Thrashatouille – U.K. Chef Metal EP
Release Date: 28/04/22
Running Time: 09:35
Roasted by Dark Juan
If there was ever a massive mistake made by a young band, it was by Thrashatouille when they sent an email to Ever-Metal.com HQ and said (this is a direct quote), “I have attached everything for the latest Thrashatouille EP if anyone fancies taking the mickey out of us in a review?”
Thrashatouille is composed of four young gentlemen so ugly that when they were born the midwives slapped their dads. They are a part of the Manchester metal scene, which means they rub shoulders with plastic gangsters and mop-topped parka wearing twats who have such adenoidal voices they could be members of Manc Bee Gees cover bands. Or they could be the parka wearing twats. I try to avoid Manchester. However, they are posh boys from Northwich and therefore not to be trusted as Cheshire is perilously close to not being Northern, hence they have to come to a good Northern city and infiltrate its metal scene in a vain attempt to get some recognition because over in Cheshire they have golf clubs and soirees and garden parties where scuzzy young metal shitheads would not be welcome. Although Ellesmere Port is Cheshire, as are Widnes and Warrington and they are rougher than an entire flock of bird’s arses. Having had many a night out in Warrington and pulling some absolute monsters, and all that… One can only imagine the culture shock as these delicate flowers of well-monied manhood turned up in an industrial city where men are men and the women are… well, as hard as the men to be fair. You don’t piss about with a Manc lass, I tell thee… Only Geordie lasses wear less clothes in winter. Thrashatouille claim to be the first UK chef metal band because they clearly aren’t old enough to remember Lawnmower Deth’s “Did You Spill My Pint?” and most of Carcass’ early back catalogue (although they have beaten The Chronicles Of Manimal And Samara to the punch with “The Chef’s Song”, which is remarkable as Thrashatouille are so young they really should still be in their bedrooms furiously masturbating over whatever is a modern analogue to the lingerie section of the Grattan’s catalogue. Don’t lie and say you didn’t ever do it, male metallers of a certain age pre-internet. Finding a dog-eared grumble mag in some bushes and getting it home safely was a highlight of our teenage years. Club International was for posh wankers) and these hairy-palmed herberts apparently are composed of a Head Chef (who, in a staggering overturning of musical hierarchies is the bass player, one Chris Hargreaves. I’ve seen a picture and it ain’t fucking pretty. Trust me. Thank god for the chef’s hat), Pastry Chef (vocalist Rob Sutton, who is Ever-Metal.com’s very own super special little hyperactive pixie. And was foolish enough to let me do this. Bet he doesn’t know the difference between choux and puff pastry though…), a Sous-Chef (James Gerber, who plays guitar – the dynamics of this “band” are all wrong. Sous-Chefs are the lowest form of life in a kitchen who actually prepare food and I was actually a guitarist in a band once and all our hate was witheringly directed towards the rhythm section) Sous-Chefs do shit like dressings and salads, not peel off finger-shredding solos so this is clearly not right. They also have a Pot Wash (Daniel Brown) on the drums. At least that’s fucking accurate. All Neanderthal tub-bashers are good for is shoving dirty plates in the dishwasher anyway… You just have to communicate in grunts and whip them into compliance.
So, “Brain Freeze”. A paean to the dangers of rapidly consuming frozen confectionery treats or a description of the horrors that assailed my poor abused brainspace when Thrashatouille let rip. Like a wet fart you just know you’ve followed through on. Yes, I just managed to tell you that Thrashatouille are skidmarks in your trolleys without actually saying so. Their blurb states that they have Killswitch Engage style riffing in their music, with vocals inspired by Heaven Shall Burn. This is an egregious lie. Nay, nay and thrice nay.
Mid-paced thrashy numbers. That is what Thrashatouille play, and the Pastry Chef alternately sounds like he’s saying ta to the checkout girl in the local Tesco Express or emitting a grunt so forced I hope he’s wearing a Tena Lady to contain the inevitable leakage. There is the odd shriek from him too but I just assumed he had hurt himself on the corner of a table or amp at that point. The guitar player (he’s a Sous-Chef so worse than bloody useless anyway unless he’s “garnishing” something, fnaar fnaar) appears to have only one working ear that cannot discern tone and he fizzes and buzzes around the three tracks at my disposal. Which, to be fair, is something he and I have in common.
The next song is “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead”. Never have I wished this on myself so much as hearing this disjointed piece of foetid rat crap. Silly, unadulterated nonsense that sounds like it has been recorded in the local B&Q warehouse. I want to comfort eat myself to death to make the pain stop. The Pastry Chef still sounds like a lung is going to drop out of his leaky arse at any second, with the odd added squeal (presumably of pain or orgasm, I can’t discern which, and this is QUITE disturbing). My will to live is being sapped slowly by the third rate thrashings of this posh boy bunch of gurning metal chancers. I have consumed so many calories of junk this evening to alleviate my suffering I run the risk of being mistaken for a Glaswegian. Thrashatouille – about the only thing in the world that would not benefit from being deep-fried in a Scottish chippy.
The last “song” we are going to consider is entitled “Maccies Monday”. This hurts already because McDonalds is only tenuously related to actual food as opposed to plastic shit made for obese Americans to shove down their capacious throats by the metric fuckton and wannabe Mancunian metal kids really should be getting a balanced diet. Seeing as all of Thrashatouille have faces that only a mother could love, unfortunately not their own mothers, the least they should do is shove some veggies down their necks to sort out the skin conditions that Clearasil won’t. Anyway, this is a staggering piece of work which is basically a stoned (“I say, Tim! Got any ganj?”) posh lad in the local Maccy D’s (I’ve been to the one in Northwich. “Would sir please like to peruse the menu and then make your selection, and I shall send your requests instantly to the kitchen for immediate preparation?” said the liveried waiter as he handed me the menu and an extensive wine list. I ordered the 1922 Chateau Yquem to go with my McPlant meal. That’s how posh Northwich is) ordering the entire fucking menu in a slowly building crescendo, until the hyperactive metal pixie roars “Doooonnnuuuuuuuttttttttt!” at the top of his voice and I can then die in peace. Never in my life have I been so excited about a donut. At least the Pastry Chef didn’t sound like he was prolapsing his arse this time. Although he is a total donut.
So, in conclusion, Thrashatouille are more shit than the entire contents of Audenshaw Sewage Treatment Works. And Audenshaw smells better, too.
I shall leave you with the glorious mental image of Rob the Pastry Chef grunting that hard he expels his own anal tract. You’re most welcome.
DISCLAIMER: This is a light-hearted roast of Thrashatouille, who are actually a really good, fun young band who write decent songs and are a very nice bunch of young men. Their three-track self-titled EP is available now and is a bloody good listen. More power to their collective elbows! All three tunes are very worth your time, shot through with humour and an infectious sense of cheeky fun. And their gigs have to be seen to be believed. Inflatable ice creams and donuts abound! Thankfully, the guys just throw them about a bit. I was worried they were going to start fucking them or something.
The Patented Dark Juan Blood Splat Rating System awards a rough around the edges but bloody entertaining bunch of metal chimps 8/10 for three very silly, but still cracking songs.
Portrayal Of Ruinn, you can consider yourselves avenged!
01. Brain Freeze
02. Fat, Sick And Nearly Dead
03. Maccies Monday
The Head Chef – Bass
The Pastry Chef – Vocals
The Sous-Chef – Guitars
The Pot Wash – Drums
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