8 Discs. 82 Tracks. 1 Inverted Cross.
There’s something oddly comforting about the endurance of Deicide. A strange cultural relic from a more chaotic age, where even Twisted Sister could be viewed not just with suspicion, but with a real sense that they might corrupt the future of our world. Glen Benton and his band of Floridian firebrands have outlasted trends, moral panics, and even their own notoriety, leaving…well, that’s what has intrigued me. Beyond the percussive attack, beyond the spikes, beyond the inverted cross being branded into his forehead (the silly moo), what remains? This new 8CD box set from Cherry Red – ‘Children of the Underworld: The Complete Roadrunner Years’ is less a retrospective than a resurrection. A lavish, lovingly compiled monument to one of death metal’s most controversial and curiously persistent acts. Equally as intriguing – how many times will I type ‘Santa’ instead of ‘Satan’?
The set spans the band’s Roadrunner catalogue from 1990 to 2001, including six studio albums (‘Deicide’, ‘Legion’, ‘Once Upon the Cross’, ‘Serpents of the Light’, ‘Insineratehymn’ (I wonder how many mums were left to ask for that at the record shop on Christmas lists), ‘In Torment In Hell’), the early demos (‘Amon: Feasting the Beast’), and the live album ‘When Satan Lives‘. That’s a lot of blasphemy. But it’s also a lot of surprisingly tight musicianship, especially for a band whose reputation was built more on outrage than arrangement.
Let’s start with the obvious: Glen Benton is still here. Still growling. Still touring. Upside-down cross on his forehead looking like he fell asleep on a Lego brick. That longevity alone is worth a raised eyebrow, and certainly lets the side down when you compare his timeline to some Scandinavian Satanic icons. Benton was never meant to be a lifer, his early interviews suggested he’d die by suicide at 33, presumably to keep things “real.” Instead, he’s become a kind of death metal Dorian Gray, ageing only slightly while the genre around him mutates, splinters, and occasionally softens.
Musically, this box set is better than expected, though that’s my yardstick, not yours. The early records – ‘Deicide’ and ‘Legion’ – are feral, fast, and feel important in a strange way. Listening to ‘Oblivious to Evil’ still feels like like you’re being infected. Steve Asheim’s drumming is a standout throughout, especially on ‘Legion’, where his blast beats feel like controlled demolition. The Hoffman brothers’ guitar work is equally vicious, with solos that slice through the mix. Even ‘Insineratehymn’ (“It’s not for me, it’s a Christmas present”) and ‘In Torment In Hell’, often dismissed as weaker entries, have moments of grim charm, sludgy riffs, eerie atmospherics, and a kind of weary menace. We weren’t meant to hear new Deicide albums in the 21st century, at least one party had been assured of damnation. We all failed.
But it’s the lyrics that feel most dated. Once upon a time, songs like ‘Kill the Christian’ or ‘Behead the Prophet (No Lord Shall Live)’ were enough to trigger bomb scares and tabloid hysteria. Now, they read like adolescent provocation, more South Park than Satanic Panic. Of course, the only people who revelled in Satanic Panic more than the pearl clutchers who felt Dungeons and Dragons was going to bring morality to its knees, were the daft twats who fancied themselves dangerous or subversive for owning a cassette with ‘Parental Advisory’ on it, despite being 35. The latter, now pensioners, still think they fought The Man and won, that the threat to their civil liberties (“I demand to listen to swearing and look at tits!”) was never greater – ironically until the past few weeks when they can’t log into Pornhub (“I still demand to look at tits!”).
And yet, amid the hysteria, there was a strange kind of self-congratulation. For some, dabbling in the occult, or just wearing black jeans that were too tight, became a badge of honour. “Look at me and my trousers, defying the Far Left/Right and upsetting the Church”. As if being misunderstood by televangelists was proof of artistic depth. It was rebellion by proxy, danger without the danger. Sucking deeply upon a pipe (without inhaling) and with misty, possibly rheumy, eyes, recalling the Great War where they listened to a third generation copied tape of Venom and somehow avoided being stoned in the streets. A generation of kids got their kicks from being feared by people who didn’t understand them, and who, frankly, didn’t want to. Like every kid in recorded history.
The irony? Most actual Satanists were either theatrical atheists or bored philosophers. And boring is the key word. Opposing organised religion by picking the bits they could be arsed doing from another organised religion. The real horror wasn’t in the supposed rituals, it was in the po-faced earnestness and chin-stroking tutting. And that’s not even the ones opposing the bands. And all the while, metal bands like Deicide rode the wave, their lyrics treated as evidence of evil rather than exaggerated performance art.
The shock has dulled, not because the themes have changed, but because the world has. We’ve seen worse. Heard worse. Laughed at worse. Benton’s anti-Christian screeds, once delivered with venomous conviction, now feel like campy theatre. The upside-down cross isn’t a threat, it’s a logo.
Still, there’s something fascinating about Deicide’s refusal to evolve. Where other death metal bands have embraced technicality, melody, or even politics, Deicide remains defiantly one-note. That’s not a criticism, it’s a kind of purity. Benton never sold out, never softened, never swapped his corpse paint for clean vocals. He stayed the course, even when the course led through diminishing returns and lineup changes. That stubbornness is admirable, in its own twisted way.
The packaging here is excellent. The swanky slipcase, debossed ‘Trifixion’ logo, and reproduction postcards give the set a collector’s gravitas. The liner notes by Dom Lawson are rich with anecdotes, interviews, and context, including chats with producer Scott Burns and A&R legend Monte Conner. There’s even a new interview with drummer Steve Asheim, who remains one of the genre’s most underrated players. These extras elevate the box beyond mere nostalgia, they frame Deicide as a cultural artifact, worthy of study as much as headbanging. Is that still a thing, headbanging?
And maybe that’s the real takeaway. Deicide isn’t shocking anymore, but they’re still interesting. Still relevant, in a strange, stubborn way. They represent a moment in metal history when extremity was currency, and controversy was marketing. They were never the best musicians, nor the most innovative, but they were committed. And commitment, in any genre, is rare.
This set is a reminder of when death metal was dangerous, or at least pretended to be. It’s also a testament to Benton’s endurance, not just as a frontman, but as a figurehead for a scene that thrives on the fringes. He may not be possessed (as he once claimed), but he’s certainly persistent.
Daz Lawrence