Review by Dominik on April 15, 2025.

After finishing up my review of Nuklear Goat—don’t ask—I figured I might as well stick to the nuclear theme, keep the atomic hangover going, and dive into a true classic. Which of course makes it a straight shot into the arms of Nuclear Assault. The album at hand, “Game Over”, is another 1986 thrash gem—but also as far as I’m concerned, their best and last real moment of clarity before the Geiger counter-flatlined. You see, there’s a strange kind of dementia that seems to affect anyone who’s ever played in Anthrax and then left. A kind of musical amnesia that strikes shortly after recording one—maybe two—decent albums before the ability to write a good riff, song, or even album mysteriously vanishes like integrity at a major label artist and producer meeting, a place where authentic ideas get watered down for the sake of sales. It happened to Anthrax, and it happened to the orbiting acts as well. So yes, “Game Over” may be Nuclear Assault’s debut, but it also doubles as their creative peak. The rest? Anything that followed knew only one direction. Which makes it all the more poetic, even prophetic, that one of the album’s standout tracks is called “Stranded in Hell”.

But back to the beginning. I still remember the first time “Game Over” hit the turntable. My best metal buddy slapped it on, and suddenly sonic chaos met precision. This release captures something unique: a band which is balancing wild, sometimes punk-like chaos with surprisingly tight musicianship. All wrapped in a production that isn't polished, but there is a clarity to the riffs that probably foreshadows the band's more technical later work.

What really caught me off guard was the hardcore influence. Here we had some tracks that were almost like hardcore songs dressed in thrash gear, and the irony wasn’t lost on me: my metal buddy at the time treated punk and hardcore like a contagious disease. I thought he'd finally converted. He hadn’t. But “Game Over” managed to make him admit, grudgingly, that hardcore energy had a place in the metal ecosystem—at least for 36 minutes.

And then there’s guitarist and frontman John Connelly. His vocal approach is, for lack of a better word, almost anti-charismatic on purpose. He doesn’t croon, doesn’t roar—he just yells. Urgent, nasal, angry, and sometimes full of anxiety and frustration, like someone who’s been awake for 72 hours watching the world end on TV. And that’s exactly why it works. All the great thrash albums of the ‘80s had vocalists who gave the music its unique identity—and Connelly, like it or not, carved his name into that list with a rusty screwdriver.

“Game Over” brings the full apocalyptic package. Besides the aural assault, the album also visually exuded an “end of the world” energy. Another iconic, grotesquely brilliant Ed Repka cover, in combination with the raw production, the anxious pacing, and frantic drumming, gives “Game Over” a Cold War paranoia vibe that's more visceral than intellectual. There’s no epic storytelling, no dragons or spaceships—just the creeping suspicion that we’re all one button away from ash. The title is fatalistic, the cover chaotic, conveying full-scale panic excellently. It doesn't just talk about nuclear war – it feels like it was recorded in a fallout shelter during the apocalypse. Yet even amid all the doomsaying, there’s a pulse of dark humor, which I like a lot. The band, despite the seriousness of themes and their aggressive delivery, sometimes uses humor as a pointed form of critique. “Hang the Pope” might be the most obvious example—it’s short, violent, absurd, and probably confused the hell out of anyone expecting serious political analysis.

Musically, the album offers more than just a sonic battering. The record hosts one of the few instrumentals that truly rip, and which actually feels necessary. “Live, Suffer, Die” is a brutal, compact thesis statement. You’re born in pain, you suffer, and you die. That’s the mood. That’s the sound. “Radiation Sickness” stands out with its deranged chorus and the fact that Dan Lilker’s bass isn’t buried—it’s dirty and present, often adding extra bite to the guitar tone. And “Vengeance”? A whirlwind of solos, and moments where Connelly injects a bit more variety into his pitch, showing he could push the limits when he wanted. And yes, I loved “Hang the Pope” to death. Always did. Even if it did feel like Lilker brought it over in his S.O.D. lunchbox. It’s not a clone, but it certainly smelled like family.

Ultimately, what makes “Game Over” endure isn’t just its aggression or its technical skill—it’s the reckless sincerity. The album doesn’t try to be timeless, and maybe that’s why it is. In a way, it sounds like Nuclear Assault didn't know if they’ll get a chance to record another album, so they crammed everything into this one: anger, speed, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of “fuck it”.

Rating: 9/10, because this album didn’t just soundtrack a generation’s nuclear anxiety—it sounded like a band detonating their own frustrations before anyone else could.

NB: my album version is part of the 2011 re-issue which includes the “The Plague” EP and some live songs which are both not part of this review.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Dominik on April 15, 2025.

After finishing up my review of Nuklear Goat—don’t ask—I figured I might as well stick to the nuclear theme, keep the atomic hangover going, and dive into a true classic. Which of course makes it a straight shot into the arms of Nuclear Assault. The album at hand, “Game Over”, is another 1986 thrash gem—but also as far as I’m concerned, their best and last real moment of clarity before the Geiger counter-flatlined. You see, there’s a strange kind of dementia that seems to affect anyone who’s ever played in Anthrax and then left. A kind of musical amnesia that strikes shortly after recording one—maybe two—decent albums before the ability to write a good riff, song, or even album mysteriously vanishes like integrity at a major label artist and producer meeting, a place where authentic ideas get watered down for the sake of sales. It happened to Anthrax, and it happened to the orbiting acts as well. So yes, “Game Over” may be Nuclear Assault’s debut, but it also doubles as their creative peak. The rest? Anything that followed knew only one direction. Which makes it all the more poetic, even prophetic, that one of the album’s standout tracks is called “Stranded in Hell”.

But back to the beginning. I still remember the first time “Game Over” hit the turntable. My best metal buddy slapped it on, and suddenly sonic chaos met precision. This release captures something unique: a band which is balancing wild, sometimes punk-like chaos with surprisingly tight musicianship. All wrapped in a production that isn't polished, but there is a clarity to the riffs that probably foreshadows the band's more technical later work.

What really caught me off guard was the hardcore influence. Here we had some tracks that were almost like hardcore songs dressed in thrash gear, and the irony wasn’t lost on me: my metal buddy at the time treated punk and hardcore like a contagious disease. I thought he'd finally converted. He hadn’t. But “Game Over” managed to make him admit, grudgingly, that hardcore energy had a place in the metal ecosystem—at least for 36 minutes.

And then there’s guitarist and frontman John Connelly. His vocal approach is, for lack of a better word, almost anti-charismatic on purpose. He doesn’t croon, doesn’t roar—he just yells. Urgent, nasal, angry, and sometimes full of anxiety and frustration, like someone who’s been awake for 72 hours watching the world end on TV. And that’s exactly why it works. All the great thrash albums of the ‘80s had vocalists who gave the music its unique identity—and Connelly, like it or not, carved his name into that list with a rusty screwdriver.

“Game Over” brings the full apocalyptic package. Besides the aural assault, the album also visually exuded an “end of the world” energy. Another iconic, grotesquely brilliant Ed Repka cover, in combination with the raw production, the anxious pacing, and frantic drumming, gives “Game Over” a Cold War paranoia vibe that's more visceral than intellectual. There’s no epic storytelling, no dragons or spaceships—just the creeping suspicion that we’re all one button away from ash. The title is fatalistic, the cover chaotic, conveying full-scale panic excellently. It doesn't just talk about nuclear war – it feels like it was recorded in a fallout shelter during the apocalypse. Yet even amid all the doomsaying, there’s a pulse of dark humor, which I like a lot. The band, despite the seriousness of themes and their aggressive delivery, sometimes uses humor as a pointed form of critique. “Hang the Pope” might be the most obvious example—it’s short, violent, absurd, and probably confused the hell out of anyone expecting serious political analysis.

Musically, the album offers more than just a sonic battering. The record hosts one of the few instrumentals that truly rip, and which actually feels necessary. “Live, Suffer, Die” is a brutal, compact thesis statement. You’re born in pain, you suffer, and you die. That’s the mood. That’s the sound. “Radiation Sickness” stands out with its deranged chorus and the fact that Dan Lilker’s bass isn’t buried—it’s dirty and present, often adding extra bite to the guitar tone. And “Vengeance”? A whirlwind of solos, and moments where Connelly injects a bit more variety into his pitch, showing he could push the limits when he wanted. And yes, I loved “Hang the Pope” to death. Always did. Even if it did feel like Lilker brought it over in his S.O.D. lunchbox. It’s not a clone, but it certainly smelled like family.

Ultimately, what makes “Game Over” endure isn’t just its aggression or its technical skill—it’s the reckless sincerity. The album doesn’t try to be timeless, and maybe that’s why it is. In a way, it sounds like Nuclear Assault didn't know if they’ll get a chance to record another album, so they crammed everything into this one: anger, speed, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of “fuck it”.

Rating: 9/10, because this album didn’t just soundtrack a generation’s nuclear anxiety—it sounded like a band detonating their own frustrations before anyone else could.

NB: my album version is part of the 2011 re-issue which includes the “The Plague” EP and some live songs which are both not part of this review.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Dominik on June 22, 2025.

Reading this review, I wouldn’t blame you if you think I’ve at least partly lost my mind. Because let’s be honest: this review is going to be full of contradictions. But hey, what better way to pay tribute to Aara’s debut album "So fallen alle Tempel" (All Temples Fall) than with a review that’s just as twisted and paradoxical as the music itself?

Aara’s debut hit the black metal scene (or at least me) out of the blue, and yet somehow, it feels like these Swiss maestros have been lurking in the shadows for centuries. They deliver a rather old-school version of what you might call “boring” atmospheric/melodic black metal, and yet—paradoxically—it’s anything but boring. In fact, despite the clichés, they manage to evoke nothing less than an epic black feeling that would make even the most jaded listener consider re-donning their corpse paint.

The production is, at best, average, but still creates a sonic maelstrom that pulls you in with enough pressure to make you feel like you’re being sucked into a black hole. The bass is practically non-existent, hiding somewhere in the mix like a ghost in the machine. And yet, you’ll find yourself with a curious sensation in your gut, as if your appendix is somehow connected directly to the bass amp, thumping away in rhythm with some unseen force.

The drums? They’re buried under layers of swirling guitars, occasionally peeking out just enough to remind you they’re still there. You might think they’d get completely lost, but somehow, they manage to hold their own, offering blast beat patterns that provide a solid, if somewhat obscured, foundation for the whole affair. Fast, chaotic, and just a little bit off-kilter, the drumming is like a heartbeat—always present, even if it’s drowned out by the multi-layered noise around it.

And then there’s the lady vocalist (no, I am not a misogynist). If you’ve ever wondered what it would sound like if a demented pig were being slaughtered and Daffy Duck had an unholy offspring and handed it a microphone, Aara has got you covered. It’s a sound that might make you question your life choices, but strangely enough, after many listenings, I couldn’t imagine any other voice fitting this recording. It’s raw, unhinged, and utterly perfect for the kind of atmosphere Aara is conjuring—equal parts terrifying and absurd.

But let's dive into the two best songs themselves, starting with "Was bleibt ist der Regen" (What Remains is the Rain). This track sets the album’s melancholic tone, its opening riff unfolding like a storm on the horizon. The countless layering of guitars, with their mournful melody, mirrors the relentless downpour of rain—a fitting metaphor for the gloom that permeates the entire album. The inclusion of traditional Georgian chanting adds a surprising and haunting texture, evoking a sense of ancient sorrow that beautifully complements the track's overall mood.

Next up is my favorite "Monolog eines Berges" (Monologue of a Mountain), a track that takes the listener on a slow, deliberate ascent into the icy heights of Aara’s soundscape. The interplay between the atmospheric guitar work and the aforementioned chants creates a sense of vastness and isolation, as if you’re standing on a mountaintop, hearing the wind howl as the world below is swallowed by darkness. The song’s pacing is methodical, drawing you in with its hypnotic rhythm and making you feel every ounce of the mountain’s ancient weight.

In conclusion, "So fallen alle Tempel" is an album that for me thrives on some contradictions, delivering an experience that is at the same time familiar and entirely unexpected. It’s a chaotic, atmospheric ride through the ruins of old temples, where nothing makes sense and yet everything feels exactly right. You might think I’ve lost my mind for praising it, but listen closely and you might just lose yours, too.

Rating: 8 out of 10—because sometimes, losing your mind is worth the hassle.

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Dominik on April 15, 2025.

After finishing up my review of Nuklear Goat—don’t ask—I figured I might as well stick to the nuclear theme, keep the atomic hangover going, and dive into a true classic. Which of course makes it a straight shot into the arms of Nuclear Assault. The album at hand, “Game Over”, is another 1986 thrash gem—but also as far as I’m concerned, their best and last real moment of clarity before the Geiger counter-flatlined. You see, there’s a strange kind of dementia that seems to affect anyone who’s ever played in Anthrax and then left. A kind of musical amnesia that strikes shortly after recording one—maybe two—decent albums before the ability to write a good riff, song, or even album mysteriously vanishes like integrity at a major label artist and producer meeting, a place where authentic ideas get watered down for the sake of sales. It happened to Anthrax, and it happened to the orbiting acts as well. So yes, “Game Over” may be Nuclear Assault’s debut, but it also doubles as their creative peak. The rest? Anything that followed knew only one direction. Which makes it all the more poetic, even prophetic, that one of the album’s standout tracks is called “Stranded in Hell”.

But back to the beginning. I still remember the first time “Game Over” hit the turntable. My best metal buddy slapped it on, and suddenly sonic chaos met precision. This release captures something unique: a band which is balancing wild, sometimes punk-like chaos with surprisingly tight musicianship. All wrapped in a production that isn't polished, but there is a clarity to the riffs that probably foreshadows the band's more technical later work.

What really caught me off guard was the hardcore influence. Here we had some tracks that were almost like hardcore songs dressed in thrash gear, and the irony wasn’t lost on me: my metal buddy at the time treated punk and hardcore like a contagious disease. I thought he'd finally converted. He hadn’t. But “Game Over” managed to make him admit, grudgingly, that hardcore energy had a place in the metal ecosystem—at least for 36 minutes.

And then there’s guitarist and frontman John Connelly. His vocal approach is, for lack of a better word, almost anti-charismatic on purpose. He doesn’t croon, doesn’t roar—he just yells. Urgent, nasal, angry, and sometimes full of anxiety and frustration, like someone who’s been awake for 72 hours watching the world end on TV. And that’s exactly why it works. All the great thrash albums of the ‘80s had vocalists who gave the music its unique identity—and Connelly, like it or not, carved his name into that list with a rusty screwdriver.

“Game Over” brings the full apocalyptic package. Besides the aural assault, the album also visually exuded an “end of the world” energy. Another iconic, grotesquely brilliant Ed Repka cover, in combination with the raw production, the anxious pacing, and frantic drumming, gives “Game Over” a Cold War paranoia vibe that's more visceral than intellectual. There’s no epic storytelling, no dragons or spaceships—just the creeping suspicion that we’re all one button away from ash. The title is fatalistic, the cover chaotic, conveying full-scale panic excellently. It doesn't just talk about nuclear war – it feels like it was recorded in a fallout shelter during the apocalypse. Yet even amid all the doomsaying, there’s a pulse of dark humor, which I like a lot. The band, despite the seriousness of themes and their aggressive delivery, sometimes uses humor as a pointed form of critique. “Hang the Pope” might be the most obvious example—it’s short, violent, absurd, and probably confused the hell out of anyone expecting serious political analysis.

Musically, the album offers more than just a sonic battering. The record hosts one of the few instrumentals that truly rip, and which actually feels necessary. “Live, Suffer, Die” is a brutal, compact thesis statement. You’re born in pain, you suffer, and you die. That’s the mood. That’s the sound. “Radiation Sickness” stands out with its deranged chorus and the fact that Dan Lilker’s bass isn’t buried—it’s dirty and present, often adding extra bite to the guitar tone. And “Vengeance”? A whirlwind of solos, and moments where Connelly injects a bit more variety into his pitch, showing he could push the limits when he wanted. And yes, I loved “Hang the Pope” to death. Always did. Even if it did feel like Lilker brought it over in his S.O.D. lunchbox. It’s not a clone, but it certainly smelled like family.

Ultimately, what makes “Game Over” endure isn’t just its aggression or its technical skill—it’s the reckless sincerity. The album doesn’t try to be timeless, and maybe that’s why it is. In a way, it sounds like Nuclear Assault didn't know if they’ll get a chance to record another album, so they crammed everything into this one: anger, speed, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of “fuck it”.

Rating: 9/10, because this album didn’t just soundtrack a generation’s nuclear anxiety—it sounded like a band detonating their own frustrations before anyone else could.

NB: my album version is part of the 2011 re-issue which includes the “The Plague” EP and some live songs which are both not part of this review.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by criscool623 on August 11, 2024.

Power metal is one of my favorite music genres, and I was enthusiastic about listening to this album as I was looking for something different from the bands that I usually listen to. However, although it is not a bad album, I am not completely satisfied.

There are many moments that I enjoyed from The Unknown Voyage. There are some epic and memorable music passages like in 'Armour Of The Stars' and 'Dance Of The Silver Blade'; the solos, the guitar melodies, the voice (although it could have had a better mix in the album to give it more strength), and some drum rhythms (like the blast beats of 'Dance Of The Silver Blade') make a powerful combination. The atmosphere is excellent since you feel like traveling through the space while you listen to it. In addition, I enjoyed 'Sky' a lot, even when I am not a fan of more progressive metal, as the riffs and the melodies are pretty catchy and enjoyable.

On the other hand, I must admit that I did not connect with this album. This is mainly because of 'The Compass' and 'Neon Nights'. I found these songs kind of boring and without much to offer, and if we compare them with the rest of the songs they're flat and bland. Moreover, I am not totally sure, but most of the instruments employed in the album are digital and not executed by humans. It is pretty evident in some guitar solos and the blast beats (although they sound amazing, I am kind of disappointed because I just cannot imagine somebody playing that kind of stuff on a real drum kit).

This was a very short review, and this is because I was not very enthusiastic about talking about it (besides, the album has just 5 tracks). The proposal is interesting, and it is a good release if you want to discover something different from usual. I recommend you to listen to it; maybe you can love it, maybe you can find things that I could not appreciate enough, but as far as I am concerned, for me, this is a curiosity and no more.

Rating: 7 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Dominik on April 15, 2025.

After finishing up my review of Nuklear Goat—don’t ask—I figured I might as well stick to the nuclear theme, keep the atomic hangover going, and dive into a true classic. Which of course makes it a straight shot into the arms of Nuclear Assault. The album at hand, “Game Over”, is another 1986 thrash gem—but also as far as I’m concerned, their best and last real moment of clarity before the Geiger counter-flatlined. You see, there’s a strange kind of dementia that seems to affect anyone who’s ever played in Anthrax and then left. A kind of musical amnesia that strikes shortly after recording one—maybe two—decent albums before the ability to write a good riff, song, or even album mysteriously vanishes like integrity at a major label artist and producer meeting, a place where authentic ideas get watered down for the sake of sales. It happened to Anthrax, and it happened to the orbiting acts as well. So yes, “Game Over” may be Nuclear Assault’s debut, but it also doubles as their creative peak. The rest? Anything that followed knew only one direction. Which makes it all the more poetic, even prophetic, that one of the album’s standout tracks is called “Stranded in Hell”.

But back to the beginning. I still remember the first time “Game Over” hit the turntable. My best metal buddy slapped it on, and suddenly sonic chaos met precision. This release captures something unique: a band which is balancing wild, sometimes punk-like chaos with surprisingly tight musicianship. All wrapped in a production that isn't polished, but there is a clarity to the riffs that probably foreshadows the band's more technical later work.

What really caught me off guard was the hardcore influence. Here we had some tracks that were almost like hardcore songs dressed in thrash gear, and the irony wasn’t lost on me: my metal buddy at the time treated punk and hardcore like a contagious disease. I thought he'd finally converted. He hadn’t. But “Game Over” managed to make him admit, grudgingly, that hardcore energy had a place in the metal ecosystem—at least for 36 minutes.

And then there’s guitarist and frontman John Connelly. His vocal approach is, for lack of a better word, almost anti-charismatic on purpose. He doesn’t croon, doesn’t roar—he just yells. Urgent, nasal, angry, and sometimes full of anxiety and frustration, like someone who’s been awake for 72 hours watching the world end on TV. And that’s exactly why it works. All the great thrash albums of the ‘80s had vocalists who gave the music its unique identity—and Connelly, like it or not, carved his name into that list with a rusty screwdriver.

“Game Over” brings the full apocalyptic package. Besides the aural assault, the album also visually exuded an “end of the world” energy. Another iconic, grotesquely brilliant Ed Repka cover, in combination with the raw production, the anxious pacing, and frantic drumming, gives “Game Over” a Cold War paranoia vibe that's more visceral than intellectual. There’s no epic storytelling, no dragons or spaceships—just the creeping suspicion that we’re all one button away from ash. The title is fatalistic, the cover chaotic, conveying full-scale panic excellently. It doesn't just talk about nuclear war – it feels like it was recorded in a fallout shelter during the apocalypse. Yet even amid all the doomsaying, there’s a pulse of dark humor, which I like a lot. The band, despite the seriousness of themes and their aggressive delivery, sometimes uses humor as a pointed form of critique. “Hang the Pope” might be the most obvious example—it’s short, violent, absurd, and probably confused the hell out of anyone expecting serious political analysis.

Musically, the album offers more than just a sonic battering. The record hosts one of the few instrumentals that truly rip, and which actually feels necessary. “Live, Suffer, Die” is a brutal, compact thesis statement. You’re born in pain, you suffer, and you die. That’s the mood. That’s the sound. “Radiation Sickness” stands out with its deranged chorus and the fact that Dan Lilker’s bass isn’t buried—it’s dirty and present, often adding extra bite to the guitar tone. And “Vengeance”? A whirlwind of solos, and moments where Connelly injects a bit more variety into his pitch, showing he could push the limits when he wanted. And yes, I loved “Hang the Pope” to death. Always did. Even if it did feel like Lilker brought it over in his S.O.D. lunchbox. It’s not a clone, but it certainly smelled like family.

Ultimately, what makes “Game Over” endure isn’t just its aggression or its technical skill—it’s the reckless sincerity. The album doesn’t try to be timeless, and maybe that’s why it is. In a way, it sounds like Nuclear Assault didn't know if they’ll get a chance to record another album, so they crammed everything into this one: anger, speed, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of “fuck it”.

Rating: 9/10, because this album didn’t just soundtrack a generation’s nuclear anxiety—it sounded like a band detonating their own frustrations before anyone else could.

NB: my album version is part of the 2011 re-issue which includes the “The Plague” EP and some live songs which are both not part of this review.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by criscool623 on August 11, 2024.

Power metal is one of my favorite music genres, and I was enthusiastic about listening to this album as I was looking for something different from the bands that I usually listen to. However, although it is not a bad album, I am not completely satisfied.

There are many moments that I enjoyed from The Unknown Voyage. There are some epic and memorable music passages like in 'Armour Of The Stars' and 'Dance Of The Silver Blade'; the solos, the guitar melodies, the voice (although it could have had a better mix in the album to give it more strength), and some drum rhythms (like the blast beats of 'Dance Of The Silver Blade') make a powerful combination. The atmosphere is excellent since you feel like traveling through the space while you listen to it. In addition, I enjoyed 'Sky' a lot, even when I am not a fan of more progressive metal, as the riffs and the melodies are pretty catchy and enjoyable.

On the other hand, I must admit that I did not connect with this album. This is mainly because of 'The Compass' and 'Neon Nights'. I found these songs kind of boring and without much to offer, and if we compare them with the rest of the songs they're flat and bland. Moreover, I am not totally sure, but most of the instruments employed in the album are digital and not executed by humans. It is pretty evident in some guitar solos and the blast beats (although they sound amazing, I am kind of disappointed because I just cannot imagine somebody playing that kind of stuff on a real drum kit).

This was a very short review, and this is because I was not very enthusiastic about talking about it (besides, the album has just 5 tracks). The proposal is interesting, and it is a good release if you want to discover something different from usual. I recommend you to listen to it; maybe you can love it, maybe you can find things that I could not appreciate enough, but as far as I am concerned, for me, this is a curiosity and no more.

Rating: 7 out of 10

Review by Marcelo Vieira on July 25, 2024.

It's been three years since Marty Friedman released an album. His last, “Inferno,” led to a low-profile tour in Brazil, where he performed in small venues for equally small audiences. On one hand, this reinforces the idea that instrumental heavy metal is like masturbation — only enjoyable for the one performing. On the other, it places Friedman in a unique category, surrounded by a loyal following whose appreciation goes beyond a thousand notes per second, allowing them to enjoy the various textures and atmospheres of a bold album like “Wall Of Sound.” The mix even includes a saxophone, courtesy of the eerie Jørgen Munkeby.

The album's title references the famous recording technique developed by Phil Spector in the 1960s, which involves layering multiple instruments to achieve a massive and powerful sound. If there’s one word to define the guitar attack on “Wall Of Sound,” it’s power. The number of guitars in each track is countless: in “Sorrow And Madness,” for instance, Friedman teams up with Jinxx from Black Veil Brides, a virtuoso of the new generation, for a duel that seems to feature a dozen instruments on each side, complemented by timely orchestral incursions, a recent staple in Marty’s work. Speaking of guest appearances, Shiv Mehra (Deafheaven) also makes a notable contribution with his guitar skills.

A striking theme marks the central section of “Whiteworm,” chosen as the lead single, complete with a music video featuring a wall of amplifiers. After an introduction with a hint of Steve Howe, “Streetlight” steps on the gas and sounds like a high-speed cinematic triumph. Alternating between the cadence of an emotional ballad and a heavy feel suggesting that even the tough guys have a soft side, “The Blackest Rose” is as memorable as it is brief. Towards the end, “Miracle” is sure to please those who consider Steve Vai’s “Passion And Warfare” (1990) the eighth wonder of the world, and “Last Lament” explores, almost to exhaustion, the bizarre scales that make Friedman’s sound so unique and “Wall Of Sound” a must-listen for anyone looking to elevate their auditory cosmos to the seventh sense.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Dominik on April 15, 2025.

After finishing up my review of Nuklear Goat—don’t ask—I figured I might as well stick to the nuclear theme, keep the atomic hangover going, and dive into a true classic. Which of course makes it a straight shot into the arms of Nuclear Assault. The album at hand, “Game Over”, is another 1986 thrash gem—but also as far as I’m concerned, their best and last real moment of clarity before the Geiger counter-flatlined. You see, there’s a strange kind of dementia that seems to affect anyone who’s ever played in Anthrax and then left. A kind of musical amnesia that strikes shortly after recording one—maybe two—decent albums before the ability to write a good riff, song, or even album mysteriously vanishes like integrity at a major label artist and producer meeting, a place where authentic ideas get watered down for the sake of sales. It happened to Anthrax, and it happened to the orbiting acts as well. So yes, “Game Over” may be Nuclear Assault’s debut, but it also doubles as their creative peak. The rest? Anything that followed knew only one direction. Which makes it all the more poetic, even prophetic, that one of the album’s standout tracks is called “Stranded in Hell”.

But back to the beginning. I still remember the first time “Game Over” hit the turntable. My best metal buddy slapped it on, and suddenly sonic chaos met precision. This release captures something unique: a band which is balancing wild, sometimes punk-like chaos with surprisingly tight musicianship. All wrapped in a production that isn't polished, but there is a clarity to the riffs that probably foreshadows the band's more technical later work.

What really caught me off guard was the hardcore influence. Here we had some tracks that were almost like hardcore songs dressed in thrash gear, and the irony wasn’t lost on me: my metal buddy at the time treated punk and hardcore like a contagious disease. I thought he'd finally converted. He hadn’t. But “Game Over” managed to make him admit, grudgingly, that hardcore energy had a place in the metal ecosystem—at least for 36 minutes.

And then there’s guitarist and frontman John Connelly. His vocal approach is, for lack of a better word, almost anti-charismatic on purpose. He doesn’t croon, doesn’t roar—he just yells. Urgent, nasal, angry, and sometimes full of anxiety and frustration, like someone who’s been awake for 72 hours watching the world end on TV. And that’s exactly why it works. All the great thrash albums of the ‘80s had vocalists who gave the music its unique identity—and Connelly, like it or not, carved his name into that list with a rusty screwdriver.

“Game Over” brings the full apocalyptic package. Besides the aural assault, the album also visually exuded an “end of the world” energy. Another iconic, grotesquely brilliant Ed Repka cover, in combination with the raw production, the anxious pacing, and frantic drumming, gives “Game Over” a Cold War paranoia vibe that's more visceral than intellectual. There’s no epic storytelling, no dragons or spaceships—just the creeping suspicion that we’re all one button away from ash. The title is fatalistic, the cover chaotic, conveying full-scale panic excellently. It doesn't just talk about nuclear war – it feels like it was recorded in a fallout shelter during the apocalypse. Yet even amid all the doomsaying, there’s a pulse of dark humor, which I like a lot. The band, despite the seriousness of themes and their aggressive delivery, sometimes uses humor as a pointed form of critique. “Hang the Pope” might be the most obvious example—it’s short, violent, absurd, and probably confused the hell out of anyone expecting serious political analysis.

Musically, the album offers more than just a sonic battering. The record hosts one of the few instrumentals that truly rip, and which actually feels necessary. “Live, Suffer, Die” is a brutal, compact thesis statement. You’re born in pain, you suffer, and you die. That’s the mood. That’s the sound. “Radiation Sickness” stands out with its deranged chorus and the fact that Dan Lilker’s bass isn’t buried—it’s dirty and present, often adding extra bite to the guitar tone. And “Vengeance”? A whirlwind of solos, and moments where Connelly injects a bit more variety into his pitch, showing he could push the limits when he wanted. And yes, I loved “Hang the Pope” to death. Always did. Even if it did feel like Lilker brought it over in his S.O.D. lunchbox. It’s not a clone, but it certainly smelled like family.

Ultimately, what makes “Game Over” endure isn’t just its aggression or its technical skill—it’s the reckless sincerity. The album doesn’t try to be timeless, and maybe that’s why it is. In a way, it sounds like Nuclear Assault didn't know if they’ll get a chance to record another album, so they crammed everything into this one: anger, speed, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of “fuck it”.

Rating: 9/10, because this album didn’t just soundtrack a generation’s nuclear anxiety—it sounded like a band detonating their own frustrations before anyone else could.

NB: my album version is part of the 2011 re-issue which includes the “The Plague” EP and some live songs which are both not part of this review.

Rating: 9 out of 10

Review by Dominik on June 22, 2025.

Reading this review, I wouldn’t blame you if you think I’ve at least partly lost my mind. Because let’s be honest: this review is going to be full of contradictions. But hey, what better way to pay tribute to Aara’s debut album "So fallen alle Tempel" (All Temples Fall) than with a review that’s just as twisted and paradoxical as the music itself?

Aara’s debut hit the black metal scene (or at least me) out of the blue, and yet somehow, it feels like these Swiss maestros have been lurking in the shadows for centuries. They deliver a rather old-school version of what you might call “boring” atmospheric/melodic black metal, and yet—paradoxically—it’s anything but boring. In fact, despite the clichés, they manage to evoke nothing less than an epic black feeling that would make even the most jaded listener consider re-donning their corpse paint.

The production is, at best, average, but still creates a sonic maelstrom that pulls you in with enough pressure to make you feel like you’re being sucked into a black hole. The bass is practically non-existent, hiding somewhere in the mix like a ghost in the machine. And yet, you’ll find yourself with a curious sensation in your gut, as if your appendix is somehow connected directly to the bass amp, thumping away in rhythm with some unseen force.

The drums? They’re buried under layers of swirling guitars, occasionally peeking out just enough to remind you they’re still there. You might think they’d get completely lost, but somehow, they manage to hold their own, offering blast beat patterns that provide a solid, if somewhat obscured, foundation for the whole affair. Fast, chaotic, and just a little bit off-kilter, the drumming is like a heartbeat—always present, even if it’s drowned out by the multi-layered noise around it.

And then there’s the lady vocalist (no, I am not a misogynist). If you’ve ever wondered what it would sound like if a demented pig were being slaughtered and Daffy Duck had an unholy offspring and handed it a microphone, Aara has got you covered. It’s a sound that might make you question your life choices, but strangely enough, after many listenings, I couldn’t imagine any other voice fitting this recording. It’s raw, unhinged, and utterly perfect for the kind of atmosphere Aara is conjuring—equal parts terrifying and absurd.

But let's dive into the two best songs themselves, starting with "Was bleibt ist der Regen" (What Remains is the Rain). This track sets the album’s melancholic tone, its opening riff unfolding like a storm on the horizon. The countless layering of guitars, with their mournful melody, mirrors the relentless downpour of rain—a fitting metaphor for the gloom that permeates the entire album. The inclusion of traditional Georgian chanting adds a surprising and haunting texture, evoking a sense of ancient sorrow that beautifully complements the track's overall mood.

Next up is my favorite "Monolog eines Berges" (Monologue of a Mountain), a track that takes the listener on a slow, deliberate ascent into the icy heights of Aara’s soundscape. The interplay between the atmospheric guitar work and the aforementioned chants creates a sense of vastness and isolation, as if you’re standing on a mountaintop, hearing the wind howl as the world below is swallowed by darkness. The song’s pacing is methodical, drawing you in with its hypnotic rhythm and making you feel every ounce of the mountain’s ancient weight.

In conclusion, "So fallen alle Tempel" is an album that for me thrives on some contradictions, delivering an experience that is at the same time familiar and entirely unexpected. It’s a chaotic, atmospheric ride through the ruins of old temples, where nothing makes sense and yet everything feels exactly right. You might think I’ve lost my mind for praising it, but listen closely and you might just lose yours, too.

Rating: 8 out of 10—because sometimes, losing your mind is worth the hassle.

Review by Dominik on April 15, 2025.

After finishing up my review of Nuklear Goat—don’t ask—I figured I might as well stick to the nuclear theme, keep the atomic hangover going, and dive into a true classic. Which of course makes it a straight shot into the arms of Nuclear Assault. The album at hand, “Game Over”, is another 1986 thrash gem—but also as far as I’m concerned, their best and last real moment of clarity before the Geiger counter-flatlined. You see, there’s a strange kind of dementia that seems to affect anyone who’s ever played in Anthrax and then left. A kind of musical amnesia that strikes shortly after recording one—maybe two—decent albums before the ability to write a good riff, song, or even album mysteriously vanishes like integrity at a major label artist and producer meeting, a place where authentic ideas get watered down for the sake of sales. It happened to Anthrax, and it happened to the orbiting acts as well. So yes, “Game Over” may be Nuclear Assault’s debut, but it also doubles as their creative peak. The rest? Anything that followed knew only one direction. Which makes it all the more poetic, even prophetic, that one of the album’s standout tracks is called “Stranded in Hell”.

But back to the beginning. I still remember the first time “Game Over” hit the turntable. My best metal buddy slapped it on, and suddenly sonic chaos met precision. This release captures something unique: a band which is balancing wild, sometimes punk-like chaos with surprisingly tight musicianship. All wrapped in a production that isn't polished, but there is a clarity to the riffs that probably foreshadows the band's more technical later work.

What really caught me off guard was the hardcore influence. Here we had some tracks that were almost like hardcore songs dressed in thrash gear, and the irony wasn’t lost on me: my metal buddy at the time treated punk and hardcore like a contagious disease. I thought he'd finally converted. He hadn’t. But “Game Over” managed to make him admit, grudgingly, that hardcore energy had a place in the metal ecosystem—at least for 36 minutes.

And then there’s guitarist and frontman John Connelly. His vocal approach is, for lack of a better word, almost anti-charismatic on purpose. He doesn’t croon, doesn’t roar—he just yells. Urgent, nasal, angry, and sometimes full of anxiety and frustration, like someone who’s been awake for 72 hours watching the world end on TV. And that’s exactly why it works. All the great thrash albums of the ‘80s had vocalists who gave the music its unique identity—and Connelly, like it or not, carved his name into that list with a rusty screwdriver.

“Game Over” brings the full apocalyptic package. Besides the aural assault, the album also visually exuded an “end of the world” energy. Another iconic, grotesquely brilliant Ed Repka cover, in combination with the raw production, the anxious pacing, and frantic drumming, gives “Game Over” a Cold War paranoia vibe that's more visceral than intellectual. There’s no epic storytelling, no dragons or spaceships—just the creeping suspicion that we’re all one button away from ash. The title is fatalistic, the cover chaotic, conveying full-scale panic excellently. It doesn't just talk about nuclear war – it feels like it was recorded in a fallout shelter during the apocalypse. Yet even amid all the doomsaying, there’s a pulse of dark humor, which I like a lot. The band, despite the seriousness of themes and their aggressive delivery, sometimes uses humor as a pointed form of critique. “Hang the Pope” might be the most obvious example—it’s short, violent, absurd, and probably confused the hell out of anyone expecting serious political analysis.

Musically, the album offers more than just a sonic battering. The record hosts one of the few instrumentals that truly rip, and which actually feels necessary. “Live, Suffer, Die” is a brutal, compact thesis statement. You’re born in pain, you suffer, and you die. That’s the mood. That’s the sound. “Radiation Sickness” stands out with its deranged chorus and the fact that Dan Lilker’s bass isn’t buried—it’s dirty and present, often adding extra bite to the guitar tone. And “Vengeance”? A whirlwind of solos, and moments where Connelly injects a bit more variety into his pitch, showing he could push the limits when he wanted. And yes, I loved “Hang the Pope” to death. Always did. Even if it did feel like Lilker brought it over in his S.O.D. lunchbox. It’s not a clone, but it certainly smelled like family.

Ultimately, what makes “Game Over” endure isn’t just its aggression or its technical skill—it’s the reckless sincerity. The album doesn’t try to be timeless, and maybe that’s why it is. In a way, it sounds like Nuclear Assault didn't know if they’ll get a chance to record another album, so they crammed everything into this one: anger, speed, sarcasm, and a healthy dose of “fuck it”.

Rating: 9/10, because this album didn’t just soundtrack a generation’s nuclear anxiety—it sounded like a band detonating their own frustrations before anyone else could.

NB: my album version is part of the 2011 re-issue which includes the “The Plague” EP and some live songs which are both not part of this review.

Rating: 9 out of 10