The Belo Horizonte Blitz: A Sepultura Retrospective
There was a time when the mere mention of Belo Horizonte didn’t conjure images of colonial architecture, but of a specific, suffocating wall of sound. In 1984, the Cavalera brothers, Max and Igor, weren't "establishing themselves"; they were teenagers in Brazil trying to out-scream their record collections. They took the blueprint left by Venom and Motörhead and ran it through a meat grinder. Their 1985 debut, the split Bestial Devastation shared with Overdose, wasn't a "showcase"—it was a chaotic, low-fidelity riot. It sounded like the equipment was about to catch fire, and for a world accustomed to the polished hair-metal of the north, it was a terrifying transmission from the southern hemisphere.
By 1986, Morbid Visions arrived, smelling of cheap leather and basement dampness. To call it "mature" is a stretch—the production is notoriously thin—but it had teeth. It was the sound of a band realizing that death metal could be more than just a tempo; it could be a weapon. Then came the shift. Most bands find a groove and rot in it, but Sepultura grew restless. In 1991, Arise hit the shelves, and suddenly the "Dead Embryonic Cells" weren't just lyrics; they were a rhythmic assault that proved Igor Cavalera was perhaps the most dangerous drummer on the planet. I still remember the weight of that jewel case—the way the logo seemed to bleed off the plastic.
The real pivot, the one that still causes arguments in dive bars, was 1993’s Chaos A.D. They stopped trying to be the fastest band in the world and decided to be the heaviest. They traded the blur of thrash for a tribal, industrial stomp that felt like boots hitting the pavement during a protest. It was political because it had to be; you don't grow up in Brazil in the 80s and write songs about wizards. They addressed poverty and corruption not as "themes," but as the air they breathed. It was their masterpiece, regardless of what the purists who wanted Arise Pt. 2 might say.
Then came Roots in 1996, an album that saw them heading into the Xavante territory to record with indigenous tribes. It was a bizarre, brilliant collision of low-tuned detuned guitars and traditional berimbau. It felt like the future. And then, as is the case with most things that burn this bright, it imploded. The 1996 split wasn't a neat "departure"; it was a jagged fracture following the death of Dana Wells and a management dispute that felt like a family funeral. Max walked away, taking his gravel-pit voice with him, and while the band soldiered on with Derrick Green—producing some technically superior, if less culturally seismic, work—the "classic" era remains frozen in that specific, sweat-soaked moment in Brixton Academy. It was an obsession while it lasted, and frankly, metal hasn't felt that vital since.
