Friday, 5 December 2014

Gaucho - Demo CS

Hispanophone dirt-beat hardcore from Toronto, members of S.H.I.T., rudimentary poundings, thick scratching as same scab that Mexico's Maquina Muerta, primitive, raw, laden-deep with anger and worldgrief. Brutalidad Policial shaking with drums to flatten buildings, scritchings in the murk, Maldita Sociedad hanging on a taut embryonic solo, snuffed out quickly in its squeakings, Sistema de Mierda circling a muddy drain, El Dia Final a monotonous thump through that viscous guitar burn, snagged on its rasping broken recitations: "MUERTE! MUERTE! MUERTE! MUERTE!" Cerebro Podrido similarly repetitive, the pain ground out through another elemental stomp. Five tracks on hardcore stripped down to its shivering skeletons, its gravelly bastard instincts, five tracks of shovel-blunt punk to stand with.

Thursday, 4 December 2014

Frau - Punk is My Boyfriend 7"

Following on from their killer demo turned 12", a devastating 7" from one of the UK's very best, bustedmachine feminist punk, cogs and pistons moving in different directions, skittering to a stop, spitting off bolts and washers. Goofier than the first release somewhat, but still packed with that same frenetic jerky energy, bristling with stabbing power. Punk is my Boyfriend a defiant punk tantrum, moving from a tightly coiled bassline to a staccato thrash to a driving drumbeat as the vocals take over: "PUNK IS MY BOYFRIEND! PUNK! I DON'T NEED NO MORE FRIENDS!" Snakeskin and Orca winding with animal rules, Snakeskin that of consumption and rebirth, Orca of imprisonment, freedom, self-affirmation. Snakeskin rumbling and stomping, Orca leading with a sinewy guitar line skidding it's way razor-keen across a wavery danceable rhythm, the song building with frustration, repetitions devolving in clarity, rising in fury and feeling: "I DON'T BELONG IN THIS POOL/I BELONG WITH MY PACK/CAPTIVITY'S FOR TEACHING/AND I'M BITING BACK." it screams. "I BELONG IN THE DEEP/I BELONG IN THE DEEP/I BELONG IN THE DEEP". An unstoppable live force, their annihilating fire is here on full display.

Saturday, 29 November 2014

Arms Race - Gotta Get Out EP

Meanmugging rough London hardcore bursting with hoarse fury and Oi!-toughened conviction. 6 tracks of storming anger, packed with righteous violence, simplistic solutions for pederast politicians and corrupt cops. Hang the Scum, Kill the Bill, no words minced, just fury in scything guitars, stomps and leers, aggression unbound. Bastard a tear of online alienation, dropping into a muddy half-singsong trudge. Gotta Get Out thumping in like a terrace chant, ripping apart a life with fucked-off spit "HATE MY JOB/HATE MY LIFE", aware of it's own futility but also cognizant of the fact that that doesn't really mean shit when you're living in a blank hole of depression and drudgery, like a half-asphyxiated mutant digging out of the old Animals song. "SAME OLD STORIES YOU'VE ALREADY HEARD/IT'S TIRED, IT'S RECYCLED BUT IT'S FUCKING TRUE." On My Face showing up rage as a wild unhinged form of vulnerability, cos that level of guttural rage comes from a deep dark place, one usually sublimated in the day-to-day mechanics of survival, it gathers together the angers, personal and political and bites them off one by one. "IT'S ONE LAW FOR THEM AND ANOTHER FOR US/AND THERE AIN'T A CUNT ON THE STREETS THAT I CAN TRUST/GIMME A PEOPLE THAT CAN FUCKING FEEL/SHOW A CITY THAT'S FUCKING REAL."

What really pulls the songs here together though is the final track, Mongrel Crew, and its flailing leviathan of a fucking singalong, one of those huge gang-lore screamers that gets right down into your bones with its hooligan bundling, laying waste to the stress and shite drawn on the other songs just through the sheer obliterating power of that punk/hardcore communal violence, packed with self-mythologising, the city geography so loathed on On My Face marked as territory, a couple punk nods to past and present (Conflict's The Ungovernable Force, the band's own label Quality Control). A chorus that makes the personal anguish of Gotta Get Out and On My Face slip away, the societal wrongs-rightings of Hang the Scum and Kill the Bill be just a swing of a fist away, a tangible arm-in-arm possibility. "OI! OI! MONGREL CREW/WE'RE MONGREL ARMY AND WE'RE COMING FOR YOU!" While most of the songs here make you wanna break the world, rearrange it with kicks and glassings, 45 seconds into Mongrel Crew and you fucking can.


Monday, 24 November 2014

Replica - Beast EP

Another EP of faithful-to-the-line boot-tough fiery hardcore from these Bay Area's finest. Terrifying pace, dropping with unfuckwithable precision into rugged stomps and pulling out again, retaining a focused fury throughout. Trust a rage of betrayal, turning back in on itself, intoning the title with a sickened growl. Imagine Sisyphus burning with a stubbornness, turning over with just small requests in the face of a futile day-to-day, little nuggets of meaning grasped at "I ASK TO BE A FUCKING PERSON IN THIS WORLD. I ASK TO HAVE A NAME." Night Life struggles with obliteration, Beast with violence, chugging mean and dirty, racing with mach one desire, trudging to a stop. Six stone bullets of hardcore, dealing brutal visions of a painful world, through rugged vocals, all deep snarl and long-cultivated disdain, whirling along with the threshing speed.

Good Throb - Fuck Off LP

"SCORN. It is the opposite of the get-along, go-along, Jimmy Fallon kumbaya team comics gang. “Be more positive!” they say. “Nah son,” you say as you smile back, canines showing from ear-to-ear.

Let scorn into your heart. Sometimes you look at something and the most it’ll get out of you is a half-hearted smh. Sometimes the physical aspect of the thing is more useful than whatever pleasure you could glean from it. Sometimes you see something and the only thing you want to do is kick a hole in it for even existing in your reality." - David Brothers, in response to the question 'What is an emotion you think is undeservedly discarded? '

A band at the centre of London's sick punk scene, all the members taking part in other bands that combine to make the capital of this rain-drenched shit fascist island home one of the killingest punk scenes on the planet right now, No, Frau, Snob, Dregs, Semi, Personnel, all taking differing approaches to punk and hardcore and all tearing it up. And Good Throb, a teased and bent punk, as danceable as it is dangerous, tottering insistent basslines winding through springy scampering rhythms, vituperous guitar that shines with its teeth-bared, vocals spitting and scarring, tearing through contemporary life (inside and out) with swingeing wrath.

Piercing annoyances abound, shit blokes, mormons, morons, cut into snapshots and fleeting visions, caught in a strobe light, like Acid House's litany of nasty/ridiculous modern collocations. "CAT SHIT/WHITE GLOVES/FOLK PUNK/CHEAP DRUGS" the incremental pile-up of cultural and social debris, unraveling the stark viciousness of London living in cutthroat asyndetons, crashing out one after another in fierce clarity. The wobbly blur of nightclubs brought out on the shiver and snarl of Psycho Disco, "PSYCHO DISCO/BUNCH OF CUNTS/TRYING TO LAUGH/AT YOUR SHTITY STUNTS" broken down, the clinging heat of the tube on the stumbling Central Line "PUSH AND SHOVE/GOT TO COMPETE/AVOID EYE CONTACT/GET A SEAT". The broken stop-start rhythm of these accretions of tediously quotidian shit help the record reverberate with a nervy anxious energy, always on guard for another complication to rise and rip you from whatever brief moment of peace you were reaching for, no single outrage, just one more needle in the eye, one more tiresome chunk of angst on the stinking scrapheap of your day. This energy lives also in the way the music nags and clips at you, rickety catchy with that panicky post-punk shuffle, rawly wrought, jagged in its soldering, edges gleaming.

And these vexatious moments and situations eat at you, leaving you crawling with monstrous emotions to wrestle with, confronted and dissected here with smashgrab disbelief, Jealousy breaking apart into retching, Mummy I'm Ugly's manic self-loathing, Crab Walk's drunken embarrassment, No Taste's bile-drenched embrace of pariahdom, alternating puerile and splenetic, digging into the shit, the bare punk life, fucking the tone-police, getting into the ugly parts, the uncomfortable, the gauche and garish realness, Double White Denim's no-fucks-given cutloose triumph, You're Shit's unbridled anger, "STUPID FACE/ANNOYING TWAT/VACANT SMILE/JAUNTY HAT", Dog Food Dick's eviscerating rage, "PIECE OF SHIT MAN/SEES WOMEN AS FUCKS".

Sharing with Hank Wood and the Hammerheads' Go Home not only a two word imperative for a title, but a deep familiarity the pains and pangs of urban existence, the clatter and clash of too many lives shoved into an unknowable sprawl of concrete and commerce, Hank Wood bloodying up New York with blunt repetition, Good Throb doing a number on a London constantly under-construction with its own tear-it-up toughness, Fuck Off is the words under your breath as you navigate office politics, late night public transport, shit jobs, shitter parties, bad mornings, terrible empty nights, vocalised harshly and stuck into a reconfigured ricochet-snap sourpunk, it's the tension unleashed, the frustration exploding into a blur of fearless emotional shrapnel, skirring about the room, goin hard with phlegm to spare.

Saturday, 22 November 2014

S.H.I.T. - Generation S.H.I.T. 7"

The second 7" from Toronto's S.H.I.T., nailing down their place as one of 2014 hardcore's brightest burning fires. Four tracks of death and alienation, vacant scrapings gathered, soldered, shone up into a whirring fury of modern existence, with shivers of Gauze, Inmates, Gudon and the like. The war whip of Eraser II, the blankness of distanced violence ("HUMAN TERROR/COLD TECHNOLOGY/GOD'S OWN POWER/AT TERMINAL VELOCITY") brought home, close and smoldering. Fuck All a frustrated bite, the vocals a deep bloodied sneer, "OBLIVIOUS INCOMPETENT BELIEF/FESTER IN THE PRIDE OF THE NAIVE". Mockery 1-2 beat and shivering guitar butting into a simplistic jabbing punk fragment. Generation Shit's guitar scribble, constant clatter and smeared out thrum comprising a scuttering anthem of blossoming anger. "THEY ARE THE NEW WASTE/THE DISPOSABLE YOUTH/A GENERATION OF SHIT/NO FUTURE FOR YOU" it rips in a dragged apart bawl. Angry beyond measure, scoured and shaped into a fierce nihilistic violence. "NAPALM THE KIDS"

Thursday, 20 November 2014

DiE - Vexed EP

"Because what did it mean to say that something represented a cross between primitive insensitivity and chillingly inane emptiness in a bottomless pit of unbridled dark?!" - Laszlo Krasznahorkai, Satantango

Concrete cunt UK hardcore following up one of last years best seven inches. Eight tracks of grimworld negativity, enacted in tenebrous churning punk perfection, drawing on hardcore's many curdled corners. Monotony thrumming with Discharge fire, Exterminate wailing Pig Champion surly, throughout there are deep veins of Chaos UK bluntness, SSD waste-laying. A seemless melding of hardcore's hate-heavy highlights, its darkest distillations, all utilised to construct a EP of heady desolation, almost rejuvenating in its relentless punch, its unmitigated bleakness, a holistic disgust. Pressure all expiring gasps and claustrophobic panic, BTK searing with serial killer malevolence, Exterminate bitter and murderous, a brief existence of where "DEAD-EYED DEMONS PREY UPON THE WEAK" in Dark, "MIND IS MANACLED/BRAIN IS CHAINED" on Life Sentence, "NO LIFE'S WORTH LIVING WHERE MONOTONY REIGNS" on Monotony, just your purest nihilistic affectations made flesh, indulgent hate, all laid out together, the temporary joys of life blotted out by Life Sentence's knife-edge guitar flails, Pressure's hostile thump, your brow furrows, your lip curls into a sneer, your voice drops into a threatchoked deadness, your movements restricted into brutal simplistic bluster and temporarily become one with the gloom, living long minutes in that mean tough shell, ready to bite heads off, Ready to Rot.

That kind of unremitting dejection is unsustainable, but it's a place that a lot of us have lived in at times, have got drunk and dirty on in the worst moments, the panic attacks, the depressive episodes, the enduring anxiety and pummeling hopeless funks, and the tools used to deal with the shit, that abjection of self, that self-transformation into a self-named bastard, that concomitant desire to just listen to 80s hardcore bands singing about dead soldiers and suicidal ideation, killer cops and cop killers and heroin overdoses, to obsessively play that music from waking up at noon to sleeping at four, those tools call out to you, lie unused and rusting when you do finally move on, find a better place for your head to be at. DiE are built from that energy, they're crafting and carving with those exact tools, and for a ten minutes you can slip freely into that bastard mindset, into that hard cunt animus, roiling in malice and despair in a cathartic engagement with the worst of the world, for that ten minutes you breath the gagging smog, taste the blood on your teeth, scratch with the spite, devolve, swing and turn with the vigor of the falling, the luster of the damned, before you come up for air again, you can abandon that hard-earned hope like a dog-end tossed casually into the gutter, for that Vexed ten minutes you can feel the fucking hate.

Monday, 17 November 2014

L.O.T.I.O.N. - Second Audio Document 2014 CS

Brutal cyberpunk smearings, inept industrial thumpings, noisepunk static swirlings, voices like bugs in the machine given angry life. A broken fifth-generation corrupted rendering of Butthole Surfers digital growls, a lowdown lump of sub-basement Atari Teenage Riot electronic mess burbling and choking. "CELEBRATING THE NEWEST FLAVOR OF DIET COLA KNOWN TO GIVE RATS CANCER." The final track a long warnoise instrumental, drill screamings and oppressive helicopter throb.

Sunday, 16 November 2014

No Sir I Won't - The Whole Fucking World is Shit 12"

Goddamn No Sir I Won't are kind of a bollockache. After getting monstrously excited by their demo & first single their first 12" sent me into a tizzy where I got all worked up over the idea of the paradox of worship bands as resistance music before chilling myself out reconciling to the idea of repeated music for repeated struggles. Now their new 12" EP The Whole Fucking World Is Shit features some of their tightest stuff, really fulfilling that literate catchiness, that taut and sharpened rage that they hinted at with More Politicians and then it's got Radio Shit, Radio Shit, as tight a song as they've made, a real Subhumans sort of banger, clicking with sing-song rhythms, but lyrically dumb as dirt.

And okay, stupidity is fucking great in punk rock a bunch of the time, the puerile inanity of noisepunk, the pogo brain damage, the slackjawed monotony of a million generic d-beat crews and garage-punk knuckleheads, but a wordy anarcho band is hinged as much on making salient points about the power-structures it's kicking at as it is on successfully replicating the Bullshit Detector aural aesthetic.

Basically, there are certain modes of stupidity, certain types of idiocy that play and certain types that don't. A lot of punk (a lot of music? a lot of art?) is maybe trying to capture certain epiphanies and feelings that read as teenage. The pure warmth of feeling like there's a song/a band/a genre that is grabbing at your very soul, the coming up into realisation of how fucked the world is along with the conviction that you can make a tangible difference, but this growing up is an spikey uneven process. When I was 17 and reading Noam Chomsky, convinced I was some fucking real radical, I was still churning inside with unacknowledged internalised bigotries, born of a systemic indoctrination that I felt I was finally smart enough to see, but in reality I obviously was nowhere near smart or perceptive enough to grasp its true pervasiveness of and just how much it was still living inside of me.

Referring to anyone who makes pop music as 'scabs and turncoats', as Radio Shit does, referring to anyone who listens to it as 'fallen masses' in the savior-complex pompous condescension of a 17 year old who many doesn't have many real friends but knows an awful lot about death metal or jazz-fusion (or punk, obviously) to make up for it. That's fucking rockism at its height. There are certain modes of that teenage expression that ring true, the enthusiasm, the anger, but there's a lot of ugly shit, a pervading isolation that leads to the conviction that you're somehow different, which splits into two simultaneous feelings, one of self-loathing and alienation, and also of smug superiority and a million self-congratulatory "Still listening to this in 2014" and "You say Nicki Minaj/I say Led Zeppelin" YouTube comments.

You wanna capture that rawness, that feeling, maybe here trying to articulate and bring another life to the spit and fire that popped in your head the moment you first stumbled across Crass, overheard at a cooler punk friend's house, tucked away on the back half of some mixtape, in a youtube link thrown your way offhandedly and then replayed 18 fucking times straight. But you don't have to simultaneously roll with the snorting contempt for 'normals' or, the cackhanded dismissal or disbelief that anyone could have a genuinely transformative emotional experience with art that does not speak to you, that people who are blasting Beyoncé or Taylor Swift can't be invested in the struggle, you're not radical there, you're Liam Gallagher farting on about Jay-Z at Glastonbury, you're a shit old man complaining that bands don't sound like The Beatles anymore. "Radio was once the voice of the people." claims The Third Step, Radio Shit's clattering chaotic intro. The fuck it was. That sounds a fucking Gaslight Anthem lyric, and you wanna be swerving as far away from that conservative tapioca-Sorkin vision of the past as you really can. Punk is very fucking susceptible to believing its own revolutionary hype, to playing into that media-narrative of itself as the TRUE REVOLUTIONARY MUSIC, punkism as a ugly offshoot of lazy rockism, and if you're making revolutionary punk, you should be about kicking that fucking myth to pieces.

It's a fucking shame, cos the songs on this EP really are killer. And a firm recreation first mindblowing epiphany of real punk attack is handily realised a lot of the time. Sharp barbs of anarcho-punk, like Radio Shit really closer to the Subhumans' compact bombs than the Crassic sprawl of songs like When You Gonna Realize? on The Door, these songs are stripped to their gleaming edges with no goth shiver that accompanies much of the modern day takes on the subgenre, just pure clear rage, throbbing and marching, herky jerky riffs bouncing like demented puppets, catchy basslines and itchy panicked guitar scrape, falling into and rising out of apocalyptic sound collages rippling with threat and chaos and doom. The vocals snapping with venom, slithering with demented hope, punching with power, asking real questions, playing characters, caricatures, carrying like crowd chants over police lines. Songs like Broadcast Tower with its 1-2 stomp, Bring the Boys Back Home with its peppy yelps, The Third World with its gentle guitar trickles filtering through the fury and indignance, are small masterpieces of restless punk shiftings, skipping from crash to shuffle, blunt messages of resistance delivered with real conviction, "MAYBE THE BOSSES DON'T GIVE A FUCK", creeping dawns of solidarity spotted somewhere off in the dark, making you keep fighting, dancing. And keeping fighting is important, just as keeping dancing is. Just don't be real fucking 100% oi-mate-i'm-punk punk dickheads about it, you know. Nicki Minaj fucking rules, mate.

Wednesday, 12 November 2014

Brain F≠ - Empty Set LP

Brain F≠'s 2nd LP of shabbily-hewn punk rock, catchy and crunching, poppy but not pop punk, gruff but not gruff punk. Flatly sweet, demonstratively sharp, Nick Goode and Elise Anderson's vocals cutting across each other, erasing and supporting each other, in dry knowing drawls and spiteful snaps. Dangerhouse dirt, a thickened and filled-out Avengers, a dented and kicked-in Thermals. Evocative visions of human mess spiralling and zagging through, faded scenes, wasted wishes. "We used the city like a fulcrum/Were we dumb?/We used our arms we used our hands to communicate and bent and bent and bending we make it work it until our backs break" on Fulcrum. "You want everybody on the balcony, mais/Secret's wrapped in money in the bathroom doorway/Gotta throw some pocket change to play/We lie like kings, lay all day" on Dirty Realism. 10 punk cuts with the shine rubbed off, the bruises still visible.


Teledrome - s/t LP

Super-catchy synthpunk moving with the same clackety robotic precision as the Spits, but not kicking sparks, warbling with the futuro-nostalgia of Buggles, a wistful tune to hum as your spaceship spins into the infinite airless yonder. Robot silly, android hearts crackling with rust, learning, growing, jealousy/abandonment/lust just bugs in the program, unrequited alarm beeps, heartbreak does not compute but it still hurts. The drums flat and stark, the synths as high cutting prows slicing through, as tickling electric burbles running under, as skittering chirps or wide-open vistas for you to get sucked into as the whispers get to you on Boyfriend, the confusion roots you to the spot in Spirals, the life slips out on Blood Drips, those synth melodies whooping and warping through you with goofy cybersadness. Laserprecision bummerpunk for broken machines.

Absolut - Punk Survival LP

Crunching hardcore in the international mode, matching that Scandi-bombblast to the squeal and wail of Japanese legends like The Sexual or Deathside, thick gory riffs, vocals echoing back into the raw thunder and hail like deathhowls blown futile away in the night. Your Fraud chugs with motorpunk purpose, it's guitars bend gracefully above the storm before faltering and collapsing back into the roiling sea. Neo Fuckers gouges out thick rents in the pavement, its solo a slipping and squirming beast, the drums relentless, the vocals one more animalistic tear. Loveless Noise building out of one manic squealing into another, one chaos slips into a deeper one. 9 songs of full and bloodwarm hardcore punk, burning and bludgeoning, no rest, no quarter given, Punk Survival.

Tuesday, 11 November 2014

The Repossessed - demo CS

Eye-scratching feminist hardcore punk from Sheffield, brief and biting,  bold and blunt, all the waste burnt off. The guitar a garage-raw scrape, the vocals a bitter scream. Shifting from crude thumps into searing choruses. "MAKE YOUR OWN UTOPIA/OR BURN EVERYTHING DOWN!" on Make Your Own Utopia, "TRY! TRY! TRY! OR DIE! DIE! DIE!" on Try "IT KILLS ME, KILLS ME KILLS ME!" on Falling Down. Lyrics reiterating struggles lived and lumped, the inevitability of failure running up into the impossibility of surrender. The Repossessed stamp with the repetitive chickenwire punk of Buck Biloxi and the Fucks, bloodied up with the sore savagery of Neopunkz or other early 80s hardcore cutting hard and fast.

Friday, 31 October 2014

Snob - s/t 7"

Muddied up hardcore punk out of the pulsating current London scene. It's Crazy Spirit/Disorder trashthrash, early-Rudimentary Peni clatter and sputter, a thick guttural bass roll, a skinning guitar skid grouting over the gaps, occasionally slipping up and crashing into weird broken shards. Matter-of-fact vocals laying down tracks that build in spite. Harassed, like Hysterics Leave Me Alone, displays a burning anger stoked and compounded every day, rising from fear "CAN'T COUNT THE TIME/I'VE FELT TERRIFIED" to righteous destruction "RIP THEIR EYES FROM SOCKETS/RIP THEIR TONGUES FROM THEIR MOUTHS." Mother a terrifically dismissive snap sneering at the fuckwitted fedoraed ranks (actually, it's about ethics in games journalism). Piss a panicked primitive shout, the classic hardcore punk trick of sticking a puerile song about bodily fluids in with five furious attacks on shit that matters, like Send in the Mayor, wavering and whispering and darting forward, hanging out to dry every pub bore's favourite post-satirical bumbler. Buzzing with energy, trapped down in its shitty punk hole, kicking dirt into everyone's faces.

Wednesday, 29 October 2014

Perspex Flesh - s/t LP

Grimey anti-social anti-self hardcore from one of the UK's best bands doing it. Noise from dark places, the filth and pressures that life struggles forward and cracks apart under, all the little annihilations, all the real stones in your shoes, nails in your eyes, bubbles in your blood. It explodes with physical humours and decay, bile and bitterness, body and brain succumbing, betraying you. "CHEST TIGHTENS AND BRAIN BLEEDS BLACK/SKIN STRETCHES UNTIL IT STARTS TO CRACK." on Perspex Flesh. "WELLED INSIDE MY STOMACH CHURNS/A DARK FORCE STARTS TO BURN" on Cancer Black. It reels with streetviolence on Feeding Time, antithetical to a triumphalist hooligan stomp, panicked, bad nights and catastrophic consequences. "GLAZED HOOLIGAN EYES DESTINED TO FIGHT/38 BLOWS TO THE HEAD/LEFT IN THE GUTTER TO DIE."  There's anxiety physicalised as a destructive force, in the choking silence of Tongue-Tied ("WORDS TRAPPED/BITTEN TONGUE/TONGUE-TIED/ACHING LUNGS"), the warping terror of Prison of Glass "MAN AT THE MIRROR/HE DOES NOT SEE/IMAGE OF HIMSELF/PAITNED FEAR COMES FREE." All this pain and paranoia realised in apocalyptic swirl and clamor, shivers and screams, the clank and whistle, crash and convulsions, thumping hardcore assaults, frenzied punk retches, moments when the songs empty out into the drip and whisper of factory echoes, ugly necrotising emotions sucking in lifeforce and breathing out deadening threat. Unnamed things snarlsing and scuttering about in the murk.

Monday, 27 October 2014

Orden Mundial - Obediencia Debida MLP

Raw Mallorcan punk exploding with bite. Sharing members with Maquina Muerta but working with more range and space in their Wretched-raddled fury. Hardcore punk done up all screaming bright and staticky rough, the guitar tone a textured buzz, an undulating prickle of noise over quick shifts as the songs bark and scratch. The vocals matching the music torment for torment, rawness to rawness, deep and scathing and exposed. Son Fantasmas a scornful swagger, cracking apart into feedback squalls, grunts and drumrolls retreating like a spider into the dark. Gusanos a plodder and breaker, settling into a monotonous groove that builds in threat and promise, guitar scrawled over the top like wild childish graffiti, aimless tangle of noiselines obscurant. Accion Humanitaria has a similar dance, a steady streetpunk roll under morsecode blips, wild wirey guitar freakouts always ready to burst forth as on Camino Inevitable's manic scrabbling. Fosas Abiertas that wellworn ironic punk march amongst the din, the feedback pulled and roughly manipulated into sharp steel flowers of high broken vengeance, squeaks and peaks of rage for humanity, against leaders and wars and the putrefying grasp that is present in each trapping violence.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Bishop's Green - Pressure LP

Bishop's Green could conceivably be described as 'old man streetpunk' which is a subgenre of punk that is usually responsible for the worst shit in the world, tepid, tedious, conservative blokery, middle-aged men with strong takes about what's wrong with society which revolve more around 'disrespect' and 'wimpiness' rather than 'patriarchal capitalist white supremacy'.

Too often punk is torn up from its wild teenage anguish, this is a natural consequence of punk's age as a subculture, further away now from Sid Vicious donning a swastika than Sid Vicious was from Hitler donning it, despite it's self-renewing athanasia, its constant wave of teenagers discovering Discharge or the Dickies or the Dicks for the first time, there are many who have grown old with the same, uninterested in the punk of 2014, who couldn't give a shit for the fresh new shit bursting out of every corner of the globe, The Friday, Las Otras, No Form, Anomaly, Stranger, S.H.I.T., hundreds of other bands that keep me in a constant self-excoriating struggle to get on top of writing-wise, a hundred punk bands live every minute, and these reviews are a somewhat sisyphean attempt to try and do justice to this breathing spurting culture that sustains me so often.

But do those motherfuckers, those barpunk cunts give a solitary fuck? Nah, they're just listening to The Clash again, happy in the knowledge that this makes them radical, for many tedious old motherfuckers, just the idea that they're 'punk' is enough to justify themselves. And maybe that's inevitable, and maybe that's cool, the young need their new fresh spaces, the dismissive fuckery of old shits is just gonna give em fire, but it's still tiresome, to stumble across all those "they-don't-make-em-like-they-used-to" self-satisfied nods of people who came to awareness in a culture specifically aimed at smashing that attitude to pieces.

Why then have I listened to this oldman streetpunk album like 50 times in the past two weeks? Well, one thing is that the tunes are really fucking good. The other is probably that it's as far from self-satisfied as you can get. While it does have its choral moments, it offers picketline chants while not forgetting the picketline is a shit place to be, yes it's beautiful and communal, but you're hungry and cold, you're skint and angry. It's a place you don't choose to be, it's a place you're forced to be by circumstance and the strength you find there is in spite of your lot in the world, not because of it.

Bishops Green know bad days. They know the asphyxiating grip of labour. "Working all day, same old story. Watching the clock, I'm losing my mind." on Gross and Net. "You never had a chance to get ahead, no education/Got pushed down from the start, not many options." on Rat Race.

It turns on the wistful wryness of Cock Sparrer's Because You're Young, the battleworn hardiness of contemporary Cockney Rejects, the shit and youthful sneer and bark of Bad Man or Flares 'n' Slippers not there, but the big melodic sweep of Thin Lizzy-infused punk rock like Your Country Needs You or Back To My Roots. There is a sense of the road travelled in these songs, the nights and days spent dogtired and bonesick, beaten down by bosses, customers, aching feet, deadened minds, looking for oblivion as respite.

Those melodic basslines, those warm crunching guitars, the vocals smooth but laced with grit, the working class pride a deep needed succor not a smokescreen of shit and ignorance, unions and strength, in times of austerity, belt-tightening, downturns, whatever euphemisms given for the shit fucking state of things, the personal pains and tragedies of poverty engendered by the avarice of the city and the cowardice of the state. I mean that Rejects song Your Country Needs You, despite being utterly fuckwitted in the worst oldmanstreetpunk way possible, lyrically reading like something in the ballpark of UKIP Calypso, (sample lyric: "Stand up, beat your chest, when you hear God Save the Queen") really does kick shit with the best of them, it does get you fucking moving, and Bishops Green are much tighter, much sharper, lyrically, riding that line between drain-circling despair and forward momentum, avoiding easy moments, avoiding the angry populism of 'angry white man chants by professional musicians' that punkcritic/shitbucket Ben Weasel laid into on the song Tightrope, before he himself mutated utterly into that "I FORT PUNK WOZ SPOSED TO BE ABOUT PISSIN PEEOPLE OOFFF" caricature that live propping up the bar at shit dingy metal pubs across the country. With Bishop's Green, the reality of lines like "It's the same dance that we fight for/I'm telling you it's not enough" hit hard.

This pensiveness makes the times when it does break through, the times when it does see a light, "Cause I have walked with giants/Can't forget my past/Smash the shadows around me/There's no turning back." on Night Terror, the mantra of "Tomorrow brings us hope" repeated firmly on Tomorrow, more powerful, they're not aimless, naive, they're determined and rooted in pain, so a line like the title track's "Fucked up system/Burn it to the ground." is delivered as a soft growl of a rueful truism as much as a kick-the-doors-in rallying cry, following it not with a searing solo, but with a retreat back into quiet melancholy. It's left to sit and simmer, so you reflect on its impossibility as much as its opensky dreaming. Midtempo punk tunes, full of tense vulnerability and catchy power, full of wake singalongs, and bitter knowledge.

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Party Plates - s/t EP

Real dirty Cleveland hardcore from Inmates people, a furious grubby bass ripping and curling underneath, holding it all together in rubbedraw anguish. Kidnapping Quatro pushed forward at a relentless pace, vocals breaking and screaming, the guitar reverberating out with a tone something like a death-rock shiver that's been beaten and bloodied, lost its airy grace in favour of bladed killing power. Disforeplay more midtempo, digging into thicker grooves. Intro walks with a deep drowning chugging like a steam engine, unintelligible screaming and bellows sing-songy children taunts before it breaks into the metalpunk rumble Galloping Ghost, motorpunk rhythms, that fuzzknackered bass murk, the guitar snatching and scratching, as it falls apart into demonic growls and a thick blush of unsteady self-destruction.

The Number Ones - The Number Ones

Scrappy power-pop from Ireland, living that Protex/Undertones feel, kicking with more modern bands like The Love Triangle, Sheer Mag, Nightmare Boyzzz. Golden-throated, broken-hearted, electrified emotions channeled and chopped into brief two-minute bursts of pure shuffle/shaking feeling, dancefloor punk classics with sugar and bounce, pop-rocks and cola spit, from the stab and stop Heartsmash, Sixteen's tumbling runner, He's Too Good whatever drawl, to the just 100% all-the-way banger Sharon Shouldn't, all itchy-fuzz scritchy and sweet-voiced in equal measure. Power-pop exists as pretty much the perfect singles genre, often tiring in full-length form, but The Number Ones don't outstay their welcome, keeping it at a nipped-and-tucked 20 minutes of tight, melodic and moody, smooth and stinging, crackling fizzbang whizzpunk. Timeless tunes with the eternal ecstatic energy of the turbulent and sparking emotional present.

Bitch School - Get Nasty On You EP

It sounds like Girl School. The fuck else you want?

The Combat Zone - s/t LP

Negative Boston hardcore coming with straight up ugly loner shit, built from the barbrawl-bruised scraps of Jerry's Kids energy, clattering train-track relentless and smacking with that real rudimentary broken energy, drum-thump to guitar snap, working at barely coherent purposes, strung-together with wire and contempt, stomping and slithering on Give Me War, pounding on Run and Hide, tense and taut on Fucked Up Head, rollin hard into the riot on Inevitable, the vocals a thick SSD snarl of grit and venom, breaking out into some shoutalong Iron Cross goonspite on Stay Away and Bottom of the Charles. "SOCIAL REJECTION! LEAVE ME ALONE!" bites Untamed, "NO EYE CONTACT DON'T LOOK AT ME/I DON'T NEED SOCIETY" on Stay Away, "I'M A CLASSY GUY/I'M AN ANTI-SOCIALITE" goes A.S.M.

A monomaniacal devotion to topic, as hockey and beer are to the Hanson Brothers, as being awesome and snakes are to The Awesome Snakes, so is anti-social fervour to The Combat Zone. How do I hate the fucking world? Let me count the ways. Every song reaffirming its obsession with, its binding ties to, isolation and alienation, a hostile cough contracted inhaling the sickness of society with no filter, living its violence, withdrawing then spitting it back out with fierce simple disgust. Waking up every morning with an unmovable pissy scowl. Malice-drenched, grudge-tough and ready to ruck. "VIOLENCE IS REAL. HATE IS A DRIVING FORCE" proclaims the back cover. "ENJOY IT OR GO FUCK YOURSELF."

Friday, 17 October 2014

Tercer Mundo - Ser Nosotros Mismos

The first 12" from these Mexican punx, following on from their killer EP. Eight scrabbling hardcore punk tunes in a little under twelve minutes. Striking a balance between biting rawness and catchy rock and roll, Tercer Mundo have crafted one of the best punk releases of 2014. The title track opens mid-tempo, guitar whispers and a matter-of-fact sung-spoken vocals, before crashing apart, tumbling down into a pained bellowing. Similarly, Veijas Glorias runs an insistent post-punky riff around for a while until it as well blows up. Songs like Horrible Realidad are a thrumming tear from the off, but even then pulling back to redouble the scathing sonic attack. Tercer Mundo uses these punchy scuzz-forged hardcore punk to rip into the centre of a fucked society, to expose its ills, its crushing bleakness, and to find the dinged-up creaking human heart that lives and and burns within those fucked spaces.

 Opener Caidos sets the rage: "THEY HAVE FALLEN IN THIS WAR/THEY HAVEN'T GONE, STILL FIGHTING", closing in a defiant clatter: "THERE IS NO FEAR/THERE IS NO FEAR/THERE IS NO FEAR/FEAR DOESN'T EXIST" Not "I'm not afraid", but so burnt with the shitty state of things, with this "HORRIBLE REALITY OF HUNGER AND TORTURE/HORRIBLE REALITY OF DEATH AND INSANITY" as Horrible Realidad screams, as to transcend the terror of living, an zen fucked-offness, a purposeful unbreakable force. Maybe too broken right now, too beaten down by the work, the struggle ("ANXIETY TERRIFIES ME" admits Extincion, in an open moment) at times but still killing with feeling ("I DESPISE YOU WITH ALL MY STRENGTH" warns Te Desprecio) and still present in this place.

"WE DON'T FIT IN, IN THIS SHITTY SOCIETY! WE DON'T FIT IN, IN THIS STUPID CULTURE!" the title track states, but ending as a reaffirmation of the power of punk, in a society where violence infects each moment, to find a place, feeling the ugliness upfront and the strength buried deep within: "IN PUNK/WE WILL BE OURSELVES/IN PUNK/IT'S ALL WE HAVE LEFT/IN PUNK/WE WILL BE OURSELVES/IN PUNK/ALL FOR OURSELVES" That's where it is, that's where you can find the power, the drive, the last spark of energy to clench your hand into a fist and rise it to the sky. That's where they take all that balled-up fear, anxiety, stress at being cognizant in a shitstorm of cops and politicians and drugs, the swirling hateruck of capitalist violence, and beat it into rock to throw. "I HOPE THE DAY ARRIVES/IN WHICH MY SOUL EXPANDS" roars Sin Rostro Ni Corazon, cutting up streaming rawpunk brutality, with militaristic stamps. The world should be watching as the students and workers and people of Mexico explode with longheld anger at the sickening violence done unto them in the name of security and profit, as they continue the longstruggle that lives for and with us all, in many places, in many forms, in some places keener and far more dangerous than others, this is an album of frustration, this is an album of hope, this is an album of 'not yet', this is an album of 'but it will'.

Saturday, 11 October 2014

Disguise - System Shock

From members of Crowd Control, Strong Boys: gritty nasty Irish raw punk, d-beats and reverbed screams in the deep murk. The burn and thump of degenerate disfuckers, Japanese hardcore influences, Gudon messy, Bastard heavy. No Release strikes, churns, tension built to breaking. Institution thrashes hard. No Chaos digs in familiar disgusting patterns, the trembling guitar creeping out of the noxious dust that chokes and swallows the songs. System Shock in particular feels in moments like a sweeter, more palatable punk burner buried under a weight of crushing slag, the screams searing through. A pure slab of anguished hardcore punk.

Saturday, 4 October 2014

Maquina Muerta - Realidad Desesperada CS

From Guadalajara, Mexico by way of Mallorca, and sitting with bands like Cremalleras, Tercer Mundo, Dia Final and Peña Nieto as proof or Mexico's killer current punk scene, Maquina Muerta delve into rawpunk at its most primitive. Their seven inch last year was one of my favourite records of the year, and they maintain that fury here, rerecording a couple of the tracks and adding them to some new ones, here the sound is more a drilling buzz and less steamroller roar, but it's still got that relentless repetition, that uncompromising Discharge thrum, the drums eating at you like the turnover of a floodedengine and you're stuck on traintracks, the saltedearth choke in its scorchedthroat vocals, burning, breaking, with each anguish, nameable and unnameable, the guitar solos simplistic quiverings amongst the groan and drone.

I caught Maquina Muerta play in an torridly hot basement at the start of September. Barreling out of the venue into the street to cool down after the set a friend of mine asked me what I thought of it. "It was fucking great!" I breathlessly enthused "Every song was exactly the same!". 30 seconds later another friend of mine came out and was greeted with the same question "Eh... I wasn't too into it," she replied. "Every song was exactly the same." There's a particular groove, a certain dirty rut, that they're locked into and they're not breaking it, they're living with each scrap of terror and emotion and thunderous anger, at society, at authority, at politicians and the assorted scum that prop up these shiny venal gods, each last pusflecked bonemeal scrap that they can squeeze out of that ugly monotonous sonic wound.

Hard Skin - On The Balls & Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear?

"Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi! Think about Oi! Oi! Oi!" - The Crested, Think About Oi
"STOP THINKING! START DRINKING!" - Hard Skin, First Day Angry Song

Like the Formby Channel, Hard Skin are a band that could only have emerged from this sceptred isle. And when I say sceptred, I mean shithole, grey bitter dank sarcastic nimby fading delusional shit-fucking hole-isle. Some real John King spirit imbues these songs, that mixture of soaring terrace community, the kicks and knocks of poverty, a familiarity with violence, a tense heartworn tearing underneath, a faded rug at your nan's with the colour scuffed out of it but the pattern still peeking through, the warmth in the brokenness.

Sure America has OIL! with their pumped up ridiculous violence, cliches stacked high and smashed down, Crucified Hammerskins, Proud of my Pride, Pulling on the Boots, but Hard Skin are cut through with sharper, more poignant silliness, beyond their bluntfuck singalongs, like Beer and Fags's loutish drunken joy in the face of the grim march of history on Hard Nuts and Hard Cunts, drawing on Cock Sparrer's England Belongs to Me, and its investment in the smaller twists of home, Cock Sparrer sang of England looking not at verdant fields and glory, but 'the dirty water in its rivers', the little grotty shit that you hold deep in your heart as signifiers of a private belonging, stake a claim to what you have, no matter how insignificant or crap it is.

Still Fighting Thatcher they roared twenty odd years ago, and she lies six feet deep but her stabbing hate lives on. Council Estate deals, with surprisingly affectingly, with the lasting brutality of her legacy on ordinary people. Dark fucking times when even your comedy Oi! bands are painting bleak landscapes of the grueling slog of austerity. A pained tale steeped psycho-geography, the malign concrete, infecting its residents with a certain hard heart. No jokes just a desperate cry. "EVERYONE DIES! BUT NOT EVERYONE LIVES! I'M SOMEBODY! I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO GIVE!" Real shit right there.

On The Kids Are Innocent that nebulous notion of 'the kids' invoked in that Upstarts, Blitz, Sham, way, they're the kids that you meet, they don't care and if they're united then they'll never be divided. A warm cuff-about-the-ear for scamps and tearaways, embracing the young as just weird fuckabouts, like they are, like we were, it's an idea that fights back against the real youthhate of mid-market tabloids, terror scattered across newspaper pages, feverish whispers of 'feral' and 'inherent criminality' burning with that eugenic tang. The Kids Are Innocent, the homeless are treated with the same warmth on You Still Here? and it's dismissive toss-off of PCSOs, as angry at the fact that it's not a real cop doing the bothering as it is at the fact that a cop's bothering them, and a lot of this album, is anti-nihilistic, a vaguely charming vision of Britain full of salt-of-the-earth cunts stumbling through interesting times, punches and police harassment.

Hard Skin bounce between modes. There's the storming self-mythologising of Another Terrace Anthem, boasting of "Bit of Sparrer, Rejects and Sham/I'm taking it back to where it began!" and cracking apart with purposefully lame jokes. There's the triumphal violence of rougher-uppers The Man Who Ran the Town with skins as avenging angels, puttin in a loan shark's head, and We're Gonna Do Them Cunts, rolling on that terse economy of threat, "I'm gonna do you" carrying more power than any super-specific murderous hyperbole. A take on I, Ludicrous's Preposterous Tales in That's Bollocks, Mate and its pissed-off pissed fuck-off of a mouth-running pub bore. The lonely swaying whisper of The Gipsy Hill, a wander round South London, a litany of a neighbourhood's comforting peculiarities. It all sits together in a cordial crash of streetlights and dogshit, belligerent barroom stompers, sidestreet serenade, flitting between cock-o'-the-walk swagger and softer more morose musings, but all invested with the slap of the pavement, the roots of meandering alleyways, the shortcuts and graffiti of a living city.

And even better, beyond the instant classic of On The Balls, is Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear?, the same album, the same songs, but coming from a murderer's row of female vocalists, real punk sneer, relishing that snap of melody and power. The notion of guilty pleasures has been well wrung out to dry as a bullshit concept born of insecurity and snobbery, but if there was one thing I'd classify as that, it's the sheer amount of generic female-fronted streetpunk I can consume without tiring, no-one should have listened to The N.Y. Rel-X as much as I have. And this is far from that, Hard Skin's melodic chops, their songwriting skills, their ability to appropriate those bits of Sparrer, Rejects and Sham with total aplomb, make this play like a whole album of Action Pact's London Bouncers, something like Atlanta's Man's Ruin with better tunes, a beefed-up sweary Gymslips, from Joanna Newsom's (yeah that Joanna Newsom) cackle on the jubilant The Man Who Ran the Town, to Miki Berenyi's ire on You Still Here?, the runaway sting of Liela Moss's Police Car (Chasing You), 2013's second best song about a police car, Debbie Smith's bellow on the innuendo of Sausage Man, it's even better than On the Balls, feeling more chaotic (the cadence of the vocals, which were probably more hastily recorded than On The Balls occasionally slips and clatters up against the forward power of the songs) and more vital, rougher. While both albums are fucking great, I'm picking this one if given the choice every time.

Like Who Killed Spikey Jacket?, like Who's a Punk?, like Fuck You! Get Pumped!, it's a joke than runs deeper, hides truths in the smile behind its mugging and gurning, stiob vs slobs, the communal catharsis of screaming "TWO CHORDS! TWO FINGERS!" or "YOU STILL 'ERE? WE TOLD YOU WHERE TO GO!" is strong no matter how silly it is. I've seen Hard Skin live maybe half a dozen times over the past two years (one of the joys of seeing them in London is the chance that one of the vocalists from Why Do Birds... might pop up and sing a song) and every time I've felt better afterwards, running out into a city of council estates, police cars, two bob cunts; fulfilled, feeling deeper and more cognizant, feeling unbreakable, heartstrong and in possession of some hardy urban truths, at one with the bullshit. "SING LOUD! SING PROUD! LET'S GET AT 'EM! THIS IS ANOTHER TERRACE ANTHEM!"

Friday, 19 September 2014

GAZE - demo CS

Noisy Irish d-beat hardcore fux. The dragged away vocals battling through the fuzz, employed more as another piercing noisemechanic than anything conveying specific meaning, the eponymous track laying down a mid-tempo march for before it breaks rapidly into a sheer riot. Shit With Your Eyes thunders onwards, Won't Move is a panic attack, the vocals desperate as the fall off into the deathly chaos, What Are We Living For crashes and clatters against itself in drum flurries, the bass scraping on, a thick layer of feedback, fizzburn and shitnoise pulling it all down, the tempo shifting from drive to fight, from warring rumble to petulant stomp. There is a song called Fuck You, Fuck Off. Yeah. That is what you need to know.

A Giant Dog - Bone LP

Thick full-throated poppy-punk. Soaring Gateway District kinda vocals over chunky indie-punk riffs, cleaned-up garage tear. Galloping into the album with the drawl of All I Wanted: "All I ever wanted was you anywaaayy", chuntering on in songs like the anguished Cleveland Steven, "WOKE UP IN THE HOSPITAL THE PAIN WAS BLINDING WHITE!" , the shimmy of The Grand with its harmonica snatches, the soar of Another World "Toniiiight... is not your niiight!", the country bummer of Ghostcest that gets into the blues and then dances and shakes out of them, the rock chomp of Teasin' Ass Bitch. The sort of stuff that could get huge, smooth and slick as it is, with so many catchy lines, killer vocals, deadly choruses.

The Modern Pets - Sorry, Thanks LP

Punchy jumpy punk rock from Genrmany, kicking hard and rockin and rollin'. Snappy tunes of Exploding Hearts/Tranzmitors/Buzzcocks power-pop, new-wave warbles, those disaffected dry vocals. From the bleary scumbag snap of Pilsator ("AGAIN YOU WOKE UP IN THE DIRT/"FUCK OFF!" IS THE LAST THING YOU'VE HEARD/ALL YOUR GOALS AND TRIES ARE JUST FOR VAIN...") cutting between simple key lines, guitar scrambles, handclaps, to the corpsing joy of Funeral Fun ("YOUR EYES ARE FULL OF JOY/SEEING ME IS BETTER THAN TV/NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU WEAR BLACK/NOW THERE'S NOTHING THAT YOU CAN GET BACK") and the choppy up-and-down ah-fuck-it skitter of I'm Not a Brick, with its whirlwind bass dances, its spinning-dizzily chorus, its fastpop jab: "IT'S ALL PART OF THE COSMIC JOKE". Catchy kicks and stupid fucks. Fuck work (Clocked Assholes), fuck the media (News), fuck me and my dumb mouth (The Walking Contradiction), fuck internet popularity contests (No Access) and above all, fuck not dancing, fuck not shaking it. It's the sort of album where you think they're gonna throw in the word 'baby' at the end of every line, even when they don't.

Family Outing - demo CS

Demo from shortlived Good Throb punk fuckers. A dirty mess of slimy hardcore noise and punk. Psychic Leech has melodic swoops that sound like a Trip, Trance & Travelling Paintbox guitar line over its basement burble, the pull and rip of Party Animal has some fleeting Crazy Spirit shiver, as does the drive of Waste of Space. Songs of hatred and spite, ripping into buzzkill pricks on Psychic Leech, pervert shits on Sickos, boss cunts on Boss Cunt. Pure fucking vitriol. "BOSS CUNT. SHIT FOR BRAINS. INSIPID MAN TRYING TO FUCK WITH MY HEAD SINCE THE CONTRACT BEGAN. BOSS CUNT. PIECE OF SHIT ON 35 GRAND." The other songs take that nasty butterflyknife contempt and twist it inwards to self-excoriation on Thicko, Waste of Space, Party Animal. "PUKE UP YOUR GUTS/COUGH UP YOUR GUTS/ IGNORANCE AND SCREECHING/GOOD TIMES BAD FEELINGS/I'M A CUNT I'M UNAPPEALING/GOOD TIMES BAD FEELINGS/LETTING THE SIDE DOWN PIGGIES SQUEALING." Negative shit from bad emotional spaces, shit jobs, shit parties, shit days, shit dreams, we've all had days like that, years like that, an all-enveloping hate, inside and out, a bitter destruction, a sourpunk killing.

The Formby Channel - The Saucy Seaside EP

The latest EP of true British weirdness from Wankys side-project The Formby Channel, combining a hideous noisepunk hiss with the sunny allure of the British seaside. As the name suggests, it's George Formby meets Chaos Channel, a combination no one was really screaming out for, but the banjolele is integrated surprisingly well to the Wankys/Swankys sound, mirroring the bassline bounce with it's choppy charms, catchy, with the fizz like the chatter of overpriced arcades.

Fish Supper is a na-na-na-na-na ode to fish 'n' chips and, predictably, oral sex, done in weird scritchy noise. Last Year's Holiday like a nightmare version of Last Christmas. Kiss Me's banjolele breakdowns and pucker sound ends slipping beneath the breakers of buzz. Top Deck Shandy Lads a cunted carousing. The presence of kazoo and innuendo throughout recalling true British scum The Macc Lads, who lifted their sense of humour from British seaside postcards, which generally feature things like large-breasted women carrying suggestively shaped fruit captioned things like "How about these melons!?" which are giggled at by drunk middle-aged people and children aware that there's something vaguely forbidden about a woman saying something like "I thought the Blackpool tower would be bigger." as her husband blushes in bed beside her.

The British seaside is a fucking weird place, filled with that sort of ooh-er-nudge-nudge-wink-wink bullshit, only really attaining that carefree glow in the brief summer months, transforming the rest of the year into a kind of barren apocalyptic greyscape, take this as someone who spent Christmasses in Cleethorpes as a kid. The Formby Channel are clearly a pisstake, but there's something in this splattered shit-fi vomitof holiday cliches (Seaside Beat busting out of, falling into the classic tribute to the British beaches, I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside) that speaks of the shitty misery that underpins behind happy times, happy pictures. The dark economies that lurk in any tourist trap.

The darkness hiding behind the clean clut Cliff Richard Young Ones summer stroll, the Brighton Rock menace. The Formby Channel sneer with the manic energy of Mr Punch, which if you're not familiar, is the lead character of Punch & Judy, a traditional children's seaside puppet show based around the themes of domestic violence and police brutality. This is a Viz cartoon made flesh, intentionally groanworthy lewd puns and obnoxion, silly drunken dances, putting the cunt in Scunthorpe.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Peeple Watchin' - Somethin' Ta Tell Ya

Ex-Credentials queerpunx pukin' raw-throated and desperate with that Cleveland Bound Death Sentence scratch and kick punk rock, songs of sloppy design, melodic bite leaking out of scrappy tangles. It retains the lyrical sharpness of The Credentials, piercing specifics illuminating larger desolations, like the wasted wasted night of James F. Collins Sq., beaten down but present, "I stare through the chainlink as the trains pass right by me". 1995 opens with a soft dirty guitar line that explodes into a twirling of teenpunk nostalgia "Infomercials about getting ripped, talking about boys we'd want to kiss and we prank called the whole yellow pages, it was kinda mean, kinda contagious." Perfectly skewering/shining on those nasty/naive adolescent giggles.

The personal and the political intermingling as they always do, the places you spend getting drunk and the times you spend getting hurt, Just Like Them railing against queer assimilation, stamping out country licks on the lyrically minimal rebel rocker Riff-Raff, Grow Slow illuminates the daily toll of living as a transwoman, twisting the pain and pressure into a pure steely determination bursting out of the most anthemic chorus on the album, "THE ONLY THING THAT'S PASSING IS MY YOUTH. FORTIFY MY STUBBORNNESS AND SUFFER THE ABUSE. IT'S A LONG ROAD WITH VIOLENCE ALL AROUND/IT'S A HEAVY LOAD BUT I WON'T LET IT DRAG ME DOWN"

"1995 was all sparkle and fade. You're wearin' a suit now but I never changed" goes 1995, enduring punk, in the same mode as Dishpit's Forever Punk, but older, more rueful, harder and scabbier, "Can we still fuck this morning up with sour breath and punk haircuts before leaving behind friendships forged in convenience store parking lots" on the drier VHS. The Ones That You Can't Take Back carrying you away on sweet guitar lines and chopping through

It's nothing so much as the heir to the beautiful sinewy scrambles of Bent Outta Shape's Stray Dog Town, the momentum and the mess, the sugary guitar workings and salty fuck-offs, teased out wirey toughkid punk rock, struggling as it ages, breathless and leathery and ultimately unbowed

Monday, 15 September 2014

Proxy - Something We've All Seen Before

On their drop-everything smash-it-all best-punk-single-of-2013 Police Car, Proxy matched a relentless catchy streetpunk chug with lyrics at turns triumphant and wry, twisting bummers into smiles. On their full length Something We've All Seen Before they maintain those ripping streetpunk anthems, but the lyrics are darker, bleaker, more concerned with the pain, ugliness and battery of the world, rather than the uplifting joy of stealing a police car. Nurnburg Nightmare a World War 2 stomper, wide vistas of destruction painted clear, Insane wracked with bugs in the head, Johnny Got His Badge, a Riot Squad rumbler, dark whispers of violence exploding into killing choruses, "STICK EM UP/AGAINST THE WALL/GOTTA DRIVE A BULLET RIGHT THROUGH YOUR SKULL", Shackled to a Corpse digging into that Motorhead bounce as the guitars flail, Land of Guns stretching, drawing the punk out, drawing the pain out. The only relief here comes in the drive of the music, its onwards march maybe pointing to a way out, or at speaking of a strength to endure. A thick punk rock attack on the worst of the world, pushing through and kicking off.

The Friday - Our Body Made in Fukushima

Just as Chernobyl spawned punktakes from the likes of punk-pop J-rockers Blue Hearts' Blue Hearts Theme, Greek d-beat Chernobyl Attack, low-fi Russian rebels Grazhdanskaya Oborona folk He Saw the Sun to Slang's terrifying metalpunk Chernobyl Necklace on LIFE MADE ME HARDCORE, the pogonutters Chernobyl Babies, punk bands eddy and swirl in the aftermath of horrific events, twisting, riding the violence and pain in their darkworld/fuckedworld conceptions. The tragedy at Fukushima has already led to Irish mutants Rats Blood's No More Fukushima, New York cyberthugs L.O.T.I.O.N.'s Fukushima Fallout, Swedish crustcunts Anger Burning's Fukushima Fireworks, Spanish hardcore band Fukushima, real Fukushima rawpunx Strange Factory's Fukushima Nightmare, probably many more already and many more to come.

Straight outta Fukushima, an all-girl trio who produce an unnerving combination of this clean chunky bass with the sort of tinny fuzz found on early 80s Spanish shit-fi classics like Qloaqa Letal and Los Punk Rockers. The vocals a ratty snatch and call, screaming. All-girl teenpunk carries stereotypes and connotations of bubblegum, Unlovables sweetness, conceived in the shadow of nuclear oblivion, these songs have touches of the noisecore of Stagnation, ruthless breakings and beatings of Disorder/Chaos UK punx, those sounds taken apart and skin stretched between pikes, blood soaking the ground. The onwards tumble of Stupid Animal, drums clatter and pounding as if trying to find a way out, the stop-and-go graze of Chicken Feed, the stabbing noisespike and bassy tickle of Common Sense, the monotonous drive and thump of Sein Und Zeit, the basic solo whinnying off into the dirty churning ether. Nuclear threat is more than just a Discharge lyric. It's a hovering evil that kills, deforms, rearranges lives and landscapes. The Friday are all too aware of that as they scream and snarl over this weirdpunk all imbued with a real human rage at ungodly power, chaos and bonescrape, and on the title track it lumbers like revenant beast, full of pain and purpose, Our Body Made in Fukushima.

Friday, 5 September 2014

Black Panda - A La Caza Del U​-​666 LP

Hard kicking crust & roll from Spanish punx Black Panda, like a reverse-engineered Motorhead, building that speedpunk halfmetal rip not from pushing 60s rock as hard as it could go, but by taking the deep thick trenches of crust and imbuing them with rock and roll spin and spark. Swarming and tearing onwards, eating up the tarmac, cutting between demonic growls birthed of metal and darkness and desperate punk yelps, laid over unstoppable d-beat rhythms sweet dashes of guitar solos shoot past like bullet cracks, singalong chants on Ruedas de Fuego, music to drive fast to, music to crash and live to, rolling with that motorpunk realness.

Burial - Renegade

Like Texans Criaturas or Greeks Antimob, Germany's Burial offer a scorching modern international take on the Deathside formula of flailing solos over hardcore ferocity. Hulking metallic hardcore bombs, deep vocals wrenched out of the throat, mutilated words bitten apart and choked up like lumps of fleshy bile. The songs take on a bodily hue, exploding with the cracks and humours of skin and bone under pressure, the roiling mass of muscle and fevers, ugly interiors. Fire in the Head reels: "HOT JUICE TRICKLES SOON TO SPILL/POSSESSED BODY SUFFOCATING WILL/NOT ONLY THE VOICES SING ALONE/EVEN THE BODY DISAPPEARS/LIKE A FACE IN THE CROWD" punctuating this with bites of "SLASH/CRUSH/DESTROY". Out To Die slowly builds into a warstomp,"WORN OUT BODIES/FEAR TURNS INTO LUST". Boiling Blood tears at its skin prison "BOILING BLOOD HAMMERING UNDER MY FOREHEAD/BOILING BLOOD SEEKING FOR RELEASE." Swines digs further into this crawling animalism: "DISEASE OF THE SWINES/MAN IS THE ANIMAL/MAN IS BESTIAL/MAN IS THE ENEMY" Ripping you apart with the whipping Crude solos, hardcore punk searing with radioactive warmth, burning each of your spirits. "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK/RENEGADE/LIVE TO DIE."

Thursday, 4 September 2014

Las Otras - Devolver El Golpe LP

Deathly sharp Barcelona hardcore punk, nine tracks in nine minutes, expurgated of all needless waste. Puncturing power in curt anarcho-feminist attacks. Terseness and anger, snatches of Ultimo Resorte brief bounces, Indigesti fuzzy tears, wrongs righted in brief power, the choking bonds of the world snapped, Fronteras drawing the borders across itself, ("From my belly/My sharpened claws/My open eyes/My loaded veins"), Mujer Ficcion picking off the ties of representations, media impossibilities and fantasies held up as templates ("They are afraid/Of our potential/To stop being a fiction/To start being real"), every box broken out of, every wall scraped through, every mode of oppressive thought denounced and discarded. It'll cut you short as a song.

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Nightmare Boyzzz - Bad Patterns

Hookmachine heartachers Nightmare Boyzzz crank out 11 tracks of sweet battered powerpop with bummer vibes, where the jump and yelp and "Whoa-ohs" and constantly seem like they're about to drift off and leave you stranded by the side of the road, ten miles from home with nothing but your thoughts and holey shoes to get you home. Each warm guitar lick feels like a goodbye, drawn in the milieu of bad decisions, empty bottles, hangovers and selfish self-destruction, Guitar Romantic echoes, the warm drunk buzz will leave you just as the songs in the rockin and rollin of You Have No Friends, the mellow wanderings of You're a Star, rapidscuttle garagepop of Baby It's Alright, the whiskey satisfaction fades and discomfort will grow in its place with tickling guitar solos and scratchy riffs,  Say What You Mean might be an up-down dance reminiscent of a punked-up run of Supergrass's Alright but it also lives to cool and burn off the beer in the sobering ennui. This'll help you move your feet so you don't have to think about it though.

True Sons of Thunder - Stop and Smell Your Face

The second album of gritty garage sludge from punk alleystars True Sons of Thunder. Dirty rock excavated from long graves of noise, shaking off the mud and roar, stomping through simple rockers with a babble of disharmony pulled in its wake, Dead Moon by way of Flipper's deep junk racket. There's the hanging punch and tumble of Don't Make It Stop, the twitching horrorpunk of Death Walks Behind You crackling with tension and panic, the belting KBD snot of These Days, a perfect rudimentary desperate punk grunt. There's the slower detours into the noiserock grumble of Glass Foot, marching through battering storms of feedback, dying in the din, the plodding deathblues of Mother May I Now Spell Cup, which comes like the degraded radiosignals of two stations cutting in over one other, melding and splintering.

Friends of Mine starts sung-spoken over simple gutsy riff, blowing into a big openfield 80s rock chorus, "JOSIE KNOWS SHE'S GONNA COME AROUND/ALL THE BOYS ARE GONNA SCREAM AND SHOUT/I KNOW SHE WANTS A PIECE OF ME/I KNOW THAT'S HOW IT'S GONNA BE" before falling back into the shaking repetition of the riff, the fiery clang of the noise. Gettin Kind of Cocky loses it totally in the scream and this odd plinky-plonk solo that clinks over the top of the chaotic squeal and drive.

Each song has its own take on some aspect of the garagepunk artifact mentality, scrabbling around in the twentieth century's dirty cupboards for those little lost bits of bent human swing, trawling through record bins, soulseek files, mp3 blogs, for the obliterated 80s hardcore demos, the privatepress inept blues messes, the 60s beat abominations, all those stabs at musical expression living more with the distortion and degradation and . From the simplistic rock and roll of Get on the Bus, shimmying with blasé fuck-it sneer "GET ON THE BUS AND GO HOME/GET ON THE BUS AND LET'S SPLIT", Beluga's animal inanity amongst the crash and blare "BELUGA! IT'S A WHALE! A WHITE WHALE! DO THE BELUGA!", offering no clues to what this dance entails, but exhorting listeners to get down to it nonetheless, it sounds like a bedraggled forgotten novelty from a dead scene, dancehalls torn down, memories dimmed. Like the Oblivians album from last year it displays familiarity with all sorts of oddball shouts, but it's far nastier, far more crummied-up, it's garagepunk that got lost in the garage, amongst the enginefilth and oily rags and black stains.

Monday, 1 September 2014

Räjäyttäjät - Awopbopaloopop Alopbam Räjä LP & Räjäyttäjät LP

Two 2013 LPs of wildman garage plunder from Finnish mentalists, every riff sounding familiar, warm and welcoming snatches of classic rock swagger, bluesy beatback, lowdown boogies, rock and roll rebellion, but then banged full of bursting fizzing nutpunk energy. Half-batty tossed-off impressions of Chuck BerryBeatles, Elvis, all the rock gods since canonised and sterile, thrown into a joyous chaotic blender, reaching back for that 1-2-3-4 stomp and rip, getting into the movement of it, balls of fire that actually burn again. Dancefloor garagepunk built in a din, writhing around amongst clips of conversations where wild whoops abound, waggling tongues, handclaps, a peal of jabbering and gibberish runs in it, each rock and roll move replicated and revivified, reconstituted and rode hard. Through the cultish intonations Räjä 'n' Roll All Night Long, horn runs of Mitä Tapahtuu, freakouts of Veen päällä savuu, caterwauls of Vuosihuoltoon, backmasked noise and snap of Gnol Th'gin Lla Llor'n'äjär, chattering keys of 15 Vuoden Päästä, shake yourself to the real free stuff. Music to make out sloppily on boomer's graves to.

No Statik - Unity and Fragmentation

Beginning with an ending, No Statik's 3rd LP Unity and Fragmentation opens with a heavy chug before fading out into keening feedback, from there it bursts, crunching hardcore rages. From this point on, No Statik shift and scrap with the hardcore, jerking it about, from unstoppable drives to slow drones to speedcrazed reelings. Never Be a Martyr opening fast swooping at machinegun metalspeeds, hitting a wall, slipping in murk and unsteady stumbles, then pushing forward wild. The ferocious vocals that lead the band sometimes doubled up, the harsh unity of Ruby's main vox meshing with the fierce but deeper back-ups, giving some songs and more singalong purpose, rather than just the cutting anger. "SOMETIMES THINGS HAVE A TENDENCY TO CONTAIN THEIR OPPOSITE/BORN OUT OF DEATH ALL WE CAN DO IS DIE."

Like on Everywhere You Aren't Looking, the back half of the album is taken up by a single track, Faithless, a fifteen minute long track of ambient filings, cityghost whisper and cold emptiness, small shufflings, from which a thick hardcore burn emerges and then retreats back into the warble and danceskitter of voidechoes, the vocals still screaming hard, but from a great distance. By messing with and fucking with the hardcore formula, No Statik create a sweetly disturbing work, The Remembrance of Things Dead and Past, weighed down by tension, slowing into sinister tongues, searing again, then sucked back into itself screaming about how "THE HORRORS LEECH OUT OF OUR MISTAKES, THE PRICE ONE PAYS FOR PROGRESS", then backing up that disgust and unsettling closeness with music that reflects that. Hardcore infused with discomfort with the world, and with equal discomfort at its place in that world. It will tear and soar, but it will open itself up to the quieter darker moments too, when a crushing riff and a hard word will not lift you out of yourself.

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Criaturas - Espiritu De Libertad

Second album of choppingblock fury from these hispanophone Texas hardcore punx. Criaturas were preceded by Deskonocidos, and Espiritu De Libertad has got a bit more of that Deskonocidos trembling that the first Criaturas LP Oscuridad Eterna couldn't give much of a fuck for, such as when the title track gives way a little before exploding in a meteoric guitar solo. Move and retreat, swerve and burn. The way it matches those mellower slippings with the sort of Japanese hardcore guitar wildouts of Crude or DSB reminds me of the first Paintbox album, where they had that real melodic drive cutting through the Deathside razing, but hadn't quite yet blasted off to the fucking moon.

Anti-Autoridad a crazed ripping, Libertad o Muerte a skippy punk scamper, tripping forward, Dru Molina's vocals terrifying, the guitar sweet, Opresion beginning with the vocals dry before they spin away and wail. Cuatros Anos settling into a determined chug as the back-up vocals bark and again that guitar just tears you to pieces. Built perfectly on the interplay between these two voices, Invierno Nuclear drawling dismissive over a d-beat pace. And all cut free from noise, clear and unhindered in their scything gleam.

The lyrics are direct enough that even me, with my almost nonexistent Spanish built of latinate roots, false cognates, Crudos singalongs and that time I got super messed up and watched El Topo with the subtitles off can grab the gist of what's being said, their blunt power of outrage and fire comes from the way they are delivered, voice sharp as each guitar flail, sharper even. As the guitar might carry you away but the vocals puncture more often than not. 16 minutes of tightly controlled, whetted and unsheathed hardcore punk incandescence.

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

HOAX - s/t LP

From the album's lyrics sheets on 6 24"x24" posters, each with a different punk artist, to its thanx sections which apparently acknowledges everyone who ever booked a show for them, played on the same bill, or just lent any kind of a hand, everything about HOAX speaks to hardcore as totality, no corners cut, full-on, all-encompassing and self-actualised. Their shows eruptions of violence, their stage presence baleful and bloody, 2013 Chaos in Tejas found their lead singer almost a fashion icon, filled as it was with skinny creepy bald dudes rocking dirtstaches and 1000 yard creepy glowers.When you saw guys like this together it looked like the world's most unappealing gang. HOAX came up with a killer live presence, their leadsinger smashing his head up every show, prowrestling theatricality, the crusher you turkeynecks, one show apparently someone turned up with a box full of bandaids to chuck at him when the blood started flowing. Fake anger/real anger/real blood. All that squirting mix of stuff, their full-on genre slams too full-on for some, pushed as hard as it could and too hard for those smiling and shrugging around what is and isn't legit. It's cool to kill it live, but if you're killin it every night does it ever become rote? At the root of it all though, is a thick ugly sonic muck beaten into shape that sustains itself, feeds with and into those basements and bars and warehouses and industrial plants filled with tearaways and torn parts.

Opening with the suck and gurgle of chesty groans and cacophonous burps, before a hulking guitar chomp thuds in. Hoax go down the line with powerful burly hardcore. First seeming clear in their intent, self-loathing as terror on Hide, atheism as alienation on No Spirit, Hoax struggle with the worst of the world, but it's not just a pity pit. Hide's as dismissive as it is self-pitying, No Spirit is as much about crashing onwards free and clear as it is about writhing in agoraphobic panic at the wideopen unhindered choices a godless world offers you. Diseased and damaged by the shitty facts of the world, HOAX capture that evil twist between hating injustice, hating the nastiness and disorder, and being an ugly product of it. Using that anger as momentum that eats away at you as it forces you to confront some real shit. Drive rolls with the motion of Theo Jansen's kinetic sculptures, Strandbeest unstoppable, until it crashes to a halt. Sick Punk gagging on mucus but reveling in its place as a "TRUE SICK PUNK. SCUMMY LITTLE FREAK". Anaesthetize bemoaning its own numbness, but then finding that numbness as an armour and shield. "HOW CAN I DIE? I CAN'T FEEL A FUCKING THING." HOAX may front as real terrors, but their songs, thumping dirty hardcore crunches, dynamic and packed with weird stiff reorderings, like the keening whispers among dronedumps on Blind, the thick cultish run down of Lost Control, are confused missives, brittle with despair, but improbably flowering out of the gloom.

Chunks of modern hardcore, but all the the fake anger/real anger/real blood discussion crackling back up, about whether HOAX (their name is HOAX) carry that shit heavy or whether they dance through it as some tossed off genre exercise, burning as they do each song with some other facet of the punx canon, to a cynic merely checking off a list, punk self-identification, struggles with mental anguish and gender pressures, urbansprawl dislocation, deathwish nothings, but they bite through, through the bandaids and the trends, whether it is reenactment, the blood remains real, the songs remain hard, the confusion is too present to ignore. But this shitworld syllabus is exactly the stuff that punk was built for, and through my own utterly punkshot troubles and turns I have winced with each twist of the knife that is untwisted here. If it can't be dealt with, or at least wrestled with, bitten at and spat out in these places then where can it be? HOAX got punk, sometimes blown-up in half-silly leering caricatures, bleeding, killing, every night, sometimes eased down into a painful settling, speaking to darker, more private places. Each are parts of the encompassing drive, the stalling fear, that is hardcore punk played with such rude purity.

Monday, 25 August 2014

Scumraid - Out of Order

Korean terrornoise, raw D-Clone burn, on D-takt & Råpunk, distilled from their 2012 demo, clearer, but no less furious, the murk wiped away to show the sharpness of the sound, accidental noise replaced with purposeful noise. Scorched earth howls of injustice, dread, panic and TOTAL IGNORANT PARASITE BASTARDS. "CLIMAX OF HUMAN ERROR/REASONLESS LIFE TERROR/THAT ENDLESS FEAR OF DEATH FROM THE ONE GENERATION" rages Tsar-Bomba, splaying out this deep cocktail of interior emotions, depression, anxiety, sickness, and how those struggles intertwine, and are compounded by, the outside struggles, wondering how to deal with that fear, how to heal (Scar: "WE ARE BREATHING DEAD AIR/NOT FOR HEAL SCAR") under the prospects of annihilation, disenfranchisement, state-sponsored violence. Often featuring a deep afterburner blare as backdrop as it mirrors that rocket roar with it's fierce guitar churn. Out of Order leveling down out of the turbulent crashercrust tide into a harsh midtempo lumbering spiked and skewered with cacklescreams and noiseglut before it works itself up again into that terrible tear. Painful sounds for a painful world.

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Black Boot - demo CS

More of that Toxic State New York nastiness, noisy and bloody, rubbed raw down to the bone, vocals like a tongueless bark. False Rune is an unhinged stamp, clattering down with an exposing glare: "YOU SHIT/YOUR SILK PANTS/THEY ARE/STILL SILK". Clawed a scrabble, Spitshine a blunt relentless drive, Grave a tear, slamming in concrete, squealing and rubbing with grabbing intensity, Mirage a thrust of paranoiac ooze. Labyrinth has more deep lost terror, flailing "CLAUSTROPHOBIC/SPIRALING CORNERS/BOTH THE SAME/BARREN JOURNEY". A punk struggle buried in a grief of turbulent black noise, clipping and crackling. A blastedwall haemorrhaging of rot and panic.

Saturday, 23 August 2014

Thee Nodes - All Day Every Day

Cracked up freakpunk fuzzjunk, run out/run in, twerpy feelin-it garage jams about being a real negative vandal prick. 30 second braindamage shatterclashes like Smashin' My Head. Pukepunk pushed fast and simple. Rock and roll bounces about breaking glass, repetitive joy, manic cackling, explosions, rock and roll getdowns and torrents of petty destruction. Loathing and lust in Ugly Bodies, hating on cool kids in Hate the Hip, dickshit insomniac anguish on Filthy Gaze. What makes these live large is the helter-skelter vocals bouncing over each other, the way the rock riffs fray around the edges under the assault of the weird bits, the echoes of darker deeper oddness, the hoots and yapping of minor monsters, a punk built amongst wreckage and ruin, devolving finally into the cold lost call ringing alarm bleeps. The sneering outcast energy a bunch of nogoodnik nerds, busting heads and biting faces off scrawled over shop-shaking party music.

Friday, 22 August 2014

Asesinato Del Poder - demo

Dry punk fury from Spain. Asesinato Del Poder snap with eight tracks of elemental hardcore. Dedicated to breaking down the powerstructures with an onslaught of basic aching punk, power drawn from relentless repetition, you never know which hammer blow will break the rock, you never know which dirty nuts/bolts riff will cause the rent in the fabric of society, cause the explosion in a head from which epiphanies and revolts will spring, from the prison chug of Celdas, the violent squeal of Tortura y Crimenes de Guerra, the razing gallop of Sabotaje, the drained dirt stumble of Atrapado. Straightforward, uncompromising. "Destroy your city streets/NO OTHER SOLUTION IN THIS PLACE/set fire to the town hall/NO OTHER SOLUTION IN THIS PLACE". Keep it simplistic, get inept, do punk, kill the power.

Thursday, 21 August 2014

Stranger - demo

Evil punk with a mutant goth heart. Taking the fluttering deathrock guitars and grounding them in rawer sounds, less ethereal, dirtied up, echoing the scratch and punch of anarcho-punx Decadent Few, the cackle of Finnish weirdos Melusaaste, the worn-in desolate aggression of Yugo punx Tozi Babe. Martyr thumping forward, the vocals snarling/rasping, spat with finality, severity. Down Into It getting coarse, the voice here dry, measured until it bites again "With your infantile interests and COMMITMENT TO STUPIDITY!" and it the bass and drums tumble down relentlessly like killing blows. False rants chaotically, breathlessly. You ride with Not Laughing as it tears mellow shivers to ribbons with its rhythmic force and venom and gets squirming nasty as it screams "GO THE FUCK HOME", any disaffected distance and alienation of the genre drawn close and threatened with knives on throats and spit flecking into eyeballs. A lot of deathrock might aspire to be spooky, but this puts in scary, and in the primitive shudder, the Nausea vocals strapped to the vulgarised goth groove, the shuffle and sway sharpened, hoodlum hard and beaten in versions of bands like catchy depressives The Bellicose Minds, it touches a weird darkpunk violence that's all its own.

Monday, 18 August 2014

Aborticidio - s/t EP

Trashfuck noise from Mexico. Swankys by way of Ataque Frontal and M.E.L.I. 時々私は死ぬしたい is a deep ugly slop, barely held together. Basurales De Miseria is a pierching smear of cackle, cruddy fizz and drumsplats. Asdfghjk! rumbles and groans. "PUNK! I LOVE YOU MORE THAN MY LIFE!" it screams as it shouts about The Comes, Confuse and Gudon. Está Culero opens with the shitbass, breaks open the cockroachbox of feedback, kills and eats a rotten staticsqueal solo. Let's Dance to Noisepunk is tired old rocknroll riffs detourned bloodily, buried and burnt, like People's nutty Kyushu/Pistols-shuffle, but more unforgiving in its crashing inept harshness. Hellish, relentless, rudimentary, punk.

Saturday, 16 August 2014

Piss - demo

Housed in a small facsimile of a bible, Berlin's Piss bring a nasty hardcore punk, rippling with blown-out scumfuzz, Die Kreuzen energy and collisions. The scrape and sparks of metal on metal as furious riff grinds to a halt and then explode again in a redoubling of manic scratched-out punk effort on stop-start blasts like Spranga Allt and Civil Cops. Tight Jeans rumbles and stomps, flexes and squeals. There are breathless sub-30 terrors on D.I.Y. and How Simple Can Punk Get?, terrifying screams, male/female vocals, equally tortured and destroyed. Piss change things up, throwing a catchy guitar line into the middle of Puke on the Patriarchy's 50-second torrent, dropping into snappy chants and drum breaks on Civil Cops. But it never feels like a forced technicality, it's restless, but it's progression is smooth, when a riff or a guitar line sneaks out of the mess in order to drive the song forward for a couple of seconds before disintegrating, it always feels like a natural outcome of the noise.

These clatter dynamics stretched to breaking point on Snake Vomit, the final track, touching on eight minutes, its dragged out sludgey intro goes on longer than most of the other seven tracks, before sticking into a noisy bass and drums groove, held together with a sturdy rhythm, it gives space to a crash and alarm-squeak of guitar, the echo of screams, and then building in a sample of a real wild freakout lifted from Japanese avant-garde saxophonist Kaoru Abe, squealing and squawking, unhinged and free, its tremulous pain and caustic life, rolling with the bloody momentum and then outstretching it.