Tom and Boot Boys - Stupid And Naked Punks Are Running In My House

Responsible for some of the greatest dumbest fulltilt pogo punk ever with classics such as Punk Parade and 30s Punx Go For It!, Tom and Boot Boys return with their first blast of fresh pogo beauts for a couple of years with a seven inch that practically screams "The fucking pogo cunts are back!". It also literally screams that at the start of the record. Subtlety is for boring people. You gotta kick everything to pieces with roaring runs of pogonoise, popping bouncing silly convergences of singalong glory, Chaotic Dischord covers, Oi!s and sweary bedlam.

Song titles as almost the entirety of the lyrics. Lay it out straight, smash it in with amphetamine glee. I Don't Wanna Spend My Fuckin' Money For Your Fuckin' Cunt with emotionally stunted cheapskate desire "I don't wanna pay for your fuckin' cunt. Now I don't have money so fuck me for free." and in the second verse "I don't wanna pay for your fuckin' cock. Now I don't have money so fuck me for free." Equality in inanity. Oi! goes Oi! Stupid and Naked Punks Running In My House blasts a riotous punkhouse ode, I Hate Suit Men giggles uncontrollably with normloathing joy. A reaffirmation of all that's silly and great about punk rock, all that's certain and undeniable as you runaround in noisy madcap vandalism, hating on cityboys, shouting along with other eejits, breaking things, breaking bones, just holding it together with the sheer propulsive energy of a screaming firework. At home in this madness, with the sillyshit morons and the bouncing ceilingsmacking dance energy. Looking like utter messes but knowing that in this puerile pandemonium that I AM OK, YOU ARE FUCKER.

La Misma - s/t 7"

After last year's demo and a track on the Toxic State Ground Zero Hardcore comp, La Misma, part of the always killin/never chillin bunch of noisenik scumpunx currently bursting out of New York with the finest in weird bent and buckled punk chuckles, release their first seven inch. Portuguese language, all female. The songs come on in bursts and trips, the vocals a heady torrent that move forward in outraged yelps and panicked rushes, the guitars, somewhat defuzzed from the demo, still writhe with livewire menace, chopping like blades, squeaking like shoes. The songs snap onwards, shredding the personal and the epic, shaking with images of dark parts of the world, biblical tortures, sacrifices, bloody parts and leaking stumps, sanguinary histories drawn on skin, war to war and onwards. Arete: "He skins them of dreams to live freely. In meadows so green. Content they are to suffer. In form you suffer." Secespita: "Worlds away but your body is at the point of the secespita. The secespita screams." Guerras Silenciosas: "Barriers we erect within ourselves prohibit us from refuge." "Intent is much deeper than any wound and will is our only weapon." Identifika O Xintimento: "Identify. In the silence that is time we see old ways disintegrate to give way for vitality." The songs move from the sinister pastures and corrupted idyll of Arete through emptiness to the stamping Secespita, shrouded in visceral violence and rituals, Guerras Silenciosas pulls that knife out and draws a plan for strength and change in the blood, Identifika O Xintimento enacts this, rises up and out with a self-possessed shiver and skip, returning to blood, but this time pumping to hearts reaching to love, not spilling in the futility of tradition. Worlds in each song, anger and screaming hope, ways and movements, shifts, old pains, new salves.

Anomaly - demo

Scorched-earth queer feminist d-beat from Chicago. Channeling pain into sonic murder, twisting and turning on the tipping point when the aggregative weight of constant frustration and oppression snaps into violence. They are incredibly, monumentally tired of your bullshit, and sometimes that manifests as a pure rager, Chronicles of an Apologist or TLC No Scums, which run with the unstoppable abandon of violence long-suppressed, other times that turns into a dry dismissiveness, tossing the shitty, the unthinking, the self-righteous poser fuckheads carelessly aside, as on the untitled second track, sourly intoning "I know you are well read, I read your zine on inclusibity and how you don't eat honey but I'm still not impressed." over an ugly noise track, disgust as ambience, peeling feedback. No quarter given, brutal realities, jock arseholes, worlds of unacceptable shit, cathartically burnt in the lyrics, fantasies of violence enacted in the music, bats to knees, revenge kills, street justice, blood worn as triumph and trophy, all that dirt that you swallow daily vomited back up here in a hatesick purge, in stomping thick noise-punk crunches, in searing crashercrust flurries, in perfectly vicious shifts of tempo and kicks of squealing discord, muddyboot bass tones. PS I Love You is the one that pulls this violence into positive force, affirmation, and even then the music kicks itself apart and then gets dragged back out of the chaosmurk and disorder by the hardhearted drive of the drums. "You are real and you are not a burden/Your anger is valid/Her feelings of inmasculinity/His insecurities and our queer identities//Nobody knows your body more than you do/and nobody has the right to control you." Powerful shit in every way.
 

The Floor Above - Bishop

Murky messy shit that sears, 20 tracks of repulsive din to put you on edge with the nasty auralities ranging from the industrial accident garage punk jams on Broken Jaws from to hardcore rushes like Bullshit March, noise rock emergencies like Sunk, stumbling apocalyptic wanderings like Cave, PV-brief snatches of sharpsweet guitar stabs on Unconscious, hitting repetitive Overkill rhythms on Clone, it takes all darting shapes of guitar noise, from the furious and unbuckled thrash, to the skidding high whips of poppy punky scratch, and drags them all through this uncomfortable dingy shitscape, the torturous noise and ugliness acting as the agglutinative agents, merging, melding these diverse parts into one sore whole. Broken music that comes in fits and starts, that grinds and guts, snakes out of control, the sound of defective machine parts sparking with noise and hate, wired with shoddy methods (negative/negative connections), letting the bugs and jumps and misfires run riot, and the groans and grunts reaching through the cacophony, reaching, retching. Reaving. Scrape the metal bones of their rust and stretch a thin sheet of vulcanised rubber across them, let that golem live. Send it to play with martial feedback in toxic places unfit for life and hear it scream as the engine ghosts come out to watch. An unsettling dark slab of weirdo loner hardcore.

Thee Mighty Fevers - Fuck'In Great R'n'R

It may have come to your attention that Guitar Wolf are the greatest fucking band in the world? It may have also come to your attention that Teengenerate are, similarly, the greatest fucking band in the world. Thee Mighty Fevers are a band that sounds like these bands, and, due to Guitar Wolf and Teengenerate being, respectively, the greatest fucking band in the world and the greatest fucking band in the world, this is fucking great. Blasting rock and roll jacked-up and let out in deadly killingfloor boogies, shakin it way too fast, rolling on that garage punk theeeee, smashing through 13 done-in punk kicks of spit and thunder in 20 minutes of zombies and rockers and punk jackets, fury and riots and renegade brawls. The bass rumbling, the drums crashing and the guitars wheeling about in motorcycle burning, yelps and yaps above the din, 1-2-3-4s and cool oh-oh-ohs, lost in the manic collisions of rock and roll climbings, punknoise descents.