Kreator - Gods of Violence

I was on the verge of breaking up with thrash metal. We'd tried. We’d yelled. It wasn’t working.

After struggling through Metallica’s debut and bouncing between Slayer, Megadeth, Overkill, Testament, Exodus, Sodom—and yes, early Kreator—I was ready to call it. The riffs were fine. The speed, impressive. But the vocals? Every time the vocals hit, I found myself staring into the middle distance, wondering how much longer the track was. I figured that maybe, just maybe, thrash and I were never meant to be.

I was fully prepared to write this blog entry as a kind of respectful eulogy: important band, historically vital, still not for me.

But then I pressed play on Gods of Violence.

And—well.

Released in 2017, Gods of Violence is Kreator’s 14th studio album, and it didn’t just surprise me—it cracked something open. Mille Petrozza’s vocals here? Different from the raw-throated feral snarl of their early work. There’s actual shape to the delivery. Texture. Dare I say—melody?

The album keeps the velocity and fury of thrash, but now it’s wrapped in anthemic power metal riffs, dramatic solos, and choruses big enough to raise the dead. It’s political. It’s cinematic. And it’s honestly kind of addictive.

This was the first time I’d heard thrash sound—majestic.

From the opening roar to the final fade-out, the album is a beast—but a well-groomed one. You get all the speed and grit, but now with songs you can hum along to while questioning the state of civilisation.

• Satan is Real is maddeningly catchy, with a riff that tattooed itself directly onto my nervous system.
• Totalitarian Terror does exactly what the title promises.
• Hail to the Hordes is a fist-in-the-air moment built for live shows and blood-pumping ritual.
• And then there's Death Becomes My Light—an unexpected emotional uppercut, sounding almost Iron Maiden-esque in its melodic storytelling and shimmering solo work. It’s the song that made me stop what I was doing and just listen.

And yes, the chorus of Gods of Violence is loud, layered, and designed for maximum impact. This is thrash with stadium ambition.

Kreator formed in Essen in 1982 under the names Metal Militia, then Tormentor, before settling on the name that would terrify parents across the German suburbs: Kreator. Led by Mille Petrozza and drummer Jürgen "Ventor" Reil, they helped define the Teutonic thrash scene in the 80s—and like many of their peers, they hit a creative detour in the 90s.

Instead of doubling down, Kreator pivoted—playing with groove metal, industrial, even gothic touches. And while some purists rage about it, I’d argue that this evolution is what made Gods of Violence possible: brutal, yes, but layered. And with Sami Yli-Sirniö on lead guitar since 2001, the melodic element has only grown stronger.

By 2017, they weren’t just surviving—they were thriving. The album hit #1 on the German charts, and it deserves it. Not every thrash band grows up this well.

This wasn’t supposed to work.

Thrash metal had chewed me up and spat me out for weeks.

But Gods of Violence? This album pulled me back in with riffs on fire, vocals that didn’t make my brain twitch, and an emotional core I didn’t expect.

Sometimes genre tourism leads to dead ends. Other times?

You find a band screaming political anthems through cathedral-sized choruses, and you stop making sense of it. You just hit repeat.

Next stop: something louder. Or softer. Or even worse. Stay tuned.

Since writing this article, I’ve seen Kreator live three times. I’ve stood in the pit with a press pass dangling like a VIP tag to hell, camera in hand, adrenaline in veins, watching them obliterate Hamburg crowds with Satan is Real and Hail to the Hordes—and every single time I completely lost my shit. No notes. Just unholy bliss.

These songs? They’re not just bangers. They’re rituals. They don’t “start”—they erupt. They possess crowds. They rip open the sky and pour down fury and sweat and pyro. Kreator live is a controlled demolition of your expectations and probably your eardrums.

And let’s talk about the actual band, because I’m not okay and never will be:

Frédéric Leclercq—look. I’ve taken so many photos of this man I could probably build a shrine. Scratch that—I have. He now hangs next to my desk in glorious 50x70 format, glaring into my soul while I type. He plays like the stage is about to collapse and he’s trying to bring it down faster. I’m in love. It’s fine. We move.

Jürgen "Ventor" Reil is one of the most insanely underrated drummers alive. The man walks on stage looking like he just left a mechanic’s shop, demolishes a set like a possessed machine god, and then wanders off again like he’s late for a dentist appointment. No image. No drama. Just raw power and zero fucks given. I respect him with my whole chest.

Sami Yli-Sirniö. Quiet. Polite. Looks like he could fix your Wi-Fi and apologise for the inconvenience. But when he plays? Melodic wizardry. Riff sorcery. A technician with the soul of a poet. The kind of guitarist who doesn’t demand attention—he just earns it.

And then there’s Mille. Mille is—just Mille. Frontman. Legend. Vegan yoga guru who wears tunics and still somehow radiates pure metal energy. He commands a stage like it’s second nature, leads with conviction, and projects this surreal mix of absolute fury and unshakable inner peace. I just want to reach that level of purpose and not-giving-a-single-fuck someday. I respect the hell out of him.

I went from barely tolerating thrash to standing in photo pits weeping behind a zoom lens.

It started with Gods of Violence.

It escalated fast.

And honestly? I never want it to stop.