Megadeth stand among a small circle of thrash survivors who did not simply outlast their era, but fought their way back into relevance. Over the past fifteen years, the genre’s supposed dinosaurs have released some of their sharpest, most disciplined work, with Anthrax, Testament, Overkill, Kreator, and Megadeth all shaking off years of creative drift. This album continues that late career resurgence with a ferocity that feels earned rather than nostalgic. There is no pandering here, no retro fetishism, no softening of the edges. This is Megadeth leaning into their own brutal architecture, hostile riffs, acidic vocals, militant rhythms, and a worldview steeped in paranoia, defiance, and scorched earth conviction.
Before engaging with the album itself, the bonus track needs to be cleared from the field. Megadeth’s cover of “Ride The Lightning” is a faithful, almost reverent reconstruction of a song that helped forge thrash metal’s foundation. There is symbolic weight in hearing Mustaine reclaim a fragment of his early legacy, and the performance is tight, disciplined, and respectful of the original’s structure. Still, this is more historical gesture than artistic necessity. The definitive version already exists, etched into metal history forty years ago. This rendition adds context, not substance. Enjoyable, yes. Essential, no.
The real album opens with familiar provocation. If Dave Mustaine’s voice has ever irritated you, this record offers no mercy. The nasal snarl, the venom soaked phrasing, the half spoken sneer remain intact and unapologetic. For those who thrive on that abrasive delivery, this is Mustaine in fighting form. His voice sits brutally exposed in the mix, dry, sharp, and confrontational. After surviving throat cancer, he sounds less fragile than defiant, barking out visions of collapse, resistance, and moral rot with sharpened contempt. Lyrically, this is Megadeth as ever, dystopia, alienation, individualism, and the persistent urge to spit in the face of authority.
The production reinforces that hostility. Everything is stripped down, surgically separated, and uncomfortably clear. There is no haze, no warmth, no forgiving blur. The guitars cut like rusted blades, the drums strike with mechanical violence, and every detail lands with cold precision. Some may find the sound overly clinical, almost digital in its severity, but that rigidity gives the songs their blunt force impact. Dirk Verbeuren’s drumming is mercilessly exact, pushing the faster material with piston like efficiency. James Lomenzo’s bass could have been pushed higher in the mix, but the album prioritizes attack over depth, which suits Megadeth’s scorched aesthetic.
“Tipping Point” wastes no time announcing intent. Teemu Mäntysaari’s cascading leads spiral upward before the song snaps into a breakneck thrash charge. The riffs are jagged, the solos blistering, the rhythm section locked into a vicious sprint that feels both feral and controlled. This is classic Megadeth, speed, melody, and surgical aggression in violent balance. “I Don’t Care” follows as a punk edged brawler, driven by spite rather than intricacy. Mustaine spits contempt with a street level sneer, and the guitar work trades virtuosity for raw, dirty hostility. The solos lean toward rock n roll grit rather than metal excess, giving the track a venomous, stripped down punch.
After that opening detonation, the album settles into a darker, heavier crawl. “Hey God!” channels the brooding menace of the Youthanasia era, thick riffs, somber pacing, and a sense of creeping unease. “Another Bad Day” sharpens that approach with a riff so blunt it borders on primitive, yet somehow feels inevitable. It is heavy rock stripped to the bone, catchy without sounding friendly, accessible without losing its bite. This is streamlined Megadeth, radio ready in structure, but far too bitter and hostile for polite consumption. The darkness never lifts, and the solo cuts through like a serrated blade.
“I Am War” continues in that mid tempo vein, built on muscular simplicity and thick hooks. It could have passed for a mid nineties single, carrying echoes of Load era Metallica in its weight and groove. Heavy, streamlined metal with a hook driven structure, but still soaked in menace rather than polish.
When Megadeth decide to flex their technical muscle, they do it with discipline rather than indulgence. “Made To Kill” snaps back into intricate riffing and fractured structures, driven by Dirk Verbeuren’s frantic, razor tight drumming and some of the album’s most aggressive vocal lines. “Let There Be Shred” delivers exactly what its title promises, a speed obsessed thrash assault that feels like a metal translation of Judas Priest’s “Rapid Fire,” both in attitude and execution. The song is a pure adrenaline surge, built for velocity, not subtlety.
Mustaine’s trademark talk singing resurfaces on “Puppet Parade” and “Obey The Call.” In both cases, the choruses hit harder than the verses, where a more melodic vocal approach could have pushed the songs further. “Puppet Parade” resolves its talk sung tension with a satisfying, hook heavy chorus, though one wishes that melodic flair extended into the verses. “Obey The Call” drags the listener through a slow, oppressive dirge, bringing Mustaine’s apocalyptic visions to life with suffocating weight. The verses crawl, the chorus soars, and while the imbalance slightly blunts the impact, the solos tear through with ferocity and precision.
The album closes with “The Last Note,” a deliberate farewell that feels less like a curtain call and more like a ritual burning. Lyrically and musically, it plays like a viking funeral, solemn, grand, and resolute. It functions as both a declaration of intent and a possible goodbye, wrapping Megadeth’s long career in fire rather than nostalgia. Whether this truly marks the end remains uncertain, but the energy on display suggests a band that still carries venom in its bloodstream. Few groups operating four decades into their career sound this sharp, this hostile, or this committed to going out with their teeth bared.
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