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.


Wednesday, 6 August 2014

Gutter Gods - Innersense LP

Pulsing negative futurepunx, mechanistic hardcore chomping broken up with cyberparts, building a swirling surreality of samples, feedback sparks and guitar crunch, all encased with this kind of scummy hum. Virtual Reality squealing manically, barking rabidly as the song grumbles into life. Mind Corruption rolling slowly with the harmonica squawk of alarm blares reaching you through the din, then the feverish screech, then exploding, slowing, cracking onwards with its psychotic shifts."A SICKNESS TAKES HOLD ALL TOO OFTEN/ACCELERATING THOUGHTS/MIND CORRUPTION"

Constantly brutalised and confused, Gutter Gods attack with such relentless cynicism and antagonistic fervor as to spray its hostility on all it contacts, including itself. Hang Out burns with a rancor for all social scene shit, but as that kind of dismissive scream often is, it's matched to a stabbing self-loathing (which explodes on Rut) rather than an arrogance. And Street Walker might seem like a bleak scathing portrait of a prostitute, but it switches up between third and first person so quickly, marries itself to its target and then jumps away from that, snaps between the specific and the general, that all you're left with is just an overwhelming sense of unease and gathering despair, all thrust into your head by the thump of the hardcore.

Even the hearty Oi!-shot crew-stomper of Chosen Few oscillates between being the prototypical celebratory fist-in-face fucker-upper, and a snide, self-lacerating satirical take on that brainless violent mentality "BUNCH OF APES THROWING SHIT/WE DON'T TIRE WE DON'T QUIT/RUIN THE NIGHT FOR YOU/WHAT THE FUCK YOU GONNA DO?" Even at one point breaking down into peppy goofy handclaps, heightening the ridiculousness of that thugpunk shield-wall unity. "SPILLIN' GEAR CAUSIN' FEAR/SPILL A PUNK ROCKER'S BEER/SLAP OF REALITY ACROSS YOUR FACE/CLEAR THE POSERS OUT THE PLACE" Cos maybe even a brawl is a level of interaction that can't sit right with the forceful isolation of Community: "HUMAN NATURE/SUCK IT DRY/NO COMMUNITY/JUST ALIVE"

Allan where this all disintegrates, the purposeful noise losing that momentum, breaking apart with the strain of pessimistic totality, the energy previously corralled let loose, the constituent parts wild, damaging, unformed. Background turmoil and a rant of paranoia and nihilism, the coiled and wriggling thoughts that fester and live with mental quarantine, but this break is shouted again with such ferocity as to cut and bloody, just digging deeper as it's dragged out uncomfortably long.

As well as the uncompromising desire to push this negativity to hard blank endpoints, what makes Innersense really live is the way the album matches malevolent fury to the space-smooth sterling guitar whispertone, rocketship fuselage sheen over mucky snarls, Innersense chugs and cuts with Gutter Gods' perverse anti-faith, anti-human swivel. Hate articulated and thrown in all directions, animosity towards self and others and torn up with thunderous hardcore stomp and drive, but the psychshiver guitar that bookends Streetwalker, stabs out of Community, whips and swoops through Mind Corruption, and that constant wheedling squeal that lives to itch out of the quieter moments, take this venom into way weirder, darker, creepier places yet than simple fuck-you with a riff strapped-on.