Heavy metal is the drunkest music possible. It is the music of bottle bankers and willy-proud vagrants. If pride and shame fucked in a bin and gave birth to a muscular longhair in a speed metal belly top – that would be the genesis of all metal that is true and righteous.
But metal is a simple kind of creature. Like the honey bee, it collects and it creates. But that doesn’t mean that the genre hasn’t stuck its fingers in many different pies, often claiming those pies as their own. Some of the best new metal bands are a hideous cocktail of their own antithetical influences or cultural quirks. Sigh and Abigail branded their black metal with distinctively Japanese themes and structures, while the entire nation of Finland is essentially one extended flute solo over blast beats.
Metal might stumble drunkenly, but it does not stumble down narrow alleys.
Putting your own brand on a well-established music is a dangerous thing to do in a community akin to leather-clad Trekkies – but Ireland’s own Flashpoint did it. And it works.
Originating from the street-dwelling Dublin Hardcore Scene, Flashpoint’s hardcore-inspired heavy metal (or New Wave of Irish Heavy Metal) is the result of man discovering fire, keeping himself warm for a while, before ultimately realising it can be used to immolate his fellow man. They’ve repurposed both hardcore and traditional metal, and it’s a lil’ sumthin’ sumthin’.
But above it all, at the very pinnacle of this mountain of crushed cans and sun-bleached skulls – is the almighty riff.
As connoisseurs of the riff, Dublin’s Flashpoint are here to share with us some of the riffs that never fail to make their heads bang and their balls go septic. They will also, quite naturally, pair off these riffs with their choice of accompanying beverage. So sit your laptop on your coffee table, crack open a can (bottles are false) and be ready to push open the gates of heft.
Matthew pairs off this mighty riff with ritually deconsecrated red wine buried underground for 50 years.
Ciaran begins most nights with this track and a scauldy bottle of Buckfast, as he says "no better way to start a night of madness."
Karl, a minimalist like myself, pairs off his old school doom with a pint of Guinness in praise of the dark lord.
.Kinch takes his Mercyful Fate with a double baileys, no ice - a drink The King himself couldn't refuse.
A warm tin of Dutch Gold. No further comment.
You can listen to Flashpoint's skull-fucking debut 'Swing At The King' right here, you fucking cowards.