The streetwise aesthetic and raw yet danceable sound of Side By Side’s sole seven-inch EP has been raising my pulse for decades, and though a born New Yorker myself, I was all of seven years-old when they played their final show in 1988. When some of my pals wanted to go see them, I figured, why not treat myself to what has a good chance of being Side By Side’s only US show this century, with a bill stacked with contemporary (read: non-reunion) hardcore acts? We consolidated cars at the Woodbridge, NJ Walmart parking lot and charged the city.
I’m sure there are a number of readers who have never been to New York, and not only fantasize about the famed metropolis itself but its storied hardcore scene as well. While a gig of this capacity certainly doesn’t constitute the norm, if this was your sole New York hardcore experience, you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s… kind of like anywhere else in the world. The Brooklyn Monarch is one of a number of old industrial warehouses turned grubby-chic Live Music Nightlife Entertainment Venue across the US, replete with a staff that couldn’t tell the difference between pictures of Flea and Harley Flanagan, nor would they care. That’s fine, I suppose, and if I was going to check out a modestly popular touring indie band like Real Estate or Wild Nothing, it’d be a perfect fit, but c’mon, this is Side By Side! Some classic NYHC folks were in attendance, thank goodness, though I can imagine they also felt the surroundings to be a little off, like a fancy terrarium mimics nature. Or maybe, in a landscape where every mom-and-pop has been systematically targeted and replaced by a chain, they’re already used to it.
Hudson, NY’s Dead Last opened and set the vibe, one of hesitance and modest engagement. The pit was opened and left empty by a couple valiant parallel moshers, and barring the singer’s Infest diss (which seemed a little cheap!) there wasn’t much to write home about, posi or negi. As it turns out, the Monarch is situated next to another venue (owned by the same folks as the Monarch, how about that) called The Meadows, where Sick Of It All were performing, almost at the exact same time as Dead Last were on stage. Sick Of It All would’ve been perfect with Side By Side for many reasons, but I understand that the money probably wouldn’t have worked that way, no matter how repugnant Born Against might declare it.
Brain Tourniquet were next, bearing the incongruous position of being the sole grind-core act on a hardcore bill. Desirable to some and awkward for others, the trio blasted out their set of power-violence faithfuls, clearly indebted to unimpeachable greats like Crossed Out and Terrorizer. I’m kicking myself for missing them at a smaller venue here in Philly over the summer, but they made it work here, complete with “…An Expression In Pain” to end their set, the twelve-minute doom/grind/riff opus that encompassed all of the second side of their 2023 Iron Lung album.
Firewalker took the stage next, and were the highlight of the night for me. This Boston five-piece delivered their flawless mix of NYHC grit ala Raw Deal and Krakdown with the first-wave cracked-teeth spite of Negative Approach and Last Rights. I was wondering how Sophie Hendry’s gruff, death-metal vocals would translate live, and they were as menacing as I could’ve hoped, stalking the stage in her practice-team pinnie / hoodie combo. Each song had all the proper parts – slow mosh, hard mosh, fast dive zone, shout-along chorus, internal vexation – and I was kicking myself for not reading along with a lyric sheet in preparation. I was feeling it all the way in the back, and the up-front crowd responded in kind. Raving to a friend about their set days later, we put on Firewalker’s 2017 full-length and it sounded better than ever – I love when you see a band for the first time and their recordings take on a different, brighter glow. Next time, I’m gonna lose it to “Don’t Cross Me”, that’s a promise!
Tired yet? Things were moving briskly, but then S.H.I.T. took a while to get started. My ex-edgeman friend shifted from vodka sodas to vodka Red Bulls, and found the frantic metallic sheen of S.H.I.T. to be his least favorite of the night, whereas I thought they did a noble job following Firewalker’s colossal presence. On stage, it became clear to me that their songs all utilized the exact same picking style, resulting in an imposing wall of heavy hardcore that might benefit from a little deviation. Don’t their wrists get tired with all those endless 16th notes, over and over? Probably a little too punk for the youth-crew crowd, especially one antsy for their beloved one-off reunion band, but I enjoyed their energy, and the fact that Brain Tourniquet called them “Shit” but they announced themselves as “Ess Aitch Eye Tee”, clearing up that matter. Two Iron Lung Records recording acts on the same Revelation Records reunion gig, what’s not to like about that?
Which brings us to Side By Side. Cheers erupted as the group plugged in, as well as jeers from at least one guy who took umbrage at Hate5Six’s presence – he hit the videographer with “do a pushup!” and “Rage Against The Machine sucks!” before being thrown out. Though the group doesn’t need to be rated on an age-based curve, it was impressive to see the energy and presence of vocalist Jules Massey in particular, who admittedly hadn’t been involved in hardcore in nigh thirty years. (He’s now a practicing maritime lawyer in Florida, one of the happier outcomes of the late ’80s NYHC diaspora.) Wearing a Terror t-shirt over a hoodie, he spoke at length between each song, thanking old friends, rejecting the modern practice of crowd-killing, segueing into lyrics, and explaining the purpose of the gig: a benefit for The Alex Brown Foundation, an art residency program put together in memory of his departed friend and bandmate. Touching and sincere, long-winded and (self-proclaimed) corny, Massey is a natural frontperson who seemed bemused to be playing hardcore again, with energy to rival S.H.I.T.’s sprightly Ryan Tong. The guitar tone was dead-on for the EP, and the crowd reacted with plentiful tumble-roll dives and fist-in-the-air sing-alongs, even if the nostalgic-terrarium feel continued to loom, somewhere between a 1988 CBGBs matinee and a Las Vegas Punk Museum simulacrum of one. When they struck their first chord, a sea of cell-phones popped up. I know we all talk about hating phones at shows, but in this context it felt particularly unpleasant. Clearly, no one was going to watch their little videos later; rather, this significant number of show-goers wanted to broadcast their attendance to their social-media followers, a clout check-in of sorts rather than active participation. Makes sense if you’re going to see U2 in the Orb or Taylor Swift on an aircraft carrier, but hardcore is meant to be experienced first-hand with one’s full attention, at least in this writer’s opinion. My friends were thrilled by Side By Side’s set, too up-close to even pull out their phones, and I watched them race to the merch line for fresh Side By Side longsleeves as the venue security screamed at everyone to leave. None of us took a single pic.
Post Present Medium does a great job of highlighting not only art-minded experimental stuff but down n’ dirty punk as well; I like it best when they find artists who manage to integrate both. I was curious to see that they released this recent-yet-posthumous collection of recordings from Austin’s Blue Dolphin, then, particularly as the group featured personnel from some of my modern-punk favorites: CCTV (gone way too soon!), Mystic Inane and Chronophage. Theirs is an unpolished form of greasy punk, toeing the line between pranksterish hardcore, antagonistic post-punk and even some accidental rockabilly when the mood strikes. I’m reminded of the Dicks, not only from the shared residency but the sly lampooning of cowboy culture, as well as Fang, particularly in the way that both bands often seem completely disinterested in the songs they’re playing. In the case of Blue Dolphin, the drummer just kinda picks a basic beat and sticks with it, more or less overlooking any fills or changes, with guitarist and bassist loosely cycling through their parts and a singer chattering over top. These songs often feel embryonic or unfinished, more like messing around with friends in the practice space than a final product, a sensation that is amplified by the coarse recording. Nothing beats playing music with your friends for the sole purpose of playing music with your friends, but as an outside listener, Blue Dolphin come in second to the members’ other fantastic projects, some of my favorite punk of the ’10s. 
Since the beginning, French electronic music has presented its own tweaked perspective, prone to dark or deadpan humor seeping out of its sweaty pores. Mr. Oizo comes to mind as one of the highlights of outlandishly devious French music, as does DJ Zaltan’s Antinote label, which seems to delight in eclectic, gleeful electronic music as much as good-natured trolling. This new Bruce Falkian project certainly continues that thread, weaving the rough-edged tropical funk of the Principe label with the half-speed skank of labelmates Front De Cadeaux, all with what is my favorite cover art of the month. “Venezia Bienale” calls to mind early MIA rendered in a cough-syrup haze; “First Communion” moves with the unfriendly electro pulse of Crack: We Are Rock. It’s edgy without trying too hard to be edgy, perhaps coming from the sense that Bruce Falkian doesn’t seem particularly interested in selling themselves or hitting any obvious genre signifiers for quick and easy success. Their premise is staunchly weird and uninviting – “Each Step” is like an Instagram story of celebrities fighting with each other, surely by design – but it’s that mix of confusing, unfriendly joking-around, zonked-out electro-house sleaze and euphoric genre-clash that makes Bruce Falkian so appealing. 
“Portland punk” conjures images of indignant spikes n’ leather d-beat devils in my mind, but Cherry Cheeks exist in a musical realm far from the toxic-dystopian alleys where you’d find Lebenden Toten and Blood Spit Nights lurking. Theirs is egg-punk with a big silly grin, where the lightly-fried guitar tone meets baseball-stadium organ, tambourines, space-laser synths and Little Richard leads, all of which sound like they were played by big puffy Mickey Mouse gloves instead of human hands. It’s at least a little queer and proudly deviant from the mainstream (“DATA” has kind of a Bobby Soxx vibe), yet you could probably let Second LP (great title!) rip at a five year-old’s birthday party and no one would mind (certainly not the sugared-up children). “Bunny Does Ice” sounds like if Home Blitz wrote the theme song for a Cartoon Network show, for example, but you can play it back multiple times without diminished enjoyment. There’s no shortage of this basic style, so even though it’s always the key, in this case it’s especially important to write memorable songs rather than simply fill up the space with an identifiable punk aesthetic. Cherry Cheeks are up to that task: “Pure Power” channels Joan Jett in a DEVO energy dome fronting a band comprised of Heathcliff the Cat and friends. Its dying Casio lead is quick to lodge itself in the listener’s brain, or at least the empty space where a brain would normally be. 
The only thing better than a parody album title is two parodies in the same album title! In case there are any non-punks reading this, I can clarify that this Minneapolis trio are referencing Hüsker Dü and Nine Shocks Terror with their newest here, and they make it plenty funny in the process. While I’m sure they appreciate both groups, neither seems to hold a strong sonic presence in these songs, which are melodic speed-punk of a particularly fine caliber. Citric Dummies execute their poppy garage riffs with the menace of hardcore, in a way that recalls the first Dwarves records, a real sweet spot if you can get it. Unrelenting even by punk standards! And while all three members are credited with vocals, one of these guys belts out pitch-perfect, irony-free, Danzig-circa-’81 melodic lines with ease – please, go check “On Display” and tell me it’s not the perfect melding of Walk Among Us and Homostupids. I’m smitten with those Misfits-y moments, but I’m just as excited by the tracks that sound more like The Dead Boys, The Briefs and The Reatards (in various sped-up and/or cleaned-up forms). The ‘Dummies could sing total BS and I’d probably still hitch a ride, but they go for the kill with their lyrics too – I’ll let you imagine how the words to songs with the titles “Being Male Is Embarrassing”, “I’m Gonna Kill Myself (At The Co-op)” and “My True Love Is Depression” go. Or you could do the smart thing and include Zen And The Arcade in your weekly Feel It order.
On his solo-ish debut, Ryan Davis sounds like he could talk his way out of anything, even when caught red-handed with his pants down. We’re talking Matthew McConaughey-level charm here, but instead of making a million dollars selling speculative real-estate futures, he’s chosen the life of a humble musician, previously fronting the indie-country act State Champion and currently as a member of the fantastic Equipment Pointed Ankh, whose members act (at least in part) as his Roadhouse Band. Their songs serve as warm, comfortable seating for Davis’s endless one-liners and quotable turns-of-phrase; for as many lyrics as he’s written (and there sure are a lot), the quality is stunningly high, filled with amusing quips, disarming tenderness and universal truth delivered as rib-tickling punchline. Much like the songs, his voice is plain and palatable, all of it working together as rootsy, indie Americana, a fine-tuned delivery system for his endless ruminations. David Berman’s mind by way of Townes Van Zandt’s heart. Packaged in a hefty gatefold sleeve with obligatory lyric sheet, Dancing On The Edge is prepared to take on the life of a sturdy old friend.
Someone associated with Del Paxton sent a letter along with this record, preemptively suggesting it probably won’t be “my thing”. Well, if that was a clever reverse-psychology ploy, it worked, because I do in fact dig it! If I’m going to allow any band an extra side of self-deprecation, it’s one that sounds a whole heck of a lot like Braid, from a town where the weather is miserable more than half the year. Who better than Buffalo’s Del Paxton, then? They’ve got that sort of diagonal emo-riffing down pat, with stutter-step drums, active fingers on the bass frets, a satisfying quiet/loud dynamic and a singer who whines without being annoying or off-key. The Braid similarities are palpable, but Auto Locator reminds me of The Jazz June and Rainer Maria as well, if a bit more rowdy, alongside probably a million other bands who came out since 2002 (which is when I more or less stopped spending much time seeking out new practitioners of this sound). I was blessed with an abundance of local bands who nailed this style (go look up Merring on Bandcamp and The William Tell Routine on Discogs if you want to mimic my post-Y2K emo journey), but I’ll passively (and occasionally actively) appreciate this sort of sound probably until the day I die. It feels inevitable that distant-future twenty-somethings will continue to play charming, articulate post-hardcore emo-pop long after I’m gone, Del Paxton another twinkling star in that ever-expanding galaxy.
No, that’s not a bulldozer collapsing the foundation of your home, it’s a new Emptyset record! Experimental electronics don’t get more brutal than this Bristolian duo, even as they kind of drifted towards high-brow academic experimentalism over the last few years. It happens to the best of us, and while I appreciated the eerie oppressive hum of their site-specific installation recordings, it’s so good to hear Ash, a new six-track EP of Emptyset at their most unrelenting and oppressive. If you haven’t heard them before, this is a great place to start, as it distills the nature of the project – crackling industrial body blows, deployed with machine-like intensity at rigorous, speaker-popping levels. “Ember”, for example, sounds like an automotive fabrication line at full productivity, giant hammers puncturing sheets of steel with vicious precision. If Transformers ever has a robot MMA scene, Michael Bay would be crazy not to enlist Emptyset for the appropriate sound design, that’s for sure. These six tracks are quick – I would’ve been happy if each ran for double the length – but I can’t deny that the EP’s brevity adds to its overall impact. Next week when I’m wondering how I developed all these weird bruises, please remind me that I was listening to Ash.
What’s that racket coming from the kitchen? Sounds like the plumber fighting off a mischievous gang of clowns, but it’s actually the newest release from Philadelphia’s Evil Sword. Besides the bass-guitar, this duo utilizes everything but traditional rock instrumentation, conjuring a rambunctious form of modern no-wave with theater-kid tendencies. Vocalist Kate Ferencz has the unsettling confidence of a young Lydia Lunch, completely at ease with Ben Furgal’s bass-lines, which can shift from disjointed or indignant to circus-like and ostentatious. With the addition of a near-constant burbling of whistles, metal clanks, bells and scrapes, the album can come across like a No New York that existed within the Looney Tunes cartoon universe, or perhaps Kathy Acker’s maniacal prose translated into a sonic format. With such a musical arrangement, Evil Sword could easily fall into the self-fulfilling position of free-improv, but Basket Fever is fully song-based, complete with choruses, call-and-response sing-alongs and repeated musical phrasing. Some of these are practically punk songs, though performed on clarinet, bass and junk percussion, which is perhaps the punkest way they could be played, now that you mention it.
Migration Magic is the debut full-length from Montreal’s Feeling Figures, and it’s taking me back! Not in any sort of forced retro-nostalgia way, but because their music hits a recognizable sweet spot: the mid ’90s underground where the sounds of pop-punk, indie-rock and grunge commingled freely, acting as a staunch refutation of the mainstream. It’s almost funny to think about how fiercely punks cared about protecting the underground back then – is it even possible to “sell out” in 2023, and if so, would anyone even care if you did? – but the sound of Feeling Figures takes me back there, where playing your own handmade songs, recording them in the only available lo-fi manner, playing almost exclusively local shows and making fun of Green Day somewhere along the way were their own reward. Some of these songs bounce or zag in ways that remind me of two ’00s faves, The Thermals and Times New Viking, but more than anything it’s that “unambitious fun local band” vibe happening here that sticks out, inspired by groups like The Vaselines, The Muffs, Eric’s Trip, The Cannanes, Go Sailor… whatever band’s CD you happened to pick up at the time based on its cover art. Feeling Figures feels like the type of group that will be incredibly important to an incredibly small number of people, among them whoever decided to send $2.50 PPD in the mail (cash only!) for a copy of their demo cassette as listed in the Maximumrocknroll classifieds. Mom, can you come pick me up? Grandpa is reminiscing about being a teenage punk in the ’90s again!
“Filth Is Eternal” isn’t only what I exclaim when I spill sauce on my shirt, it’s also a newish Seattle band! Theirs is an agreeable mixture of noise-rock, hardcore, crust-punk and metal, all with kind of a pro-tude delivery and presentation. I guess part of my suspicion there comes from the label, “MNRK Heavy”, which judging from its roster of weird Judas Priest and Black Label Society releases seems more business-minded and strategic than, you know, anything Ebullition would carry, not that trying to financially succeed at what you’re doing is always inappropriate. (Just mostly.) Musically, things hurry by, structured with the rapid-fire complexity of metal-core though the riffs themselves are far closer to KEN Mode and Cavity than Botch and Converge, if we want to split those hairs. All of it is wrangled by the capable snarl of vocalist Lis Di Angelo (who, to her credit, also plays in the all-female Megadeth cover band Pegadeth). I dunno, absolutely nothing wrong with Find Out, but there’s nothing that really makes it stand out either, except for the sense that there’s some sort of business-minded presence behind it, the same nagging feeling you might’ve gotten when listening to Trash Talk in 2012. A song like “Body Void” provides a good example, as it sounds one step away from radio-ready nu-metal and is equipped with a song title comprised of underground goth/metal/hardcore signifiers so generic that I’m almost certain a band with the same name already exists. (Editor’s note: I just checked, and yup, a new Body Void album came out on Prosthetic Records earlier this year!)
I know, I know, you’re all going through mellow acoustic-ambient piano field-recording album withdrawal, having only had a half dozen or so new ones last month. Fear not, here’s another! It comes care of painter-musician Realf Heygate, straight outta “his family home in rural Leicestershire”. And what do you know, he layers patient and ponderous cello, piano and acoustic guitar over recordings of school-children, room sounds, active weather and the local flora and fauna. It’s becoming as formalized of a genre as minimal techno or grindcore, this rural isolation instrumentalism, and yet as much as I want to tell Flaer that he’s too late, that the doors are closed and no one else is getting in, Preludes is such a charmer that I can’t help but quietly slip him through a cracked-open door. It’s probably because he’s quite good at this, particularly on the musical end of things, his guitars recalling ’90s art-leaning emo (think Very Secretary or Lucky Jeremy) in a pleasantly familiar way, with piano closer to Nils Frahm than Graham Lambkin. This is traditional music first, aesthetic second, which is one of only a couple ways a new one of these projects will stay afloat – you’re gonna need to have some musical expertise, or at least some intriguing technique, to make the sounds of rickety floorboards and your grandmother’s piano stand out. Lucky for Flaer (and listeners of Flaer), he does. 
The ever-busy Sam Gendel drops his second album of 2023 (and last, unless he squeaks out another in December, which is certainly possible). This one is billed as a collaboration with Marcella Cytrynowicz, the older sister of Antonia Cytrynowicz with whom Gendel already released a collaborative album (and who I believe is his partner; more than I care to personally know about this guy but alas), though the elder Cytrynowicz contributes art, not music, to this appealing package. The music is all Gendel, and as his playing has stretched out in various funky directions over the last few years, Audiobook displays the experimental saxophonist at his focused best. Here, his alto saxophone is colorfully warped over sparse synth triggers, pads and keys. It’s far too busy to be filed under “drone”, though these tracks are as softly calming as the best of them, sometimes leaning into the warped R&B modulations of L’Rain and/or the playful brainiac styles of Tortoise. It feels very modern, very LA, like you’d expect to hear these songs in a TikTok video of James Blake making espresso on a $5,000 La Marzocco, or Alex G and Justin Timberlake hanging out at Erewhon… but in a good way! There’s definitely a vibe at play here, perhaps an annoying one to some, but if you simply sit back and enjoy these freaky instrumentals – from the frantic and anxious compositions to the stubbornly chilled-out interludes – the pleasure to be had is nearly endless.
Beau Wanzer wins again with yet another righteous collaboration, this time with fellow Chicagoan Alex Barnett (AKA Champagne Mirrors). Wanzer never fails in the design department either, as the cover of Gub could be the basis for a short piece of horror fiction, a reptilian hand escaping from the puddle of spilled “Gub”, whatever that might be. I recognize the name as Pigface’s first album, and while the sounds of this record do not immediately recall aggressive ’90s Wax Trax industrial, the hometown connection can’t be denied. These tracks, while still as deliriously slow and torqued as any given Wanzer production, are far less filthy than I’m used to hearing from him, far more “something goes wrong at the lonely interstellar docking station” than his usual “sewer tunnel chamber of terrors” vibe. Maybe that’s Barnett’s doing? A few of these cuts actually remind me of instrumentals Kool Keith would’ve wrapped over back in his Dr. Octagon and Analog Brothers days: slow, queasy, irritable and vaguely alien in nature. I tend to like Wanzer at his most polluted, but the oxygen-deprived dread of a track like “Gub 3” comes across like an AI Wolf Eyes in the best of ways. 
All praise to the underground labels out there who not only put out cool records but also inform us about cool projects we would’ve otherwise never known existed. Perhaps you’re like me, a solid Glenn Donaldson fan who somehow missed that he had a new charming indie duo going with Carly Putnam (of Art Museums and The Mantles; presumably no relation to Seth). I may be fast approaching my personal quota of shambolic low-energy Bay Area twee, but Helpful People are more on the blissful-yet-sturdy indie-pop side of the street, a sound that, much like dessert, I always have room for. Putnam sings clearly and firmly over stripped-down drums, warm bass and guitars that, you guessed it, flutter and chime in that time-tested, ever-popular indie-shoegaze fashion. It seems like these folks have an endless wellspring of songs like this ready to go at a moment’s notice, as if Donaldson could write the first side of his next album in the time it takes him to ride the bus to the practice space, but it all feels more fresh and immediate because of it, rather than over-labored or tossed-off. And thanks to Tall Texan, not only am I aware of Helpful People, I can solemnly sway to “Bugs From Below” anytime I want. 
Following great full-length releases from his group Monokultur in 2021 and JJulius in 2022, Mr. Ulius takes a quick lil victory lap here on this new four-track EP, spaced out nicely on big 45 RPM twelve-inch grooves. He’s a trickster, so don’t let the title fool you as it did me – this isn’t actually a live record from what I can tell, though it is indeed a full four-piece band. These songs are dapper and lively, the two b-side cuts in particular exhibiting a limber energy adjoined to sweeping melancholic guitar-work… reminds me of one of those great early ’80s Joy Division rip-off groups who grew into their own unique new-wave styles. Shoegaze without being so damned formal about it, maybe even a little grungy in that ’90s 4AD version of it, all delivered with JJ Ulius’s unique sense of timing and performance. The opening slow-dance “500 Spänn” is probably my least favorite cut here, whereas the amusingly-titled “U2” is my favorite, sounding like The Primitives playing Orange Juice in a Swedish noise basement. Is it too late to change my name to Mattias and see if they need an auxiliary tambourine player?
It’s comforting to know that, for as much as I’ve dedicated my life to seeking out underground rock music of the late ’70s and early ’80s, I’ll never come close to knowing all that’s out there. New York City alone has such an abundance of the stuff, which is why I’m excusing myself for having been previously unaware of Neon Leon, a mover-shaker in the prime era of Max’s Kansas City, CBGB’s and the Chelsea Hotel. He released an album in 1983, but this is a collection of his various singles from the previous years, all of which immediately bring to life the sound of that era, one where The Rolling Stones hung out with actual punks, Debbie Harry flirted with Paul Shaffer, reggae was infatuating the hipster cognoscenti and new-wave was just starting to evolve into a recognizable thing. Neon Leon’s music fits right in, very Johnny Thunders-ish yet smooth enough to connect with audiences who loved to rock but weren’t fully sold on the whole “punk” thing. There’s a blues song, a few proto-new-wave bops and plenty of party rockers, all delivered with Neon Leon’s commanding voice. Crazy to think there was a time where you could just run around the big city, trying not to get stabbed while hopping between clubs where Survivor and DEVO performed in equal measure; now I’ve got a new soundtrack for that irresistible daydream. 
Back in the pre-digital age, Omnibadger would’ve been giving off strong “private-press weirdo” vibes, but nowadays it’s more of a “Bandcamp obscurity” sensation. This British group (or sole guy?) makes music with proudly limited appeal, but one way or another found a vinyl home on Cruel Nature, skipping right to their third volume for their first public release. Omnibadger sticks with a primal and noisy style, one of overly-affected guitars and pounding percussion. The guitar rumbles, reverberates and drones more than it riffs, and with the sparse Crash Worship-style drumming, it gives what would otherwise be a hovering grey cloud some sense of motion. Make it long enough through this album and eventually you’ll hear some screaming over the din, though it feels incidental, like a by-product of the heavy noise rather than a predetermined vocal accompaniment. But wait, is that a headbanging electro-punk song at the end of side one? The whole thing makes me think of a nonexistent CD-R by Bill Nace and Dylan Nyoukis, still fresh with Sharpie ink and limited to less than a dozen, or an unearthed Sightings demo from one of their earliest sessions. That’s the era between private-press vinyl and Bandcamp, the Y2K CD-R underground, and it left us too soon, even if there are artists like Omnibadger whose music carries on that sonic legacy.
Like a black hole, Feel It Records eventually pulls all worthwhile underground punk-related music into its orbit one way or another; Memphis’s Optic Sink are a recent acquisition, having released their debut on Goner. Everyone is into everything these days, of course, but Glass Blocks makes a little more sense on Feel It than Goner, I suppose, as the group’s garage-rock roots are less evident than ever before. This album is more about rhythm, funky synth tricks and post-punk hooks, in similar spirit to Dark Day, Fad Gadget and DAF to name but a few. “Summertime Rain” is one of my favorites here, which squares off a couple electronic rhythms, a one-string electric guitar lead and a persistent background burble – throw in Natalie Hoffmann’s disaffected vocals and it almost feels like they should be signed to Dais instead, opening a leg of Adult.’s next tour. It’s not a shiny, professionalized album though – there’s still a sense of punks exploring the gear-room here, perhaps reminiscent of the first Naked On The Vague album (which I hold so dear). Punks are terrible at dancing to this stuff, so watching their audience flail about is the cross that Optic Sink has to bear. 
The Sorry State email newsletter is crucial punk reading – even if it’s ultimately coming from a place of commerce, the love they demonstrate for music is undeniable and sincere. So, if you’re like me and you read it every week, you’re probably used to being bludgeoned by months of ads for Sweden’s Paranoid. It’s like the Diesel Queens in ’90s Maximumrocknroll, a group whose constant advertised presence psychically wore me down, so I didn’t peep Paranoid until Beach Impediment dropped this new EP. These Swedes clearly wish they were Japanese, from the kanji song titles, OBI strip and design (as well as mastering by Ippei Suda in Osaka), which, when this overt, can get a little weird depending on how much leeway you personally feel is reasonable for the co-opting of foreign aesthetics by any given hardcore punks. Musically, the heavy-yet-noisy d-beat hardcore comes as no surprise, clearly aping the legends of the genre that we all know and love and staying within those boundaries. As a sound, this EP is sharp and serviceable, but there’s never been more Japanese- / Swedish-sounding d-beat hardcore to choose from than there is right now in late 2023, so unless you demand a constant flow of new fabrications of the genre, S.C.U.M. might hit as good, not great. It was apparently released as a seven-inch in Sweden earlier this year, and I have to say, the b-side etching of this twelve-inch slab might be my favorite vinyl etching I’ve seen in forever: artist Oik Wasfuk contributes a truly staggering design of serpents, weapons, and, you know it, one very gnarly skull.
AD 93 always has its ears open for the newest new things brewing in the digital underground, unafraid to throw an unexpected artist in the mix. If it works, it works, and this album from Quade is a glorious surprise. For one, this Bristol-based four-piece are basically a “rock” group, or maybe they aren’t a rock group, but they really aren’t a techno project in even the most tenuous sense, so it’s already an unusual fit for AD 93. Maybe it’s the ever-creeping influence of Moin, infecting the British electronic scene with a post-hardcore fever, but Quade have assembled an entirely novel vision of post-rock. Their sound veers in traditionally psychedelic and folk realms, gathering threads of safe-space drone, krautrock jamming and acoustic black-magic and braiding them together. Imagine a psych-rock version of Dirty Three, or Godspeed You! Black Emperor jamming with Loop, or if Shackleton’s mysterious rhythmic constructions were performed in the style of Slint, Agitation Free and Comus. Quade make a variety of musical connections that weren’t there before, and they do so with ease, even if I get the sense that they labored over every sonic detail, from the warm reverberations of the synth to the booming live drums. A magnificent debut, and another friendly reminder that I need to check out every single thing AD 93 releases on the slight possibility of a gem like Nacre slipping past.
Ominously forming mere months before 2020’s Covid outbreak, Philadelphia’s Quarantine follow their debut full-length with their bone-crushing sophomore effort, Exile. They’re a band designed to rage at the highest possible caliber, featuring all-around good guy Will McAndrew (also of Poison Ruïn), Jeff Poleon on bass, top American hardcore drummer Chris Ulsh, and the monstrous presence of Jack “Jock” Barrett on vocals. As a Philly native, I had to wonder where he came from, and my intel came back with reports that he is a revered vegan chef, perhaps the most prestigious of punk occupations. (Poleon is no culinary slouch himself, as peddler of beloved local vegan-donut chain Dottie’s Donuts!) Anyway, it goes to show that these are no part-time lightweights, and their music rampages accordingly. I swear the songs average out to longer lengths than that of their debut, but they never feel bloated or over-reaching; any “songwriting growth” is purely in service of authentic hardcore-punk. Blessedly, Quarantine still sound like Mob 47 playing Autistic Behavior and State Of Fear songs at twice the speed, covering a wide range of brutal hardcore styles (a little Talk Is Poison here, a little Hoax there) stamped with their own unique recipe. The first time I ever ate Dottie’s Donuts, they were serving booze-soaked “margarita donuts” out of a laundry basket(?) at a DIY punk show, and while that memory will probably remain the most righteous association I have with Poleon, Exile comes awfully close to topping it. 
I feel like that Vince McMahon meme while perusing this EP: the band is called Rejects… but they spell it “Rejekts”… and there’s a skeleton on the cover… wearing a leather jacket… torturing another skeleton in some capitalist machinery?? Truly, what else do you need on this planet. S’pose I should actually listen to it as well, and it’s anticipated conclusion: this Boston hardcore-punk group is A-OK. They play hardcore-punk that leans on the punk aspect, recalling not only Minor Threat (check the riffage in “Manmade Hell”) but also the first-wave boots n’ braces UK punk that seduced Minor Threat way back when. It’s tough but not too tough, more like the crazy little guy known for disrespecting authority than any sort of big bruiser meathead contingent, and even when they slow it down (“Violence”) it hits that street-punk / hardcore sweet spot. There’s simply no way each these guys don’t have at least a dozen Necros and Negative Approach songs memorized by heart… that’s the kinda ‘core we’re dealing with here. Plus, I appreciate the singer’s commitment to wearing big glasses – you just know they’ve gotten smashed off his face at least a couple times now during live shows, but for the best punks, style has always taken precedence over safety.
I’ve heard some of you talking, saying stuff like “hmm, these Retail Simps seem like cool rock n’ roll maniacs, but aren’t they actually kind of clever people? Don’t some of them listen to Stockhausen and Fairport Convention instead of KISS and Electric Eels? Is this whole belligerent garage-rock thing kind of an ironic put-on?” Well I say to you, oh noble doubters, that tha ‘Simps are coming correct with the most authentic of dumbo garage-rock co-signs, that of the world famous Goodbye Boozy label. You don’t get one of these flimsy, low-quantity forty-fives on this notorious Italian label by being smart, that’s for sure! It all but guarantees that these guys got kicked out of high school, or whatever the Canadian equivalent of high school is. “Rubble” is particularly gruesome, reveling in its overt lo-fi quality with a guitar that never stops soloing and a singer that never stops screaming, the song that gives the bar owner no choice but to pull the plug. Great stuff! The b-side, unfortunately, is a John Cage-inspired take on… just kidding! It’s a gobbly piss-take of “Jumping Jack Flash” re-titled “Jumpin Jack Off”. Maybe once upon a time these guys had some sort of adroitness about them but any brain cells within a mile radius of this single are at risk.
As egg-punk continues to dominate the nerdy, anti-machismo, art-inclined side of underground punk, it has expanded and solidified as a (relatively-speaking) popular style. Usually that includes a goofy, larger-than-life irreverence: see the on-stage props of Uranium Club and the massive paper-maché finger puppets of Snooper, inspired not only musically by DEVO but by their creation of a bizarro aesthetic world unto themselves as well. Sydney’s R.M.F.C., however, take a different tact, as their entire existence seems to be predicated on the magic of the guitar and the transcendent riffs they’ve created. They’re fully in service of the guitar here, with no room for pranks, crude drawings, gags or even any overt personality – the guitar of singer-songwriter (and drummer?) Buz Clatworthy eclipses any other aspect of the group. And by god, it’s the best egg-punk I’ve heard since Coneheads bestowed it upon us! Clatworthy’s riffs are immaculate, frantic yet precise, downright genius… I have to wonder if he was raised on Eddy Current and Mozart exclusively, as there’s no other explanation for his idiosyncratic riffs. “Access” appeared on an earlier single and remains his masterwork, but tracks like “Spectrum”, New Diversion” and “Human State” operate on the same elite stratum, not bearing the alluring level of identity as Buzzcocks and Wire but dare-I-say as technically dazzling. Most seriously recommended!
Another unflinching dispatch from the Cincinnati underground, mysteriously not released by Feel It somehow. Also mysteriously, The Serfs, who share personnel with The Drin, Crime Of Passing and Motorbike, operate in a sinister electronic dance format, even if you know they’re punk rockers first and foremost. Nothing wrong with punks throwing on a little eyeliner and dancing at goth night, though, and The Serfs are a capable soundtrack for such a moonlit evening. Their music has ties to Chris & Cosey, Cabaret Voltaire and modern counterparts like Cold Showers and High-Functioning Flesh, though I can’t help but hear their ties to punk rock buried in there too, even when there isn’t a guitar in sight. Reminds me a bit of the harsh electro new-wave acts that Subterranean would promote back in the early ’80s, or some of Total Control’s forays into full-on electro-wave, two styles I find highly appealing. Unlike the many cold-wave groups who want to affect you via their own absolute disaffection, The Serfs have some bite, not quite the snarl of Skinny Puppy but somewhere close. If there isn’t at least one Serf with a severe chunky goth mullet, send them to their local tarot-reading stylist ASAP!
Hadn’t checked in with Sacred Bones in what feels like quite some time… it felt like much of the actual music was becoming secondary to promotional special limited-edition collector’s club celebrity-worship nonsense, you know? There’s too many killer bands out there for me to get excited over like, Jim Jarmusch’s cousin’s documentary soundtrack being reissued on ten colors of vinyl. But that’s just me! And here I am, checking out a band called Sextile, from LA, who seem to put in an extensive amount of effort for their look and presentation. I could’ve gone on my merry-hating-way without them, but I’m truly glad I checked out Push, because it’s actually fantastic American electro-punk that commands a wild party atmosphere. This is absolutely the type of band I want to see posing in fancy sex outfits with each other! Their songs are quick and potent, reveling in the same sweaty debauchery as Atari Teenage Riot and Lords Of Acid, enhanced by the heft of acid-techno and the danceable trashiness of electroclash. There’s something magic about a band whose fans dress up to go see, and Sextile certainly have that aura, that their music offers an ecstatic, dirty and participatory portal into something exciting and urgent. “Contortion” is a righteous opener, but “LA DJ” might be my favorite, a talking-techno cut that sounds like something I’d hear in a Seth Troxler set once the clothes are starting to come off. I started off an ignorant hater and now I’m planning my outfit for the next time Sextile come to town!
Chicago is the most creative noise-rock metropolis, right? I feel like there are more weird, one-of-a-kind underground rock acts that have called the Windy City their home than any other American city – for better or worse, of course – and you can add Something Is Waiting to that teetering stack. I can’t tell if this group is confusingly appealing or simply confusing, though more and more I crave the sense that the music I’m listening to doesn’t make sense, if only because so many bands out there make the most obvious sense all of the time. Something Is Waiting apparently used to be a five-piece, now shrunk to a studio-based trio, playing a creeping form of nu-metal sleaze-rock, I’ll call it? Imagine if Buckcherry and Limp Bizkit collided on the highway, had the blatant misogyny knocked out of them and only Dimebag Darrell’s tablature from which to craft their songs. (I’ll go on record as a Buckcherry fan (DM me for a deep-cuts playlist) and disinterested in Limp Bizkit, lest this be interpreted purely as diss.) It’s groove-oriented post-hardcore with a glammy boot-cut flair, geared more for someone that looks like Johnny Depp than a member of Turnstile, though anything is possible. You’d think if FM rock radio had its finger on any sort of underground pulse, they’d stick “Unholy Alliance” inside a Velvet Revolver / Tool / Disturbed rock block, but nah, we get stuck with stupid Dirty Honey and The Struts instead.
Did you know about Subsonics? I certainly didn’t, though this Atlanta trio has apparently been rocking since the early ’90s through and including this very moment right now. Slovenly recently reissued their first two albums on vinyl for the first time (Subsonics being their debut), and I dunno, if you’re not familiar, I can’t blame you if you’re already thinking that this is probably some rightfully-unheralded generic garage-punk group taking up more space in the universe. I had my prejudices just looking at the cover and band name, but shame on me, because this debut is nothing less than incredible! They play a very direct form of blues-informed garage-rock, but do it with such fine distinction here that I can’t believe no one turned me onto them sooner. The bass and drums lock into fundamental patterns, but guitarist/vocalist Clay Reed elevates these songs through his outrageous guitar performance and classically-snotty vocal delivery. He plays so fast, it’s ridiculous – his guitar is going sometimes three times as fast as the rest of the band, and as it’s electrified but undistorted, it sounds absolutely crazy. Subsonics feel like the missing link between The Victims, Jon Spencer, The Starlite Desperation and The Strokes, coming from the same Nuggets/Velvets ancestry but writing outrageous classics with the ease of tagging a bathroom stall with a Sharpie. I thought I’d heard all the classic garage-rock I’d ever need, but now I can’t live without “It’s A Long Way Suzy To New York City” and “Do You Think I’m A Junky?”. Are they still this good? Do I dare find out??
Sunwatchers seem to answer the question of “what if prog-rock prioritized feeling good over virtuosic feats of talent?”, and this newest one is a particularly pleasant trip, like walking into a surprise party filled with friends you haven’t seen in years. They’re mostly instrumental (there’s at least one or two group yells), a holy trio of guitar/bass/drums with a fourth auxiliary member (sax, keys and vibraphone), and they comfortably balance the strenuousness of their music with a sense of unfiltered joy. They’re versatile, too: opener “World People” is feeding me Mahavishnu Orchestra vibes, but “Foams” features the majestic, non-Western guitar soloing I’d associate with the Bishop brothers, whereas “Tumulus” hypnotizes with a very Natural Information Society-sounding sax loop. It’s all in that sort of mysteriously-spiritual / experimental-rock camp, I suppose, but there’s plenty of open space within those confines for Sunwatchers to try most anything without losing their internal script. They certainly seem capable of pulling anything off, like they could back up Terry Riley or Rosali Middleman at a moment’s notice with equal aplomb, though these dazzling instrumentals are headliner-material no matter who else is on the bill.
Halifax looks like a hip coastal city in reasonable proximity to other hip coastal cities, but man, it’s out there! Montreal is closest and it’s what, twelve hours by car?? That unique sense of sophistication slash isolation is palpable in the songs of Surveillance, a scrappy four-piece rock band who tackle their angsty guitar songs with maturity and commitment. Their music has a mid SST / early Twisted Village feel, like a pre-Nirvana alt-grunge sound with punk and college-rock as equally functional antecedents. Cool guitar leads, aggressively mid-tempo songwriting and vocals from a couple members, Rachel Fry’s impassioned delivery calling to (my) mind Tanya Donelly and Sandra Barrett in Major Stars. The whole thing feels impassioned really, especially when checking out the insert, which has a picture of a house captioned “the house” and a brief passage explaining that the group has “grown together, lived together, and died together”, giving the impression these four spent a whole lot of time hashing it out in their own private zone, making their songs as best as they possibly could because there’s clearly no other reward awaiting them. I hope they haven’t actually died together! Surveillance clearly don’t need us, but we might need them a little bit.
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