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.