Monday, 31 December 2012

Culture Kids - Culture Kids

Culture Kids - s/t

Culture Kids have a song called Die Nazi Scum and if that's not enough to convince you to check it out then I'm really not sure what you're doing hanging round these parts of town. The album starts with a brief couple seconds of garage-jangle which trick you into thinking it's gonna be a sloppy Spaceshits shake, but then the angry snot of early 80s style skatepunk snaps in. Emaciated hardcore punk which scratches and barks over the undercurrent of that aforementioned garage shiver, that writhes with nihilistic snarl on songs with such cutting titles as like The Ritual of Misdirected Energy and Headless Body in a Topless Bar.

Cobra - Tokyo Boicott

OI! OI! Motherfucker! Oi! I dunno know what to say about this beyond: it's an Oi! album. Snotty slurred streetpunk vocals than go into titanic shoutalong choruses that crash down upon you like a quiver of fury rolling through a crowd, chug-a-lug pubrock riffs, Oi!-based puns, everything a good Oi! album should have. It's even got a couple chill moments, in the manner of Cock Sparrer's Out On an Island, like the whistling on Get On The Ship. The music you sing with your friends as you all peg it down alleyways as the cops show up to the rumble. A band that have been going for 30 years and 12 albums and still have songs called Teenage Riot.

Mind Spiders - Meltdown

The Mind Spiders totally nail that trick Jay Reatard perfected on songs like You Mean Nothing To Me of adding a spacey screwball quiver and quake to some infectious power-pop, so yeah the song sparkles and dances like a Tranzmitors number but it also needles at you with an uncomfortable morose edge. Adding bits of new wave whatevers to the particular punk style he perfected with The Marked Men, Mark Ryan makes an album which can pick you up and have you dancing on pop-punk like Play You Out, sweep over you with some whisper-synth blues on More Than You, combining those two sensations on stuff like Wait For Us where the Dirtnap punk runs its wiry game and the keyboards warble and wail in the background as the song rises and degrades, losing structural integrity as it tries to escape its earthbound despondent parts, before slipping into the uncomfortable drone, nag, and noise of the title track closer's pop take on an Exithippies abrasion ambience futurefuck.

Slices - Still Cruising

The follow-up to last year's Cruising. Slices still make nasty hardcore punk, still unafraid of chucking in interstitial weirdness between the bilious blasts of aggression to amp up the ominous atmosphere they cultivate. This one feels slightly more rock and roll than the last album though, especially on stuff like Slices Like Dirt which edge close to a shuddering hardcore perversion of that tumbledown garage-punk style of something like the Okmoniks' Party Fever. They've got an offkilter noiserock touch on mid-tempo malleations like Why Do You Make Yourself So Sad and All My Life and they close on absolute stormer in Mustard which unless I'm missing some sort of metaphor, is about freaking the hellfuck out over a sandwich, in a gratifyingly goofy childish "ALL I WANTED WAS A PEPSI!" kinda rage. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!? A PIECE OF BREAD!? IS THIS MY LUNCH!?"

Swearin' - Swearin'

Gritty pop-punk with sweet indie crunch. Spinning and slipping on the borderline between those sort of punkish indie-poppers like Superchunk and the folk-infused punk spit of the likes of The Motorcycle Industry or Mary Prankster, but with a bit more thickness to the sound than the spindly licks of those bands, with the rattle of the guitar and rhythm threatening to bury the vocals sometimes. Swearin' provide some chilled-out songs like Empty Head that obviously bring to mind the crackle-folk of fellow post-PS Eliot music Waxahatchee, then there's something like Divine Mimosa where that mournfulness struggles with the dirty burble of the bass. These slower quieter songs are diverting counterpoints to the sandpaper-pop runarounds that make this record really steam. The catchy punk explosions of Crashing, Kill Em With Kindness and Here to Hear that stamp their feet and blow through you like returning fragments of blackout memory, and the beautiful Movie Star which closes the album, with its rolling mid-tempo indie-punk and the drop-outs which take the album down to its most melancholic mutterings before driving up into the noise.

Saturday, 29 December 2012

Atentado - Dias De Rabia

Crusty obsfucatory torturedin. Animal growls and a bombination of fuzzknackered evil guitarmurk. Creepy and unsettling in the best way, slamming home in a cacophonous onslaught mid-to-up-tempo relentless d-blast terror, like a punk dispatch from Event Horizon's hell-dimension, swirling with needling noise on Militares, hints of rock and roll tug on Nunca Voleran, vomiting spite and anguish and hardcore despair.

Anasazi - s/t 7"

Shivers of the gothpunk ache of T.N.T.'s - Manifesto Guernika, punk laced with dark, unsettling, sweeping sounds, that gets weirder and dronier over the course of these three songs. Starting with a clear sharp punk slice on Bone Collector that cuts like an early Damned slasher, running into the spacey intro of Samsara which, when the song begins earnest that has that taut rising menace of Killing Joke struggling in the blowy surf and wind clamour of a Frankenchrist soundscape. The final track, Loving You, stretches all those things further, the drone, the threat, portentous black choral whoa-ohs, ghostnoise, urban decay gauntness with weirdo intonations like dark prayers, hollow laughter. Anasazi: a convincing post-punk evil.

Red Dons - Ausländer

On the title track Red Dons strike on of those sweet punk rhythms that can keep a song chugging for what feels like forever (well, like five minutes, that's forever in a punk context) without losing any of its insistent struggle and nerve, like Adolescents' Kids of the Black Hole, Screeching Weasel's Edge of World, Jim Carroll's People Who Died or New Bomb Turks' Bad for Me. Ausländer, and to a lesser extent the b-side, are the sort of anthemic/melodic rise-and-fall punk hypnotics that have you playing them like fifteen times in a row as they dig right into the hurt and click of your bones until the end of the song feels like a miniature cataclysm and you've just got to hit it again, a leavin' home road-weary yearning played out with punk barbs, Cock Sparrer-wistful tinges, the sweep and size of a smoothed-down Manix singalong.

Solid Attitude - BB Gun Picnic

Solid Attitude have got a rock and roll punch, a thumping Sonics base for slippery Doc Corbin Dart vocals strained to the point of slathering spangled discomfort to yelp over and lacerate sneeringly. Garage rumble to shake the dust from the ceiling, the cobwebs from your leather jacket, strip the paint from the walls with the 27 second combusting thrash on Punk Beer, the post-punk quiver on Smoking Sheets, the anxious snap and scream of Can't Chill Out, the Stones-y drone on Black Pocket climbing into a torrent of fumepunk strut and roll.

World's Scariest Police Chases - Unfuckwithable

Hawaii '77. Supersuckers Super Troopers. Obnoxious Bad Lieutenant-channeling punk rock, the Herzog Bad Lieutenant where it's all about glorious unrepentant pill-gobbling chaos in a badge, twitching and tearing about the city without conscience or consequence, not the Abel Ferrara one where it's all about feeling bad that you got a blowjob while thinking about the pope. Such shoutalong authority as hasn't been thrown out since the glory days of scene rule-rockers Crucial Youth. World's Scariest Police Chases are the breezeblock blunt satire of DK's Police Truck tied to the the big mouth daft noisy repugnance of Copstabber and dynamic Candy Snatchers degradation. Put Your Hands Up pulling together the party-time chant and the gunpoint police order, screaming on Rolemodels "LIVE MY LIFE LIKE A LOADED GUN!" as in, something you don't really want in the house.

Post Teens - The Heat

This band is made up of members of sludge-poppers Torche, shoegazers Averkiou and PV thrashers Assholeparade, all coming together to make a release that sounds nothing like any of that, instead its six sixty second songs of poppy garage-punk, combining the relentless rip of a Marked Men laceration with the scuzzy noise of the likes of CPC Gangbangs, bringing to mind at times the straighter Fleshies moments, laid through with little irresistible flourishes like the burst of Bad Brain cadence that opens Turn Down the Teen Rebellion, or the miniature freakout that closes Polyamory.

Reivers - Sympathetic Shock

Pummeling political punk rock from Oakland. Corrosive female vocals over crusty monument-shaking hardcore, the opener Lurching doing just that, as it launches upwards and outwards from the squeaking and stumbling base and into this unrelenting bonebreaking ripper. Whether it stutters and chugs like One Last Shot or Brokered Lives, pierces like Birthright or just straight up unleashes like unholy fissure of Painted In The Corner, this is scorch-the-earth bitter disquiet, roaring with contempt for the world and its ills.

Friday, 28 December 2012

Ilegal - El Aire Libre Fuera De Los Dientes Del Monstruo Tirano Y Canibal

Clattering mid-80s-influenced hispanophone punk rock. El Aire Libre Fuera De Los Dientes Del Monstruo Tirano Y Canibal roughly translates The Air Outside of the Teeth of Mostrous Tyrant Cannibal, which gives some hint at the anger and minatory brilliance of this record. Socio-political hardcore that squeals and writhes with a potent restlessness, urging ever onwards. It slows to grinds and trudges on Emigrando before building up into a furious Criaturas-style wailing guitar solo. It hits with straight-up burn on Intentalo. It explodes with stop-start machine-drums on Sin Alternativas. Hermoso Lugar constructs a mini-epic of planetary destruction starting that punctuates its hardcore attacks with unsettling spiky fills and  builds everything on that twin menace of the relentless drums and the guitars stretching, aching with threat and danger, twisting into nasty squalls of noise. Planeta Muerto flames itself out into a plateau of grumbling feedback and then bursts back in with some terse White Lung-style guitars and rumbling crusty bass. Ilegal are a Canadian band, they sing in Spanish, recorded this in French-Canada and Germany, released it on a British label, pitch-perfect global hardcore ready to burn the world with petrolbomb riffs and liberated cannon drums, anarcho without the cartoon, capable of anything. Autodestructivos ends the album, documenting the self-destruction of individuals burnt by the struggle, crushed by the shit, without moralising or glorifying, over the same peak-and-trough punk thrum that the whole album is built on, fading out then storming back in, speeding up to a furious thrash then crashing into a mid-tempo buzz before rolling out into a slow empty fade-to-black.

Thursday, 27 December 2012

Displague - Displague

It's a band called Displague. I do like the way 'dis' bands have begun to exhaust that prefix in terms of actually badass sounding fuck-you punk words and now just clank it onto any appropriately violent apocalyptic morpheme they can find, DISPLAGUE! DISHAMMER! DISGOD! DISFUSE! Displague come from Spain offer a classic big-ass neocrust barrage following on from the likes of similar soaring Spanish rippers Derrota and Ekkaia. Bass like tree trunks, d-beat flurries, this sears and crushes like a motherfucker on straight hang-on-tight-don't-look-down sky-stormers like Mort and Marionetas, but then also has the doomierneocrust breaks on the likes of Complejo de Inferioridad and La Obediencia al Consumo where it drops down into the murk and sewer stagger to really revel in the hateful gloomy atmosphere before it screams back into that armageddon thrash, pouring vasts acres of burn and tempest into the huge sour punk rumble of crust band in full fucking throttle, bass to open tombs, guitars that eat bricks and laugh, drumbeats that tear like steroid hearts.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

People - Ausentic Oral Communication

Starting with a bassline that sounds like the soundtrack of a cartoon about a mischievous cat, while weirdo barely-human distorted vocals start to echo in the background which sets the tone for the album, playful but noisy, simple but unhinged, fun. Rock and roll songs so basic Billy Childish would be proud of them, but with an extra hit of Chaos Destroy-noise, for these '77 stumblers to bounce and slice about in. Strained drunken rants for vocals, fried and flattened Todd Pot sneers packed with pukebits of despair and sloppy halfway-too-fucked-to-care anguish, over idiot basslines that refuse to leave your head, nihilistic noise-fuzz and stabbing riffs that pucker up with the of broken-down pop of rockabilly scum. Grimy and nauseating, noise-punk at its most basic, stupid and catchy. (I didn't post the song on this page because the only one I could find on youtube had a big ol' swastika as the video. Punk rock! Still on that inexcusably dumb fucking shitbag moron trip. What twats.)

Saturday, 22 December 2012

Puffy Areolas - 1982: Dishonourable Discharge

Despite the presence of both the words '1982' and 'discharge', this is not another album of straight UK82 worship, instead its a meatier, more unsettling piece of work. It starts with 1982, a straight hardcore-punk number, that lasts about a minute forty that barely holds itself together for that brief length under the attack of a psychey freakout that threatens to suck the song into its swirling vortex throughout. The song succumbs to that weird noise and it's that struggle which defines the album, the repetitive rock rumble of Not Tonight that just wants to boogie down with some simple rock numbers but keep having to fight with this ugly void of noise and psych-oddness that wants to consume the straight-up straight-down Stooges-rock in the drowning pull of its manic squawk and wonder. Weirdpunk garage freakouts, protopunk succumbing to the hateblasted deathscream of chomping jazznoise, staggering in its ungodly threat and magnitude. Rudimentary Peni sings MC5, psychotically dismember the jams. It's an album for shakin' your stuff and then crying in the corner as the trip kicks in and faces around you start to melt and wail with the warm red devil-eye flutter of the unfamiliar clublights.

Friday, 21 December 2012

Scumraid - Demo

Wild fuckin' crazynoise from South Korean rawpunx. K-punx crasher crust brutalising Disclose runarounds, guitar flails lost in the blasting power, songs that seem to start the twisting screaming wind-up almost as soon as they've started and burn themselves out in 70 seconds of shitty hunger and squealing nuclear death. A relentless 8 minutes of disgusting aural defilements.

Thursday, 20 December 2012

Wild Billy Childish & the Spartan Dreggs - Coastal Command/Dreggradation/Tablets of Linear B

Like Michael Moorcock's bibliography or the vaulting scope of human experience itself, Billy Childish's musical output is unknowably vast and impossibly labyrinthine every time digging deeper into that dirt-simple rock and roll. This year his latest project, The Spartan Dreggs, put out three fucking full-length LPs, THREE! This is pretty much business as usual for Childish, basic but literate punk stomps, though its got a slightly more spindly sound to it in the vocals from Neil Palmer, drawing to mind a more vulnerable air than the sneer of a lot of Childish's oeuvre  the Spartan Dreggs' highlights include running an AE Housman poem through that spare garage-spark on A Shropshire Lad, penning sad songs about modernist Swiss writer Robert Walser on The Ballad of Robert Walser, wailing plaintively on Grimpen Mire, a five-minute rumbling indie-punk takeback of the word 'epic' on the Homeric Headlong Fly the Achaeans.

Wednesday, 19 December 2012

God Equals Genocide - Rattled Minds

God Equals Genocide is the sort of name that brings to mind huge crushing crust riffs and epic throaty denunciations of organised religions, so it hits a little oddly when the first song is a buzzy indie-punk thud. Scraggly-thin punk that is sometimes catchy and playful power-pop, sometimes half-country rockabilly bounce, sometimes angry sludgey sometimes urgent thrashy nonsense, but tied together by the sense of amateurish region-rock joy, slappy drums and shouty strained male/female vocals that cut between bark and bite, buzzy chaotic guitars, sweet ooh-oohs and aah-aahs washing up in the background now and then, boop-boop guitar snaps. This scratchy freeing punk rock, stripped down to its pure jubilant unfettered bedroom heart, like Punkin Pie or The Grumpies or the Stun Guns but never specifically sounding like those bands for more than a few brief whispers. It's the kick of countless drunken Saturday-waste three-friends-and-ten-strings nothing-projects that just shook up one garage or basement and got no further, but struggling out into the world this time with that pull and sloppy fuck-you interplay, tightened ever so slightly from the It Wasn't Made For Us 7" but still gutter-gleaming and smiling with that scramblehead punk punch. This is the sound of a couple of people making a sound, making their sound, skittering and angry and fresh, and it's fucking great.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

The Capitalist Kids - Lessons on Love, Sharing and Hygiene

Capitalist Kids purvey the classic Lookout-sound matched with sarcastic lyrics taking aim at the many shit vagaries of late-period capitalist oligarchy, and then a bunch of songs about girls too. Billy Bragg covers, Dr Frank-aping quicksmart vocal twitches and switchback wit, songs about different generations of delusional arseholes in Ayn and Weasel, sorta wistful youth-leavin' angst on Three-Oh. This album is the sort of silly self-deprecating ramonescore twist that can entitle a love song We Are Each Ultimately Alone in the Universe. Power-fightin' power-pop.

Monday, 17 December 2012

Forward - War Nuke and Death Sentence

Forward are, along with Judgement and Paintbox, one of the bands that emerged from the ashes of the legendary Death Side, who defined the Burning Spirits style of Japanese hardcore, which rests on fuming Motorhead rhythms tied to the million-mile-an-hour yelping guitar solos. Forward dial down the metal-guitar rush and instead focus on the anthemic possibilities of punk rock, pushing the vocals to the front, adding a bunch of silly drunken whoa-oh-ohs to the grit and rip of their hardcore thunder so it sounds like a chaotic cross between the sloppy warmth of a fucked-up singalong gruff-punk party, a storming j-core thrasher and the galloping goofy delinquence of Berurier Noir’s La Marche Funèbre De La Jeunesse Suicidaire, ending on a piece of shrieking madness entitled Aarrgghh...

Exithippies - Parts 1 & 2

Ear-killing inane madness, electronic crunch and stuffy blustering vocal degradation, atonal cataclysms, buzzy undercurrent guitar and latent drums truckfucked with slaughterhousenoise into discordant oddball oblivion. Nasty nasty stuff, chattering and combusting on the outer reaches of listenability, avant-dirt, artshit punk gurn, simple as a suckerpunch and cyberpunk ugly. There's a Flux of Pink Indians cover ground to silly pieces, all is subsumed in this end-time conflagration of anything that will blast and pummel, news broadcasts, Swankysfizz, obnoxious EDM-backbeats, sirensqueal, barricadepunk for a revolution against sense.

Sunday, 16 December 2012

Mean Jeans - On Mars

Mean Jeans, space aces.  Joey Ramone-warble and simplicity pop-punk songs. Maybe Personal and the Pizzas swapped their cruisers for rocketships, or at least dreamed of it. It's not a full commitment to a Masked Intruder-style gimmick though, there are still plenty of songs about partyin' and dumb teenage shite, so it just feels like an idiotpop Ramonescore house-party rippers got stoned at practice and started watching Carl Sagan documentaries. It's not all 80mph stuff either, slowing down a bunch for mellower concrete Crew-Cuts-Sh-Boom-Sh-Boom sweet bummer joints, wistful in that powerpop way, because we all know there is pretty much nothing more heartbreaking that a Ramones crooner. The whole album really is touched by that ruefulness, earthbound mum's-basement blues, guitar lines that seem to tail off sadly like chemtrails, repeating laments of "It's always gonna be the same" on Total Yo-Yo. A similar sense of thwarted escape and weekend-ache tedium pervades, even sticking what could be an anthemic call-to-arms in Don't Stop Partying at a mid-tempo trot, so a line like "There's a party in your heart" feels more like a sad shout on a walk home than a beer-soaked slapfight in a wrecked living room, calling to mind the this-town-blows backwater longing of Rick Spears and Rob G's Teenagers From Mars. It only really shakes off these nagging tugs of smalltown ruts when it looks to the sky, on Anybody Out There? and Life on Mars, because sometimes, amongst the beer and the weed and the Too Tough to Die bedroom dance-parties for one, the moon feels within reach but a bus out-of-town looks like an impossible dream. Hanging on astroman ambitions when you're 90% sure in these moments you haven't even got what it takes to be a man.

Saturday, 15 December 2012


Eight songs in twelve minutes that hit with the fury of power-violence, but stretch a bit further in their attack, similar maybe to Punch but drawing more from the cuts and vinegar of punk rock rather than the overbearing crunch of hardcore. Ex-Shitty Limits hardcore punk blitz, scorching through as it sits in that unbearable sweet spot where each song threatens and promises to smash itself to pieces through its own slashing anger, but just manages to hold itself together, swaggering and spitting, for the 90 or so seconds it takes to spin itself to its conclusion. Pathway and Don't Forget have more of a mid-tempo hardcore stomp, Big Black Wings has a post-punk warble to it, but its all tied together by No's blazing intensity.

Friday, 14 December 2012

Crusades - Parables

Crusades are atmosphere and heretic wit. Parables opens with a windswept soundscape and an acoustic dance that sticks around for 90 seconds setting the scene before they cut in with their trademark sound, World Burns to Death dramatic antitheism strapped to the gothier end of Alkaline Trio's pop-punk-with-the-horns-thrown-up runaway melodic croon. Catchy and soaring, capturing the campy horror-punk theatre of those one or two listenable Michael Graves-era Misfits songs but with a point beyond cash and empty shock.

Thursday, 13 December 2012

Shit Creek - Psychic Hospital

Making explicit the Oi!/gruffpunk connection that Arms Aloft just implicitly acknowledge, channeling Minimum Wage is a Gateway Drug and I Fit Central Heating equally, four songs of catchy, singalong punk rock. Shit Creek got Crimpshrine-grittiness, Mall'd to Death punk-sarcasm and echoes of the smarter-than-your-average-streetpunk Stockyard Stoics sound. Offering an update on Shanghai River's punk decrees on The Rules '012 and closing on the title track's waltzy bit of throaty cascading bar-room melancholy. The D4-skins.

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

White Lung - Sorry

A post-punk sheen attached firmly to the ugly heart of a punk rock wail. White Lung occasionally recalls Fucked Up in their ability to match clattering hardcore intensity with a sweeping evocation of bright light, though this is poured into shorter faster snappier moments. It's all second-person violence, kicks to the face, beatdowns and accusations thrown through sneers and snarls, Gateway-District interplays. This album is packed with those sort of razor lines that flutter and cut indiscriminately, that could take someone apart but its uncertain who. Rooted in the cheap uppers of gutterpunk lives, drawing active evocations and uncomfortable truths. "We’re just the same stupid lie and its you" I Rot howls before it blasts out in a thundering tilt at noise. "Cause I know that you are okay until you're not anymore," The Bad Way aches. Glue intones the line "Blue boney eyes" like a threat. This album is a breakneck goading, a shimmering punk blitz, a sparkler writing swearwords and provocations on the night and screaming through like Legal Weapon songs sped-up until they cracked and revealed their gleaming insides.

Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Crazy Spirit

Coming from some of the same bunch of nutbars that destroyed with Hank Wood and the Hammerheads, another nasty New York release from Toxic State, just as uncomfortable, but odder, spookier. Gribbly ghoul vocals and a remorseless gallop driven by the snappy drums, all groaning like bridge-support echoes of The Screamer's 122 Hours of Fear. Opening with a gloomy wrongspeed rendition of Here We Go Looby Loo amidst record-crackle which sets the tone for the rest of the record, silly but unsettling, weird and infectious. The songs itch with discomfort and spite. Space drops out all vocals but a mangled garble, as though someone was gagged or drowning and trying to spit through the hardcore grime. Bricks is run through with the disconcerting chatter of children's voices. The whole album sounds corrupted and nasty but whereas Hank Wood the threat seems to just be the crushing force of modern isolation, with Crazy Spirit things seem more ominous, hinting at a deeper malevolence, the Lovecraftian clamor of an encounter with a darkness-unnamed narrated from a dead man's diary. In this album the cityscape's baleful glower is drawn not from the collective anguish of its inhabitants, but from sepulchral missteps and forgotten bloodstains shaking with occult vendetta power. The splatterpunk glamour of serial killers, the twitching of insomnia, the lure of the train tracks, the drugsflesh and the skinbricks, all drawn from this pervasive animal malignance that you can't escape, not in the whoops of You, not in the clackety western susurrus of What Have I Become?, not in the sarcastic ugly mutant hatecroon of I Become a Man, all underpinned by the scratchy guitars and their scrape and surf-needle, the relentless roll of the snare and vocals that sound like Joey Vindictive halfway through a lycanthropic transformation.

Monday, 10 December 2012

The Atomic Tanlines - demo / Nü-klē-ər Blast Suntan - The Wheel of Fate is Turning 7" EP

These two bands don't really sound anything like each other, but I just thought I'd review them together because of the coincidence of their name. Both are great names juxtaposing, the healthy glow of the summer outdoors, with the irradiated buzz of Discharge's favourite topic, 50s paranoia and 50s beach-movies all in one. NBST tart it up with an entirely over-the-top use of umlauts and schwas, which is awesome, because it looks fucking cool and pronunciation guides are always handy, this one apparently aimed at that GWB 'nucular' mangling. The Atomic Tanlines add another level of uncouthness beyond the radiation poisoning, I mean, it's all well and good catching some rays from the dying-star we call a sun in the harsh post-apocalyptic contaminated nothingscape, but keep an even tan, people! Don't be so fucking gauche about it! The Atomic Tanlines play a style of unencumbered queercore punk rock where they're equally at happy with an abrasive brief frustration blast screaming FUCK MY REPRODUCTIVE DUTY!!! or the stop-start fury of Skank Around which cuts between power-violence speed thrash and ominous stalk of something like the opening of JFA's Beach Blanket Bongout, along with a couple of anger-tight danceable late-FYP punk rockers like Comatose, which clips along with handclaps and fucking everything! They also have a contender for song title of the year in BDSM vs. Tupac, which drives along with rock-and-roll swagger like a mid-period New Bomb Turks song, anchored to the vocals which have that Alice Bag ability where a smoothly-sung line threatens at any time to explode into a scream, and a line can twist between sarcastic and dismissive and celebratory call-to-arms in the space of a second.

Nü-klē-ər Blast Suntan are way heavier, atmospheric crustpunk, which distuingishes itself with the squealing needle of the guitar which bursts out of the Nausea Punk Terrorist attack, and almost rips the song to shreds in the middle of White Wolf, before the thundering riffs return again, improbably faster and crazier than before in order to burn out the song. Searing chaotic crust noise that only ever slows down just to show you how it's gonna fucking hit you before it punches you in the eye with its clattering hardcore onslaught. There are two songs on side-B of this thing but you have to be really paying attention to know where the switch is as this is the sort of tearing intensity that brooks no fucking niceties like song gaps.

Sunday, 9 December 2012

Mean Bikini - demo

Meeean Bikini do loppy, occasionally new-wavey riot grrl garage-punk. Simple lively pop songs leant menace and posture by the clang and and clatter of the guitar, the thick burbly bass and vocals that yelp and drawl with grinning attitude. The Pleasure Seekers' What a Way to Die run through the sweet crash-pop of FIDLAR or the gonzo-synthpunk of Jay Reatard's Lost Sounds. Bed Bugs itches with surf energy, Sick of Love is all angry disdain and a simple insistent guitar line, and the final song, Johnny Bananas, begins with a Barbed Wire Love-style ragtag take on Chordette-ian girl group vocals that sticks slurringly with that Poni-Tails shiver just long enough to trick you that they're going to leave you on a chillout number before a 1-2-3-4 yelp that throws the song into a  jumping into punk that speeds up and builds into the craziest most chaotic song they've got, snarling itself apart from within and even getting furious enough  that while writing this review I let the demo play out on my computer and it jumped into Dishammer without seeming like a million-mile leap. I first listened to them after seeing them support Theee Bat, and any band that can stick in the mind when they're supporting those biker-punk nutcases is impressive, and my favourite song they played live, Can't Play Guitar, isn't even on this, so I'm excited for whatever comes next.

Saturday, 8 December 2012

Lotus Fucker - Forever My Fighting Spirit

Lotus Fucker have been turning out their nasty noise-based hardcore punk takedown for a couple years now, and in that time they have opted to forego the pogo-punx madlibs approach of nearby noisepunk band Chaos Destroy's song-titling (Damaging Anarchy Chaos Disorder, Fucking Merciless Nuclear Chaotic Violent Noise, Anarchy Chaos Love Beer) in favour of what John Cooper-Clarke would call 'meaningless epicness', so this album has songs called stuff like Clouds In The Morning, Rain At Dusk and Psalms Of The Planet and other such sweeping Whitmanesque flowery propositions, which you'd expect to have as much to do tonally with the songs as mountains have to do with chocolate ice cream bars, but the opener, entitled The Sounds Of Water Flowing Through A Stream, takes a leaf out of Una Bestia Incontrolable's book, and actually starts with the sounds of water flowing through a fucking stream. What sort of mindfuck is that!? Anyway, after a brief bit of countryside atmosphere and some gentle r'n'b slow jam floating along in the background the Lotus Fucker sound kicks in. Spindly feedback-drenched knife-edge hardcore shots. Splintering punk fury, powerviolence touchstones, weird babbling noisescapes, with short feral bursts of hardcore screech popping up wailing out of the murk.

It screams through eight of these nasty fast discharges, before the penultimate track, Berserk (Being Lost on the Road of Life), which is more of a mid-tempo rocker, albeit it one that still gurgles and fights for its life to avoid being drowned in that torrent of distortion, rolling along in this pandemonium, hitting a guitar solo that accelerates into the void before bouncing back into the groove and then crashing out into a violent incoherent renegade rant and train-rumble. WE ARE THE FUCKING GODS OF NOISE THERE'S NO FUCKING STOPPING US! Then though, despite that seeming like the perfect end to this bizarre angry punk violence, it goes into mellow piano-ballad with female Japanese vocals, which does detonate back into that Lotus Fucker derangement after a minute or so, bringing to mind the carefree genre-fuckery of Paintbox and their song A Field in the Moonlight in particular. It then rolls on for another six-minutes of up-and-down catchy cacophonies before fading out with dulcet videogame synths. I guess it's the sort of playfulness you can expect from a band that is so intense the lead singer will dive into the crowd on a crutch after fucking up their knee halfway through a European tour, and also makes My Neighbor Totoro parody shirts, inner peace through outer noise, stentorian silliness, heartfelt lacerations.

Friday, 7 December 2012

Boobs $hit - Fuckin' Brain Boobs $hit

Sublimely ridiculous Japanese pogo-noise that was apparently released on CD-r a few years ago getting put on translucent yellow vinyl with the colour-tone of a Lemon Sherbet or dehydration piss. This is simplistic, fast punk rock, all Anti-Nowhere League So What? force and Menace infectious with that cartoon UK82 childishness, bolted down and then above it a swirling glow of scribble-fuzz noise, flakes of sound in blizzard poise. The vocals trade-off on nagging strained bites and streetpunk singalongs, darting between the punch of the drums and the cordon of the upper levels of voluminous distortion, spewing the the scummy surface scrapings of spikey teenage gutterpunk degradation. It's the manic barking punx party of short attention desecrations and chaotic blown the fuck out becomings amongst flaresound static, a shot of vital Tom and Boot Boys/Disclapties style blah-blah-blah, a dispatch from the grimier side of circled-As, sticky overplayed cassette bootlegs of Confuse's Contempt For The Authority, And Take Off The Lie and Burst City studded jackets, where you pogo in weird-directions on beerslick floors and the show always ends in a fight. From Pogo Punx.

Thursday, 6 December 2012

School Jerks - School Jerks

When you come to write about all the music you've enjoyed in a year, certain trends tend to pop up, mainly when you find yourself repeatedly using the same word and digging about desperately in your head for some other term so you don't just find yourself saying things are 'manic' a million fucking times in a throw. This year, noise is obviously one recurring theme, same with snottiness, the other one is obnoxiousness. I like a lot of obnoxious snotty noisy music. Obviously not words that are usually used as positive endorsements, but punk music is a redefinition of what constitutes acceptable aesthetic aims, so all those quick dismissive negatives, sloppy, amateurish, stupid, unlistenable garbage, get twisted into exultations, shibboleths for those who have an open ugliness to them, embrace the shit and kick of the world, grazing themselves on its coarseness and laughing at it, rather than papering over it with platitudinous soft-rock conservatism. When you're reviewing a band like School Jerks, a term like 'vile piece-of-shit' is about as two-thumbs-up as you can get.

This sort of music fucking hates you, almost as much as it hates itself. It's the squirt of teenage arseholes, early 80s hardcore at its most primal, before the indie-rock reimaginings, the solo folk projects, the weird art-bents, the musical development of Minutemen or Husker Du who tilted at big expansive takes on the human absurdity, this is small lean angry fuckhead fury, when the speed and fury and were the thing beyond all else but nobody knew one fucking thing about the battered crapstick guitar they were wailing on so the metal-competence crossover was far far in the distance. It's a shabbily-carpeted a room full of hormones and wiry-weird bodies stuff with  insecurity and stunted self-definitions bouncing off each with bladed elbows and contorted ghoulish faces. A raw hardcore punk quarter-hour where a 30 second song doesn't feel like a tossed-off joke or a gimmicky aberration, just a point where all you had to say in the world was a half-minute howl of resentment.

The Men - Open Your Heart

Another band that mixes styles with ease, Open Your Heart is a lot more straightforward though than the Wiccans LP and indeed previous Men releases, jumping between styles, but generally between songs, rather than making a scatterbrained leap mid-song from one genre to another. It's got a bunch of straight-punk numbers, albeit ones that are done-up and drawn-out in the more epic manner of those worldbuilding Fucked Up sprawls. It's punk rock and it knows it, the opener shamelessly ripping off Stiff Little Fingers' all-time classic punk song Suspect Device, the title track borrowing possibly even more egregiously from the Buzzcocks similarly eternal and undying punk paean to teenage bad decisions Ever Fallen In Love. Beyond the punk, there's a spacey country shiver on the song Country Song (obvious clearly labelled as a warning for those 'anything but rap and country' illiterate bros), another sweet country hum on the wistful bummer Candy and some of the dizzy wailing noise-rock that they've dealt in more in the past on Presence before the album ends with Ex-Dreams a slab of mellow-but-insistent rise-and-fall hypnopunk in the vein of Husker Du's Reoccurring Dreams.

Wiccans - Field II

Cutting seamlessly between powerful hardcore and run-you-down garage-punk, Wiccans second album keeps you guessing. One second it'll you'll be snarling in that sort of bodily neanderthal regression caught-up in the chugging threat of a hardcore song and the next the song will have shifted into a tight Marked-Men  up-and-at-them poppy punk number, all tied together by those thick meaty vocals. It reminds me slightly in its fluctuations of I Farm's pop-punk/hardcore indecision, but the switches between the styles are handled in a much smoother manner. Just one song, Panthers in Wonder, runs from squirrelly noise and a Boys powerpop air into lo-fi Carbonas punk spikes fading and slowing into a weird ambient drone complete with unsettling spacey reverberations, before crashing back into a big mean fuck-you hardcore drawl, and then running out on relentless drums that go on for just a second too long for things to feel normal. That's just one song, and all the songs on the album have that restless urgency to them, rising and falling, slowing down into depressing stutters, speeding up again into squealing torrents of DRI/crossover guitar shredding, finding mid-tempo grooves to work and pick at for a little while before jumping off again and sprinting back into the noise or finding Jay Reatard synth-pop rhythms to cling to and nutty jazz-drum solos to ache with for 45 seconds or so on Psychic Mirrors, ending with its ultimate statement, the seven-minute long title track which vacillates between hard-rock and angry weird noise, then throws the two together and adds some folky acoustic strumming somewhere underneath, in a psyche-y stoner freakout that winds down into a spooky whisper that slides off into the background noise and darkness.

Vaginors - Total Nonsense

There's a shit-ton of great bands coming out of Australia at the moment. Bits of Shit, Total Control and these guys are probably my favourite, mixing the unhinged nature of Japanese noise-punk with the irreverent spite of stripped down American rock and roll. Following on from last years amazing Nuclear Papsmear LP, this seven-inch is more of the same from Vaginors: drums and bass that bounce happily along in the puddles of hiss and Wrangler Brutes/Crucifucks muppet-squawk vocals that could strip paint off a jacket. Vaginors play ugly silly impudent arsepop, they're like what Ke$ha would sound like if she really sounded the way that the tediously misogynist middle-aged beige-solemn dadrock IanMcEwan wankers imagine she sounds like in the harrumphing cavernous voids of their intellectually barren self-important Newsweek skulls. This is utter sonic idiocy, cut-off-your-nose-to-spite-your-dad, irritant punk fucken rock, pushed and taunted forward by the poke, pop and rumble of the rhythm section, as that Toy-Dolls-from-a-hell-dimension birdcall yaps about in agitant demonic freedom, screeching and sneering, devolving into manic animal noises and psychotic laughter. Total nonsense, revelling in absurd eejit innocence, stupid and marvelous nonsense.

Wednesday, 5 December 2012

The Wankys - Knock One Out

If there was ever a band I did not expect musical development from, it's The Wankys, who have been monomaniacally revelling in that uncouth flatnoise Swankys-worship rut since their inception, nevertheless, Knock One Out does seem to be a clear step, if not forward, then out of that particular dirthole. Every song still consists of simple bumbling basslines, fast monotonous drumbeats, borderline incomprehensible grating vocals and titanic waves of fizzing feedback that threaten to bury the rest of the song beneath a hellish gurgle, but all of those things have moved a little way away from the obdurate worldfuck squeal, the basslines are more melodic, the drums occasionally do THINGS, the guitar is sometimes used like what the way a normal person would use a guitar is and the fuzz, while still being a huge shrill toad squatting over the whole endeavour, isn't quite as oppressively rotten in its presence. Also, there is more diversity in the song topics, their previous album consisting of two songs about beer, four songs about punk rock, three songs about the destruction of the planet, three songs about feeling insane, one song about feeling betrayed and one song about someone you know getting a new dog, whereas on Knock One Out they sing (well, I say 'sing'...) about topics as diverse as fucking, the tribulations of modern poverty and the anguish of pain, and if there was ever a band whose vocals could convey the truth behind a song title like Shitty Pain, it's this one.

The whole thing has moved slightly from the uncompromising shitdin towards the kicking-off-the-walls silliness of pogo-punk. Well that's the development out the way, let's see what it still is: it's still obnoxious, it's still noisy, its still an album named after masturbation by a band named after masturbation, it's still the fucking Wankys, eardrum destroyers and ornery crudfuck noise brokers, packed with butt-burns-to-death abrasion, desperation and weird jabber-flange guitar, just with a bit more drunx fux streetpunx bounce wrapped up in that unpleasant grating static chatter.

Una Bestia Incontrolable - 10-11-12

There is a section in Berberian Sound Studio, one of my favourite movies of the year, where Toby Jones' character, a mild-mannered garden-shed sound-engineer from 70s England who ends up scoring a gorily ridiculous nunsploitation giallo movie, gets so caught up in the air of violence and pulpy satanic malevolence that his disintegrating psyche rebels and snaps back to the pastoral soundscapes hedgerows that he made his name documenting. Una Bestia Incontrolable, featuring members of Glam and Destino Final, close their first release with, De Dia, an unsettling drone of distant industrial-clunk overlaid with the sweet witterings of birdsong, as if these two aspects, the citystink and the field innocence were stumbling together, realities intercutting, spiralling into the same psychic space, as in the final moments a storm seems rumble into the frame. Before that cut-off apocalypse, 10-11-12 is a fierce ambitious noise-rock inflected hardcore rumble, like Deskonocidos scrapping with The Men's tougher stuff, or Fucked Up without any of uplifting grandeur. Starting with another instrument rumble in La Cova, Una Bestia Incontrolable make skid around in a tiz of furious scummy mid-tempo nastiness, a gritty meaty glut of noise-rub and skullcrack drums, frothing with gunk and setting the stage for the scary emptiness of the closer.

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

Terry Malts - Killing Time

This is an odd one. The music is scuzzy garage-punk, but as opposed to something like AAAA The New Memphis Legs, where the blockbuster noise swallows everything, here the vocals are put way up front to dominate and it just so happens that the vocalist here is a goddamn goldenthroat crooner, which means even though the music is a delicious babble of fuzz, the whole album feels way poppier and smoother than that. In places it reminds me of the Onion Flavored Rings, though it's simultaneous less spiky-scratchy and more noisy. The vocals roll everything into this sweet warm hum of earworm powerpop where even a humanist anthem like Not a Christian with its bitten crustcore-classic refrain of “NO GODS! NO MASTERS!” and its opening 10 seconds of deformed feedback seems like the happy buzz of a fourth pint, summerday smiles at being alone in the universe. Tumble Down sneaks the opening of Rocks in My Head by the Vindictives and bathes in clackety drums and ba-ba-bas. Nauseous rips into gear quickly and doesn't let up, contains a plethora of cutting guitar wheedles and snips, and even features a snotty spiteball of a chorus in "Your love makes nauseous!" but the ooh-ooh-ghosts and the general air instilled by those affable lounge pipes ameliorate any real menace leave the song and yeah this whole album with a feelgood melodious shiver.

Permaculture - Swallow What You're Given

Permaculture come out with 4 tracks of instant-classic female-fronted anarcho. It has that classic clear peace-punk delivery where the message will not be compromised and never, where the sung-spoken ire lays out the darkness and anger before building into fierce glam whoops and outraged yelps, which puts it firmly in a line of awesome angry-smart bands whose politics stood front-and-centre like a bandana'd black-bloccer smirkin' under the skulls and livin' Tahrir-KentState refractions mirrored in the unlife-blank masks of riot cop ranks from Poison Girls through A.P.P.L.E. and Whorehouse of Representatives to Surrender. Musically it's kinda it's own thing though, speedy and crunchy at times, slashing, underpinned my lovely bass melodies, but unafraid to slow things down into an intense sparse post-punk wander, cutting out at one point on Blindfolded for a swell of noise, starting Fear & Contempt with the intense-build of ominous horizons, Beg For More with a manic martial energy and spacey spirit-tracks.

Monday, 3 December 2012

Zyanose - Insane Noise Raid

14 minutes of meticulous clattering noise. Not quite as harsh as D-Clone, but harsher than almost everything else. Drawing from Confuse's heaviest moments, or a less rigidly structured Contrast Attitude, three-piece Zyanose (drums, bass and noise-bass) construct a clanky crunching rumble of crasher-crust noise-punk vice blast. Framed mainly around songs devoted to the seven deadly sins, this album apparently took three years to record and was rerecorded several times. Albums like this, music devoted in its aesthetic to ripping apart all conventional musical pursuits in its tumble and grunt, so often gets dismissed on the basis that anyone can make a fucking racket, and it's true, anyone can, and that's part of the glory of punk and noise and all those simple genres beholden more to attitude than to virtuosity, but information like that, about the construction of the music, shows the artistry behind a piece of raging crust dissonance. They wanted it like this. EXACTLY like this. From the thick bassline that dominates Gluttony, holding fast against the noise and screams, to the way Envy swirls with ghost-feedback before thrashing into a blast of demented anger and then fading back down into that murk, to the end of the album when all this cacophony runs itself down into a soft simple buzz-bass-riff that drifts awaylike a beast into the night with the noise still chirruping about it, this album could not be done any other way. The red and white messy chaotic liner notes, bustling with about five differnt logos and a load of skulls, give the lyrics, seven of the nine tracks focusing on a particular sin, laying it down to its bare bones in each crashing blast. Greed: Debriseaaghrr!!!!/End of polution by side of you/Parasite! Wrath: Government control/Keep myself/Answer in chaos. Those are those songs in their entirety, and that's all you need to rip the human mess to shreds, with the noise of the noise-bass, the blaring of the... INSANE! INSANE NOISE RAID!

Träctor - Macheta

Retching scratchpuke vocals over thin spiky garage hardcore. This was recorded live at a fest somewhere in Spain. It starts slow and builds. An intro instrumental that rolls up into a midtempo number that trucks about for a bit before exploding for the last 15 seconds. The bass is barely anywhere, highlighted by those dropouts on Matanza Nuclear II and that can add to the snatch and sharpness of it but sometimes you really want a huge thunderous crustbass assault to kick in. Those goddamn vocals though. It's like a throat run through a mangle with each strained yelp. Promising. And nothing to do with the Wurzels.

The Legs - AAAA the New Memphis Legs

Recorded in 2000 but unreleased until now, The Legs were a brief garage-punk project from Eric Friedl of the eternal Oblivians, Forrest Hewes of Neckbones and James Arthur. It's frighteningly basic stuff. Drunk incompetence, needle-poppin'-and-a-shiverin'-out-of-the-red blown-out recordings, songs as subtle as a prison riot, simple as a faceplant. Degenerate swagger and Suttree noise, fighting and loving and shaking something, wasted and worthless in a dive-bar where the walls are held together by the filth and the floor is stained with mud and bodily excretions, with no fucks given for a heat beyond this sticky hole. The animal bends of Been Kinda Lost, the bluesy dumbass stomp of Bill Dakota Knows, the solo on Doin' It Too Hard which flails about nastily and then locks back into the main riff before shaking itself loose again, this record is just good-time idiot rock-and-roll, loud and half-cut, wandering lost in the backwoods and then distorted into a crunching death-kick and ready to tear itself, and any nearby onlookers, dancers or foolish admirers apart with its dirty barfight energy.

Slang - Glory Outshines Doom

Slang do not do small. Their last studio-album emerging denominated with the hard-faced confrontation of a title that was LIFE MADE ME HARDCORE, daring a disagreement on that particular point, their live album they released since then was called WORLD PEACE QUESTION NOW!?, and now the awesomely declarative GLORY OUTSHINES DOOM, a huge crashing metalpunk crust attack with a shining skeletal angel emblazoned on its cover, living up to every inch of its bluster and pose with the brutality and exacting power of the sound. This is a big fucking record, the only thing that gets close this year is the new Tragedy. It's full of colossal chugging riffs, gravel-ripped vocals and chastening burning-spirit solos.

There's not much let up, a few seconds of bass-murmur at the end of 十二月ノ業~Happy Birthday to You~, the minute long sludge-kicker of 白昼夢 where the guitar-wail builds over the slime before throwing you straight back into another bloodfuck kick-to-the-back-of-the-head that is 焼却炉, the short acoustic interlude of もの言わぬ本 that shivers with threat because you know what's coming is just going to open up holes in the ground like mighty fucking earthworks. The gargantuan rolling sound plunges onwards, screaming upwards almost into noise on the peaks of 黒煙の輪郭, this album is a crushing salt-the-earth screed of leviathan bombast and colossal sonic spaces, Unicron-hunger and godless exaltation. It will stomp you down like and raise you up on its hardcore-punk thrash-monster wings. GLORY OUTSHINES DOOM, motherfucker. It's glorious.

Pusrad - Akta Dig/Smarttrams

Koro's 700 Club EP is one of the truly great 80s hardcore releases, however it does seem that it was sped-up in post-production, tarnishing the myth of this insane teenage-speed hardcore just a little bit. Pusrad are just as fast as Koro and even more intensely brief, releasing Smarttrams, which cuts through 7 tracks in 2:41, and Akta Dig, which is even more monomaniacal in its pursuit of brevity and pace, taking 75 seconds to blow through its 5 songs.

Just as D-Clone are pushing the noise of hardcore as far as they can take it, Pusrad are taking the second element of the genre's twin-gods in speed and attacking it with furious fucking insolence. These songs are buzzy mosquito pops, decurtate fastpunk finger-snaps, more melodic than powerviolence but just as furious. Now I just hope this doesn't come out that someone sped it up in the studio. These wounds don't need reopening.

D-Clone - Creation and Destroy

A short metallic snap of a drum gives about half a second of warning and then this album hits high gear pretty fucking immediately. Blown the fuck out d-beat noise-core, like Disclose were really pussy-footing around the issue or something, jeez. The band named as a quick-smiling nod to the uniformity of lineage from which they spring, in which they rot and fucking howl, but they grab this raw-punk snake by its tail and shake it harder, push it further, kick it nastier, hold a heavier load of fuzz and co to that damn thrumhead Discharge rubble-quick skin-trash. Clones they are, but mutant unsteady creations, with the DNA corrupted. They're fifth, sixth, seventeenth iterations, scummier and filthier copies and further sunk into the nuclear scream, edges battle-blurred and then borders broken, songs adumbrated in the scuttle-murk cacophony, hate-system incomprehension, bled and blasted harsh and high, humming with the nihilism of coming bombs, signal barely there.

This is scary uncompromising wargutter noise, all wired through this big-distortion connectors, lit-up and sprawling like power-station control boards. This fear is not an isolated spark, the symbols and stages of this thing were set time ago, and have been echoed and reset, rerun and static loaded. Noise is not a distraction here, it's the raw aching bloodied point, destroying with creation, flattening you, making you feel mutable and turned-about, open to great internal changes, chaos in the core, rats in your mouse guts, this fear that the bodied burst of hardcore-attack has altered us too much from our basic construction. Here is will, here is living in chaos, here is hatred, and here, in the way this rages, there is, as the band screams, something approaching a shining, bright point, as visions of world's ending, retro-apocalypses and workhouse god slaughters fall about, here is a single cracked entity constructed from three parts, a loudness, a stupidity and a hope, with a violence to all three, here is making punk future, Creation and Destroy. Noise not music. Punk rock fuck you.

Sunday, 2 December 2012

Bits of Shit - Cut Sleeves

Stooges swagger and gut and snot, rumbling basslines and the nasal bite of the vocals while the guitars flail and thrash about them. They've got the feel of the more bluesy New Bomb Turks numbers, and more than a hint of Eric Davidson's scathing wit to them as well. Wedding Song takes apart the facade of an unhappy marriage, constructing one of those great break-up songs where it's less about some specific fault but the unsteady foundation that this was built on, sneering "Two kids playing an adult game You can't fix your identity by changing your name".

Rock Sing excoriates the tedious old punk fucks who run through the same tutting bullshit they rebel against and have totally boomer'd up in their narcissistic accidental conflation of their own narrow tepid cultural narrative with the entire span of fucking human culture, whining "Their rock’n’roll IS noise pollution" about the teenage music of today. Red Blade snarls with mid-tempo slasher menace. Patrol begins with a sort of outraged-warning call-and-response that is filtered vocally through a Joey Vindictive pastiche of a reproaching mother and goes on to construct a short war song that never really comes down one side or the other in its condemnation but, like the whole albums, is bathed in an air of baleful contempt for fucking everything. This is mean, minatory rock and roll. On Homeless Records.

Sad Boys - Eat Shit

This is so much fun. Brief pogo-punk ditties with screechy female vocals, like The Grumpies meet The Disclapties. 12 songs, 13 and a half minutes. I have no fucking clue what any of these songs are about, but there is a song called Violent Violence, another call Crucidix. Pure obnoxion and it's all so bouncy and fun, the pop of the drums and the clamor of noise, the goofy-sweet almost Jughead-style simple guitar lines on songs like Frolic!, songs that begin with an intense squeal of feedback and glass being smashed as if it was a fucking leitmotif, the high-pitched squawk of the vocals snapping at everything through the noise and muddle. With this, the new Vaginors 7" and the inexorable glue-addled rise of Who Killed Spikey Jacket? there seems to be a minor-resurgence in that sort of dumb-as-fuck funpunk alley-dance-party Tom and Boot Boys shit, where the babble and spit of broken twitch-close arseholes kicks over the po-faced goodperson pronouncements of stale hippie shit and run away giggling.