, and themselves, for that matter, have long been the subject of heated debate within the community. Few bands have been as recognizably influential yet so universally panned by critics during their careers, and, of course, it was this, their first long-player, which ignited most of that controversy in the first place. This shocking debut was the scene of a bloody, head-on collision between 's original commandments and lyrical obsessions with all things demonic, and 's unparalleled distortion and breakneck speed. Make no mistake: , more than any other album, crystallized the elements of what later became known as , , and virtually every other form of , serving as a primer for thousands of post- teens to follow. Primitive with a capital "P," the album's production values are so poor, that, fittingly, truly sounds like it was recorded in a tomb, the band's Marshall stacks caked with dirt and oozing worms even as they tore through their material like a pack of speed freaks. It's not that the hellish triumvirate of bassist/growler , guitarist , and drummer -- there, even the ghoulish names set a precedent -- were such incompetent musicians individually (OK, maybe ), but their performance as a unit often sounds clumsy and underrehearsed. All of this only contributes to the album's gimmick-free honesty, of course, and highlights include such timeless satanic onslaughts as the title track, (whose there-and-back riff would later be re-written by a dozen times), and, most notably, the absolute classic Possibly 's single most important track, in it you'll hear a number of stylistic devices that would later pervade all genres, indeed become their most regularly abused cliches. Additional early singles like and round out the disc in bombastic fashion, while lesser-known numbers like just plain rock out. [ / 's 2002 reissue adds a whopping 11 bonus cuts between alternate takes, singles, and demos, and killer packaging to boot. And original fans can rest assured that no amount of remastering can put a pretty face on 's incredible racket (the drums still sound like cardboard boxes -- thank God).] ~ Eduardo Rivadavia