Review: Overkill, Fleece

“We are your ugly cousins from the great state of Noo Joisey!” beams Bobby ‘Blitz’ Ellsworth as he surveys the packed Fleece crowd.

There’s an argument that thrash metal is what happened when the fad caravan moved on from punk to ghastly ‘angular indie’ and the even-more-ghastly New Romantics, leaving the remaining punks who could actually play their instruments to grow their hair and go back to their Sabbath albums. Formed in the late ’70s by former members of, ahem, The Lubricunts, Overkill are one of the original exemplars of this phenomenon. Gnarly founders Ellsworth and bassist D.D. Verni are both in their mid-fifties now (indeed, it’s Verni’s 55th birthday tonight), but like true metal lifers they show no sign of slowing down.

One part Tony Soprano’s slimmer cousin to two parts crazed dervish, Ellsworth throws himself about the stage in a manner that might seem unwise for a man of his advancing years. “There are only two rules tonight,” he warns. “Number one, I’m in charge. If you don’t like that, you can come and see me. Number two, I’m easily disappointed.”

Fortunately, there’s no cause for disappointment tonight, as this audience is completely onside from the crunchy opening chords of Armorist onwards. Overkill have experimented a little over the years, but mostly remain true to the original thrash metal template, welding bursts of pure punk rock fury to Motorhead’s speed and Judas Priest’s screeching old-school metal to create the thunderous likes of Thanx for Nothin’ and oldie Feel the Fire. But the title track from their best album, 1991’s Horrorscope, reminds us that they’re more than capable of going much heavier with longer, more complex arrangements.

One of the problems with thrash, as Jason Newsted learned to his cost in Metallica, is the tendency for the bass to get lost in the hyperspeed blur, producing a sound akin to that of a very loud, very angry wasp. Possibly because he’s a founder member and the chief songwriter, Verni faces no such difficulty, making Overkill that rarity: a thrash band with a giant, bone-shaking bottom end, missus.

By the end of their lengthy nigh-on two hour set, Ellsworth has not only managed to keep disappointment at bay but has been moved to tumescence by this boisterous audience. “I’ve got a hard-on up here,” he over-shares. “That’s a major event in my life right now!” Before the singer can leave the stage to enjoy this achievement, it’s time to deliver that traditional middle fingers-aloft encore cover of Canuck punkers the Subhumans’ Fuck You. Naturally, we all take the opportunity to join in with the jolly singalong chorus: “We don’t care what you say/Fuck you!”