Sunday, 16 February 2014

Dishpit - 7"

Scrappy squeaky dirtpunk from Dishpit, a band made up of members of Empire Builder who put out an absolutely fantastic demo a couple of years ago and then quickly disintegrated. Six reckless punk songs, in the fashion of Twat Sauce, Driller Killers or the Los Canadians/Chickenhead split. All that regionrock punk rock that battles with itself, pulls at its own visible stitches, quickly self-destructing sloppy poppunx scratches with the texture of an old splintery wood floor and the rhythm of bikechains coming loose on hillbombs.

Remnants of similarly sloppy scrappy punx forebears abound. There's the nowheresville bummer of Hickey's The Only Lesbian in Tulsa, Oklahoma and the cramped geography of The Lazer or Cleveland Bound Death Sentence, parking lots and shortcuts between shit jobs and shit punkhouses, in the clatterpop of Stupid Parties. Throughout you have the close crash and jump of the first three Future Virgins seven inches. Maybe bits of real early Screeching Weasel, like Raining Needles or Can't Stand Myself, where it's just primitive speedsnot, words coming in a muddy frustrated rush, on Super America's breathless everything's-shite rattle.

There's Dishpit Anthem, a Pete Jordan bounce, dancing with yelps and whoa-ohs, Geno's, a song about how a sandwich place sucks that also manages to to be a song about cops suck ("for every shitty cheesesteak made there's someone still not loving police"), The Scrabble Song's sweet self-doubt and desire over coffee and board games, the mixed-up letters and mixed-up emotions, all this thrown together in the Borrible-heart amalgam of Forever Punk.

Forever Punk is, like last year's Hunx and his Punx album Street Punk, invested in reclaiming the punx pride/punx unity singalong shouts from the hands of oldfuck lumpen punk rock and roll, returning them to the grasping hands of young fuck-ups. "Still working fuckin beets/still hating the police/still just wandering around/fuckin' off in any town with the same old crowd". An affirmation of the path chosen, Op Ivy's Jaded with more venom, not beautiful because beauty's overrated and untouchable, but just here, still here, a misfit community in rickety working order, "SO UP THE PUNKS/OFF THE PIGS/AND I'LL COME VISIT YOU IF YOU COME VISIT ME".

These are the sort of throwaway songs that will endure longer than any art that's sturdy and built to last, cos these marginal nothings, these petty hates and spittle-glued loves are the real shit that swamps your days, not the widescreen wideshots of bigger picture politics, epic romance, but the dumb little punx uglies and their bent busted communions. I got this seven inch with a homemade button made from a ringpull, a bottlecap and a safety pin and Dishpit are the sound of tiny discarded objects pulled together. They are ephemeral and concerned with little things, the personal lives of people who know too many oogles but aren't really one themselves, who can't quite explain to their mum exactly why they hate cops so much, who laugh hard at their own bad decisions as soon as they've stopped punching a wall over them, who get a tad faded on fumes throwing up a wonky Gauze tag under the bridge, and get chased out of abandoned buildings. Who stay forever punk, in these songs, and in mushy mispelt zines, broken tapes, in stained and sleeveless homemade Die Kreuzen shirts strewn about on dirty floors. Not rebel souls, nothing so romantic or pure, just the brief grotty freedom of small punx lives drawn in sticky, pokey punk rock. To get stuck in your head and to poke at your ramshackle hopes. To get under the skin and live in your itchings.

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