If you're not sure what to make of this London band on first glance, join the club. I wasn't either; more specifically, I was put off a little by the sheer ridiculousness of the album artwork - it takes the whole concept of an album sleeve to head-scratchingly obtuse levels - but the whole idea of judging a book (or in this case an album) is that you don't reach your verdict by looking at its cover. Besides, they called themselves Dethscalator, so one can't imagine that they're taking themselves too seriously, image-wise. There are two things they're much better at: naming their albums and songs (among the latter, there's a track called 'World War II Hitler Youth Dagger'), and the actual music that makes up their similarly brilliantly/bafflingly-named debut, Racial Golf Course, No Bitches.

Since their formation in 2008, it's taken Dethscalator five years to get to this point (and that's a long time by anyone's margin), but the album is definitely worth waiting for. Fans will go into the album expecting caustic melodies and searing riffs, and that's exactly what RGCNB offers up, to the extent that some listeners may require emergency head reattachment surgery after a listen to this album. It really is that powerful: if you don't get ferocious opener 'Black Percy', then this album probably isn't for you - unless, of course, you're in the mood for the more spaced-out sounds of 'Felt Leg' or the doom-laden crunch of 'It's What They Call the Clubhouse, Arsehole' (yes, they actually called a song that). Dethscalator's sound is difficult to pin down, broadly fitting into the 'noise rock' genre but displaying plenty of other facets as well.

There are moments of strangely melodic madness, of course; even when getting by on two chords, as they do on the punishing noise of 'Midnight Feast', the band manage to do so with aplomb, taking those two chords and wringing every last drop of juice out of them before the song comes clattering to a halt in a blaze of feedback. They even venture into doomy territory on 'Internet Explorer and Friends', the flanging guitar and slow-paced drumming combining to create a sense of dread that makes that song one of the gloomier moments on the album, but no less noticeable when placed next to the completely unhinged album closer 'Pine Pot', which brings the album shuddering to a halt with an astonishingly intense blast of noise. Racial Golf Course, No Bitches certainly isn't for the faint of heart, but it's nice to be taken by surprise once in a while. I should know - it turns out this is actually rather good. Appearances can be deceptive.