Monday, 17 February 2014

Buck Biloxi and the Fucks - Buck Biloxi and the Fucks

I'm pretty sure this features at least one member of the Spits. Not entirely sure as pseudonyms proliferate across the Leave Home-lifting artwork of this record, in different places crediting figures as elusive and sinister sounding as Rick "Def Threatz" Ultrahuman, Snacks "Snooker Snake" Fountain, Giorgio Murderer, Larry Poppins, Orson Scott Tard and of course the titular Buck Biloxi.

True or not, The Spits are a good comparison, as on stuff like Black and Blue or Tomorrow's Children The Spits approach their stripped down garage-punk with the cutting efficiency of rock and roll robots, android punk, drawing on a digitised database of 01110010011000010110110101101111011011100110010101110011 records and feeding out Supersuckers riffs processed and packaged, the machine buzz guitars supporting mechanised voices, dry with automaton distance. Buck Biloxi and the Fucks work over similar territory, but they do it with with the twitchy raw ineptitude and closeness of very human jerk-offs.

Songs built around simple sharp riffs, minimalist lyrics with repetitive choruses that dominate the songs "Shut the fuck up when you see me/shut the fuck up when you see me/shut the fuck up when you see me/shut the fuck up" goes Shut the Fuck Up, "Gonna hit you with a brick/Gonna hit you with a brick/Gonna hit you with a brick" goes Hit You With a Brick, "Night trap/Night trap/Night trap/Night trap/Night trap/Night trap" begins Night Trap/Night Court. Confrontational and rawboned, Buck Biloxi exists in a bad musical neighborhood of chickenwire guitars, rusty bloody, pinched vocals stuck behind them emitting blunt threats and desperate barks, the dangerously flimsy snap and crash of the drums maintaining the song's stubborn rock and roll momentum. Buck Biloxi's world is where I'm a Disaster jolts into I'm a Genius and both seem momentarily true. Bare and exposed, the watery guts open to the elements, a tenuous grasp on its own continuing existence, Buck Biloxi's careless junk-punk stumbles on, scratching ugly lines in the pavement, tossing off battered songs like Rats of Trantor and Who Gives a Fuck? Just another simplicity stomp for the half-cut denizens of this garage-punk dead-end, just another brittle punk sting that hits you with as much subtlety and grace as a half-brick in a sock. Get in, kill, get out. Mean cheap punk for mean cheap lives.

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