Listening to Judas Priest feels like being chased through a chrome factory by a motorcycle that somehow learned opera vocals. The guitars don’t merely riff. They gallop, duel, and occasionally sound like two robotic falcons fighting over a flamethrower. Then Rob Halford arrives, unleashing vocals that range from “leather-clad air raid siren” to “space wizard announcing the apocalypse at a monster truck rally.” Every song feels engineered to make you drive 14 mph faster than intended while instinctively searching for sunglasses at midnight.

Their music also has this glorious “all gas, no indoor voice” energy. Even when the lyrics are about heartbreak or inner turmoil, the band attacks it like they’re defending Earth from invading dragons armed with laser accountants. The drums stomp like steel-toed boots in a haunted warehouse, and the twin guitar harmonies soar with the confidence of a bald eagle that just discovered steroids and medieval weaponry. Painkiller in particular sounds less like an album and more like someone accidentally opened a portal directly into Heavy Metal Valhalla and hit Record.