The Mist
Phantasmagoria (Reissue)
(Greyhaze Records)
It takes some balls to put thrash albums out these days. The form has been mightily beaten to death. So it’s strange that old Brazilian thrashers The Mist are repackaging their classic debut Phantasmagoria. Only strange to me though, because bands are amalgamations of unique and once-in-a-life-time happenings; so recapturing something that is long gone is something both tragic and honest—and ultimately—a thing of pure individuality and existentialism.
And The Mist deserves some recognition, for in 1989 their thrash was certainly meaner and leaner than anything Metallica or Megadeth could conjure. Don’t be surprised though, if you find nothing quite insanely happening with this reissue—it’s a product of a time long gone—and the retro-thrash bands that have spawned out in recent years, have made it their mission to destroy and pollute the once unique sound. So I guess The Mist are sort of like a time machine in a blackhole or something. They just can’t get out at the right moment.
Phantasmagoria came out in 1989, and it sounds old. Sort of vintage, Cold-War-ish—like some backdrop music to a weirdo John Carpenter shoot—and calculated directly for mosh pits, neck whipping and beer slugging.
There’s a lot of good stuff going on: the slight progressive feel, the slick and technical virtuosic bass, the constant and shadowy change in tempo—and singer Vladimir Korg’s cold bark (which is truly fucking narly)—but listening to it now in 2017, it kind of sounds like it needs a dunk in a tank of doom and Goth. That’s maybe a little harsh, but it’s just that it showcases a distinct hardware for finer moments, and it’s a shame the band wasn’t able to explore further environments. You can almost imagine what they could have managed.
Back in the day, The Mist was actually named Mayhem for a while (1986-1989) —though you’d never confuse them for the Real Mayhem. The Mist are certainly dark, but hang a quick left before heading for the real deepness—sort of throwing in the towel right there at the edge—saying “hey, this is good enough for some kicks, so let’s not actually go to the place that might bring us the talisman of eternal insanity and aggression.” The Mist never really got that close, but perhaps they could have if they kept Korg around. He left in ’91.
Over time, The Mist will grow on you. There could be way worse cassette tapes to be stuck with for that long ride from Vermont to Long Island, circa 1993. In fact, Phantasmagoria conjures zombies and knifes—werewolves, witches, anger, and high-tops—in flux. It’s a soundtrack of its own inner demons. I think the thrash is infecting my brain again. Get me a beer quick!! The cheapest fucking thing you have!
