Thrash metal is not a sensitive genre. If you're looking for some blissful sonic cotton wool to swaddle you to snoozeland, or you want a white noise OST for your mid-morning cuppa, you'd better avoid Oozing Wound; they're like a relic of the bygone Napalm Death-helmed noise brigade - it's loud, it's brutal and it's relentless. The hotly-tipped (in heavier circles) trio, hailing from current high-calibre sound foundry Chicago, unleash their debut LP - entitled Retrash - via Thrill Jockey - who else would it be? - who describe the record as "Made for people who have no faith in melody and happiness." You don't get much more metal than that.

Formed from the grotesque decaying corpses of Cacaw, Bad Drugs, ZATH and Unmanned Ship, Oozing Wound are a noise-metal flesh golem. A thrash-kenstein's monster summoned from the scraps of demented, tormented metal (and all its derivative forms) outfits used to engorged dingy basements with towering sweat behemoths and hairy leather-clad Hagrids. They apparently fuse their brand of ear-splittery with side-splittery, using humour and japes to offset the serrated aural fug. Apparently. Whilst some song titles of the seven-track outing are flippant - 'Autopsy Turvy', 'Welcome To The Spaceship, Motherfucker' - you really can't distinguish the razor wit from the dry heaving from the hacking TB yowl spewed by Zack Weil; it could be proper belly-laugh hilariousness emanating from his lips, but being so shrouded in a smog of "UUURRRGGGHHH"-type noises, it's difficult to 'get it'. Maybe it's too highbrow.

Credit where credit's due, Oozing Wound have put in the graft, belting out something technically impressive and at the very least, on par for the genre - all in 24 hours. It's not sloppy or shambolic, it's taut and perky like a brow after botox. There's oodles of energy, and much like too much meth, you're not going to sit still for long listening to Retrash. It'll make you nervous, agitated, grind your teeth, hyperventilate and crack your knuckles. It's potent, you have to give them that.

Context can make or break music. Few people listen to hardcore D'n'B outside of clubs, and there's not many folk who'll whack on Songs Of Praise at a party. For Oozing Wound, you have to either be at some niche night at a bar or throttling n00bz on Halo or gearing up to stamp on something's head to really get the full impact. If you want to get the full force of Retrash, you're going to need to hit a thing. If you're just listening to it on the way to work, chances are, your eardrums will burst.

Retrash, to the right audience, is probably bloody top notch, and in a fetid cellar pit infested with crusties and roaming furious manes, even better. However, for those that enjoy their music on the palatable side, you might want to just have a cursory glance first. Singling out a song for merit or criticism feels futile as they vary so subtly/if ever - it's all pummelling double-kick-pedal percussion, low-slung bass guitar and angle grinder axes; this may as well be a 32-minute opus. But, then, they never proclaimed to be purveyors or heart-warming ballads or jaunty jigs rammed with banjos. You get what you expect from a band called Oozing Wound, nothing more, nothing less.