MACHINE (5/5)

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.

THE LIST (4/5)

It begins with Black Percy, a raucously rocking, full throttle fast riffing beast that sounds like a bull in a motorcycle engine repair shop. The vocals are spewed out, barely ennunciating a syllable, with an urgency that suggests they're better out than in. And then it's all over before you've fully registered how good it actually is. You play it again to make it clearer.

What isn't apparent then is that is as straight forward as it gets, that the distortion drenched lunacy is the most hinged Dethscalator manage. The band openly embrace the angular and the experimental, making noise with half riffs, grunts and feedback. It's always interesting, if admittedly often annoying. The ending to the A side is a case in point - the guitar strings are battered on Felt Leg, in what first bizarrely reminded me of a split second snippet of a Brian May solo, like the Flash Gordon soundtrack stuck on a half second loop in the tape deck of Black Flag's tour van, while a roadie is being violently sick in the back. Midnight Feast then promises much with a gloomier denser fog of distortion clouding the mood.

The B side opens with the menacing hardcore of Aids Atlas, and the vocals become even more desperate sounding. There's more focus to the mania on this side, with a notebale darker tone - where as you can sense the enjoyment they get from baffling you at the start, they progressively seem more pissed off, attacking each track with everything they've got. It even goes doom-y, on the slow Shit Village and the slower (and riff-repetitive) It's What They call the Clubhouse, Arsehole.

It's no shock that they've paired up with Hey Colossus to split a vinyl release in the past - this shares their bold adventurous noise mongering, and places them alongside HC's peers such as Lords and Part Chimp, with the innovative hardcore base mingled with punk and metal slabs. The awkwardly titled album (both grammatically and in meaning), and the bonkers artwork betray what follows, and it's a fascinating release, one which, needless to say, won't be for everyone, but will provide a thrill for those who like a challenge.

NINEHERTZ

If you're not sure what to make of this London band on first glance, join the club. I wasn't either; more specifically, I was put off a little by the sheer ridiculousness of the album artwork - it takes the whole concept of an album sleeve to head-scratchingly obtuse levels - but the whole idea of judging a book (or in this case an album) is that you don't reach your verdict by looking at its cover. Besides, they called themselves Dethscalator, so one can't imagine that they're taking themselves too seriously, image-wise. There are two things they're much better at: naming their albums and songs (among the latter, there's a track called 'World War II Hitler Youth Dagger'), and the actual music that makes up their similarly brilliantly/bafflingly-named debut, Racial Golf Course, No Bitches.

Since their formation in 2008, it's taken Dethscalator five years to get to this point (and that's a long time by anyone's margin), but the album is definitely worth waiting for. Fans will go into the album expecting caustic melodies and searing riffs, and that's exactly what RGCNB offers up, to the extent that some listeners may require emergency head reattachment surgery after a listen to this album. It really is that powerful: if you don't get ferocious opener 'Black Percy', then this album probably isn't for you - unless, of course, you're in the mood for the more spaced-out sounds of 'Felt Leg' or the doom-laden crunch of 'It's What They Call the Clubhouse, Arsehole' (yes, they actually called a song that). Dethscalator's sound is difficult to pin down, broadly fitting into the 'noise rock' genre but displaying plenty of other facets as well.

There are moments of strangely melodic madness, of course; even when getting by on two chords, as they do on the punishing noise of 'Midnight Feast', the band manage to do so with aplomb, taking those two chords and wringing every last drop of juice out of them before the song comes clattering to a halt in a blaze of feedback. They even venture into doomy territory on 'Internet Explorer and Friends', the flanging guitar and slow-paced drumming combining to create a sense of dread that makes that song one of the gloomier moments on the album, but no less noticeable when placed next to the completely unhinged album closer 'Pine Pot', which brings the album shuddering to a halt with an astonishingly intense blast of noise. Racial Golf Course, No Bitches certainly isn't for the faint of heart, but it's nice to be taken by surprise once in a while. I should know - it turns out this is actually rather good. Appearances can be deceptive.

THE FOUR OH FIVE