When the email for False Prophets — the debut full-length from Precious Blood — landed in my inbox courtesy of the fine maniacs at Clawhammer PR, I had to read it twice. “A unique blend of Doom and Thrash Metal,” it said. I actually laughed out loud. Doom and Thrash? That’s like saying you’ve invented a drink that’s half whiskey and half sedative. One is slower than an arthritic tortoise on methadone; the other’s a chainsaw on cocaine. The two shouldn’t coexist without one killing the other. But I’ll be damned (and probably will be) because these unholy bastards have actually done it.
False Prophets is, somehow, the bastard offspring of Sabbath and Slayer, crawling up from the tar pits of the underworld and screaming “We live!” in your face. The Doom parts are gloriously leaden, drenched in fuzz and despair, thick enough to blot out the sun. Then, without warning, the Thrash kicks the fucking door in — all snapping snares, barbed guitars, and headbanging propulsion — like a rabid animal unleashed in a school yard. This album shouldn’t work, but it does, and it does so with an ugly, irresistible charm.
It’s that contrast that makes False Prophets so addictive. One minute you’re trudging through tar-thick riffs that drag you down into the depths of despair, and the next, you’re being ripped back to the surface by a Thrash section that sounds like your skull’s being used as a kick drum. It’s Doom as ritual meets Thrash as riot, two opposing forces colliding in glorious chaos.
And here’s the kicker — it sounds like it’s going to fall apart at any moment. Honestly, there are parts where you half expect the whole thing to crumble like a cheap IKEA cupboard that’s been pissed on by the cat. But that’s part of the magic. That loose, barely-held-together energy gives False Prophets its soul. It’s dangerous. It’s volatile. It’s the sonic equivalent of lighting a stick of dynamite just to see what happens.
Vocally, this thing’s got teeth. The delivery sits somewhere between gothic preacher mid-sermon and a man howling his last breath through a mouth full of ash. The rhythm section, meanwhile, swings like a wrecking ball — the drums driving the transitions between Doom’s crawl and Thrash’s sprint with a lunatic passion that shouldn’t be possible but somehow is.
There’s a moment on the album — you’ll know it when you hear it — where everything clicks. The slow, mournful Doom riff bleeds into a uptempo Thrash section with such raw intensity that you can’t help but grin. It’s the musical equivalent of watching a storm form right above your head: terrifying, exhilarating, and absolutely glorious.
Is it perfect? Fuck no. It’s rough, uneven, and audibly stitched together with rusted nails and demonic intent. But it’s alive. And that’s more than can be said for half the polished, sterile metal clogging up streaming platforms these days. Precious Blood have made something weird, wild, and wholly their own.
False Prophets by Precious Blood is available now.
CHOICE CUT: El Muerte
BLACK METAL ARCHIVES VERDICT: A Frankenstein creation of Doom and Thrash that should have died screaming on the lab table but instead stands tall, blood-soaked and triumphant. False Prophets is raw, reckless, and righteously unholy — proof that chaos, when wielded with passion, can sound divine.
