Michael Schenker is a guitar playing madman, a goddamn fever dream in human form. The guy who turned the Flying V into a medieval weapon and made every Marshall amp on earth beg for mercy. This is a man who escaped UFO by walking straight out the door mid-tour and then built MSG like a mad scientist sewing together monsters in his basement. Schenker writes music that hurls lightning bolts at your chest until your ribs rattle loose. These three albums are warheads with tracklists.

3. Immortal (2021)

Most rockers at 70 are cashing royalty checks and complaining about back pain. Schenker? He’s still detonating like his guitar is wired to Chernobyl. Immortal is a speeding hearse on fire, with Schenker behind the wheel, flipping off God Himself in the rearview mirror. “Drilled to Kill” feels like the floor collapsing beneath you, while “After the Rain” lets you breathe just long enough before Schenker pulls you back under and feeds your bones to the amplifier. Instead of mellowing with age ( whatever the hell that entails), this bastard doubled down, turned the volume knob past 11, and ripped the fucking knob off. Immortal isn’t just a title, it’s a challenge: Outlive this, I dare you.

2. Assault Attack (1982)

This one is pure chaos bottled in glass, shaken, and smashed over your head. Graham Bonnet only lasted for one album, but holy hell—what an explosion of lunacy this is! His voice detonates like a Molotov cocktail being lobbed at the Vatican. “Samurai” cuts through the mix like it’s hacking limbs, while the title track stomps across your living room with the grace of a flaming tank. Schenker’s solos here are straight-up hallucinations in six strings, bending reality until you’re not sure if you’re listening to music or being abducted by aliens. Assualt Attack is a hard rock riot in your bloodstream.

1. Michael Schenker Group (1980)

The debut that tore the roof off reality and nailed it back on with burning guitar picks. “Armed and Ready” opens the album the kicking down the door, drags you into the fucking street, and baptizes you in kerosene. “Cry for the Nations” is both a hymn and a brawl, while “Into the Arena” is the national anthem of every lost, leather-clad lunatic who ever decided that rock ’n’ roll was the only god worth worshipping. This record set the stage for MSG to set the fucking world on fire and asked, “What else you got?” It’s not an album. It’s a commandment.

And here’s the truth, scrawled in blood across the bathroom wall of the universe: these albums prove that Schenker isn’t just a guitar hero—he’s a force of nature, a lightning storm stuffed inside human skin. Play them at low volume and you’re a coward. Play them at full blast and you might not live to see the last note—but you’ll die baptized in pure, glorious noise. Schenker doesn’t want your respect—he wants your soul fed through a distortion pedal.