The Annihilated Submission To Annihilation LP (Annihilate Music)
Argh more gut-twisting hardcore from London! I’m not going to attempt to understand how or why it keeps happening over there, but thankfully a record like Submission To Annihilation doesn’t require much in the way of deep thinking. Like a pair of spiked boots flying towards your face, either they connect or they don’t! It’s precisely by-the-books on Submission To Annihilation, complete with song titles that are names of other hardcore bands (“Abuse Of Power”, “Malfunction”, umm, “Body Count”), but there’s no need for innovation when you’re able to distill the finest hardcore-punk as The Annihilated do. The guitar has that tinny early Dischord fuzz, and these songs move from No Future Records-styled stompers to the violent speed of Negative Approach and the scrappy d-beat of early Discharge with fluency and ease. Playing spot-the-influence can be fun (is that more of a Battalion Of Saints or Sick Pleasure vibe to “Normality”?) but The Annihilated make classic hardcore come vividly to life here, a righteous form of cultural communication if there ever was one. A little off topic, but I don’t understand how vocalist Bobby Cole doesn’t have a British accent. Considering how many American bands have faked British accents through the years, Cole has every right to sing in an American (or at least not overtly British) style, and his throaty exhortations are perfectly suited to the band. Heck, he could do his best Paris Hilton or Steve Urkel impressions if he wanted – it wouldn’t slow down Submission To Annihilation any!
Barricaded Suspects Terminal Growth LP (Closet Landscapes)
I’m a fan of the 1983 Toxic Shock Records compilation Barricaded Suspects (whew that track by The Dull!), so why not peep this Nashville hardcore band by the same name? They play a youthful and loose form of hardcore-punk, the kinda sound that makes me think of warped backyard skate ramps, 7-Eleven parking lots and sparsely-attended local VFW firehall shows. All good thoughts! Terminal Growth is an appropriately jumpy record, recalling some of the lesser-known (but equally personally beloved) hardcore groups of the Y2K thrash era like Out Of Vogue and Puncture Wound, or any of the bands that came across like the frantic younger siblings of more established bands such as Nine Shocks Terror and Life’s Halt, if that makes sense to anyone besides myself. A touch of Brown Sugar is in there too, if Barricaded Suspects isn’t quite as personality-driven. Twenty-one tracks here and it moves fast, with throaty, out-of-breath vocals and drums that keep up 97% of the time. If you’re a hardcore-punk band and you’re not constantly pushing beyond the technical capacity of your drummer, you’re doing it wrong! I hear conflicting reports about Nashville, that it sucks and also rules, so I’m going to assume they’re both right, with Barricaded Suspects defiantly kicking against the authorities even with the understood knowledge that we can’t win, no way.
Commodo Deft 1s 12″ (Black Acre)
A new sweet spot is hereby discovered by Sheffield, UK’s Commodo, who has a rich prior discography I’m going to need to investigate. On Deft 1s at least, he seems to follow Moin’s trail, one where post-hardcore guitars and bass are utilized for avant-garde electronic means. Only in Commodo’s case, the artiness gives way to the crushing groove of classic speaker-wobbling dubstep. “Deft 1s” is the perfect a-side cut, utilizing a Korn-heavy bass line over a slow-motion thrust ala classic Mala, and by the time the Wes Boreland-style guitar shows up, I’ve already creepy-crawled my entire living room. “Forester” kicks off the flipside with a slinky, creepy-sensual groove, similar to Parrish Smith’s Light, Cruel & Vain with its American Horror Story style of seduction. “Living Bones” wraps the single sounding like a remastered Bauhaus instrumental remixed by Massive Attack or something – just a really cool collision of classic gothy post-punk guitars and leadweighted dubstep production. I hope that this nascent goth/dubstep/post-hardcore genre continues to evolve in such a pleasing manner, with Commodo leading the charge.
Marcel Dettmann Fear Of Programming 2xLP (Dekmantel)
Marcel Dettmann is practically synonymous with the erotic industrial techno of Berghain (where he is a resident DJ), but the story with Fear Of Programming is that he’s somewhat grown up and out of the endless party scene. While he still appreciates concrete and black leather aesthetics, he’s a family man now, and this full-length album (his first in nearly a decade) reflects a more open-ended vision of techno than what he’s normally been associated with. Personally, I could listen to his stiff industrial-techno on endless repeat, but his productions here vary more in sound palate than overall design or constitution. Which is to say the pulses remain pounding and ominous and the rhythms are partial to jackhammering, but instead of a purely greyscale setting there are injections of blood red and midnight blue, just like the album’s cover. He melds house drums with queasily twinkling synths on “Renewal Theory”, takes some tubular bells on a high-speed passenger train (with tunnels) care of “Reverse Dreams” and brings the house down on “Water (feat. Ryan Elliot)”, which sounds like Actress’s “Rainy Dub” if Gregg Turkington got the chance to toast over top. Those are some of my favorite cuts here, but as far as lengthy techno albums go, Fear Of Programming is solid the whole way through, proof that you don’t need to toss your leather jacket once your hair starts going grey.
The Drin Today My Friend You Drank The Venom LP (Feel It)
“The Drin” is the kind of band name that feels like it’s missing a few letters, like a faulty neon sign or something, and while it’s not as eye-catching as “Groinchurn” or “Bathtub Shitter”, I’d say it suits these exceptionally warped and weary post-punk tunes well. All that bands can hope to do at this point is mix up different previously-established styles into a fresh new concoction, and The Drin do precisely that, coming forward with a gnarled take on moody post-punk, somewhere between haunted house and drug house. There’s a sort of gross swamp-rock menace happening that I find highly appealing, akin to The Scientists’ Blood Red River or TV Ghost (I hope all those guys survived being in that band), smartly paired with plenty of sick bass-lines that bring fellow Feel It comrades Waste Man to mind. Heck, they even go full-on dub-punk on “Eyes Only For Space”, plundering similar vaults as Non Plus Temps but with a sinister (or at least spooky) presentation reminiscent of the under-appreciated Ukiah Drag. Each song is its own little room but they all link together; for example, “Peaceful, Easy, Feeling” is an empty bedroom with a pile of dirty laundry and a crappy flatscreen with the Roku screensaver going. Plenty of rhythm and plenty of blues here but no Rhythm & Blues, if you know what I mean. Best Feel It release in a minute!
Sam Gendel Blueblue LP (Leaving)
Though I consider myself a proud Sam Gendel fan, I didn’t realize he added some fourteen new releases to his discography in the past two years. That’s a Zoogz Rift level of productivity, and as his records often sell out upon immediate Bandcamp drop (usually with a pre-order that takes a few months to arrive…), I can only do what I can. Had to check out Blueblue though, a new album that seems to get to the core of Gendel’s music – jazz rooted in traditions (both modern standards and ’90s indie-experimental), bathed in ambiance and run through just the right sequence of electronic filters to bear his signature saxophone sound. Interestingly, Gendel is credited with all the music here, which is intriguing considering that many of these pieces (such as “Toridasuki (鳥襷, Interlaced Circles of Two Birds)”) are full ensemble pieces, with drums, guitar, bass and horns all in full swing. It sounds like a quintet of tightly-rehearsed players live in a room, and even though I understand that to not be the case, my ears keep telling me otherwise. They make for a nice flow with some of the percussion-less pieces here, nylon string guitar tweaking out over subliminal bass tones and Gendel’s expressive saxophone. I love Gendel’s endlessly restless spirit and the various collaborations he’s constantly undertaking, but Blueblue cuts right to the core of his musical persona.
Green / Blue Worry / Gimme Hell 7″ (Feel It)
There’s a certain kind of band that can carry themselves with a mature, considerate composure and get wasted in the daytime at Goner Fest, and it seems that Minneapolis’s Green / Blue are one such band. Minneapolis has an illustrious history of exquisite songsmiths who spend their weekends getting tossed out of clubs, and while I don’t expect Green / Blue to reverently pursue DUI charges, I can confirm that they are absolutely bursting with songs, from two full-lengths last year and this two-song single that directly followed. Those albums are cool, but a band like this is kinda made for singles, jamming econo as it were. “Worry” has the hearty strum of The Clean and wears it proudly; the drummer wisely avoids his cymbals for the entire song, and vocalist Jim Blaha splits the difference between The Oh Sees and Spoon. “Gimme Hell” arrives on that same momentum, classic glam stomp via Kiwi-pop candor. It takes guts to write songs this simple, particularly when you’re writing a ton of them, but Green / Blue whip these basic ingredients into remarkable tunes over and over. All that and they understand the aesthetic superiority of naming your thing after some basic colors (ahem).
Harsh R Seek Comfort LP (Phage Tapes)
Cascadian Goth? If the genre doesn’t already exist, Olympia’s Harsh R may have unwittingly created it. Following numerous tapes and singles, Seek Comfort is the first full-length from Avi Roig’s Harsh R alias, and it conjures the wet-black basement of a goth club as much as the solemnity of some ancient Pacific Northwest mountain forest. True goth behavior without the melodrama or cosplay. Within Seek Comfort, the EBM-industrial beats are precise and more slow than fast, kicking on and off in a way that has me imagining Front Line Assembly covering Swans’s Holy Money on occasion. Though there’s a song intriguingly titled “Instagram Witch”, the proceedings here are consistently resolute and severe (no funny business), from the more melodic album-closing “Syster Sol” to the distorted and aggro “Devotional”. The violent vocals are often at odds with the tuneful synths, but it works well as a contrast in emotions, frequently pairing vulnerability with anger. After all, why scream if you don’t really mean it? Even at its most hostile, Seek Comfort maintains rhythm and melody at its core, an album that allows for plenty of creepy sashaying and sensual batwing flapping, and, if you really insist, sparse amounts of glow-stick twirling out near the woodland clearing.
Holsen & Cassiers Walking In Circles LP (Stroom)
Thought I had Stroom mostly figured out as a label interested in the furthest vestiges of obscure ’80s and ’90s electronic music, but they keep upending my expectations in a good way. This new one from Hilde Marie Holsen and Lynn Cassiers is electronic, no doubt, but it’s essentially improvised noise / drone composition, albeit a wide variety of styles within those parameters. It’s great! Holsen is on trumpet and electronics, Cassiers is on voice and electronics, and they layer these somnambulant drones with distorted gasps of trumpet, misty vocals and whatever the hell else they feel like contributing. I suppose you could file it next to the multitudes of noise/ambient records coming out these days, but the common thread here is an assertive approach, actively pushing through these pieces as opposed to the minimalist-to-the-point-of-passive style I’m getting used to hearing. I appreciate the lack of field recordings or incidental sounds happening here – I get the feeling that Holsen and Cassiers took plenty of time to map out and wrangle these tracks before sitting down to record. “Time Is” could expertly soundtrack a video of guided submarines investigating shipwrecks, “Opening” is a masterful sweep of electronically-aided brass, and “Life Stages Are” is Schimpfluch-styled convulsive sonic warfare. No street traffic or bird sounds needed when your noise is already this expressive!
Kalle Hygien The Raft 12″ (Push My Buttons)
From its earliest days, certain sects of punk have always had a predilection for the demented, the shlocky, the corny-on-purpose. Depending on how much irony you can stomach, and how committed the artist is, it can be great or terrible. All that to say I’m not sure if Kalle Hygien’s newest twelve-inch The Raft is great or terrible! Probably more terrible than great, but a little of both? Unlike the fairly standard garage-y fuzz-punk of previous records, the title track is like ABBA fronted by Alien Nosejob on a budget-priced cruise ship. No idea who this music is for, which is kind of perversely pleasing (but only kind of). Flip it over and “Dope Him Up” is extremely Sleaford Mods-like, right down to the aggro rhyming and cheapo keyboard sounds. That’s kind of what the rest of the record does, a sort of spooky, Mark Mothersbaugh-esque version of ISS’s model with repeated choruses and shouted verses that verge on rapping. Hygien is clearly having the time of his life, with no concept too audacious or clichéd to consider throwing in the pot. I’m not sure I’m fully on board, but hey, at least it’s not the same old crap! Sometimes you need some new crap.
Icebear White Dove Dream LP (Weeding)
The name “Icebear” immediately calls to mind Grauzone’s cold-wave classic, but the artist Icebear opts for a completely different approach. It’s the alias of Irish producer Eilis Mahon, who makes music that sounds more like a solitary bear caught on some sliver of iceberg, drifting out into an endless subzero abyss. In a way, a good bit of White Dove Dream could be filed under power-electronics, but there’s a coziness to the album, or at least a lack of aggressive nihilism, which arrives at odds with some of the genre’s generic signifiers. These six tracks take their time, with electronic interference, amplifier feedback and effected synths all churning along, not entirely unlike Hototogisu or a less academic take on some of Fennesz’s harsher material. “Funny Games / Garfield” opens with a screeching whirlwind ready to match Incapacitants, but it quickly unfolds into a serene melodic vista, the sunrise we never thought we’d see after slogging through those fields of painful sonic brambles. I dig a noise record where I never know when I’m going to get stung, or for how long, and White Dove Dream does a fine job of alternating between poison and salve.
Library L’Amour Premier Caprice 12″ (Stroom / Kontakt Group)
“These tracks were recorded over the course of our three-and-a-half year relationship”, reads Library L’Amour’s Bandcamp page for Premier Caprice. It’s a fitting statement for a record as blurrily romantic as this, one that leaves open-ended questions as to the nature of Yasmine Ixe and Richard Wenger’s time together as Library L’Amour. I can only imagine it was at least somewhat steamy, and though I haven’t seen pictures of either member, I can only assume they’re both at least somewhat hot, as ugly people don’t make music like this. Extremely downtempo beats, swirling synth chords and plumes of guitar smoke waft out of Premier Caprice, the faint aftertaste of a voice occasionally leaving a smudge on the glass. Kinda similar to Torn Hawk at his saddest and Philipp Otterbach’s ambient-noir, or Victor De Roo, who is credited with “supervision” for this EP. Did Ixe and Wenger accidentally fall in love with De Roo, tearing the whole thing apart? Seems possible! This powdery ’80s sheen can call to mind Cocteau Twins as much as daytime network soap operas; Library L’Amour, for however long they exist(ed), reside somewhere in between.
Pavel Milyakov Project Mirrors LP (AD 93)
Pavel Milyakov is deep in my good graces after the past couple years: 2019’s Badtrip under his Buttechno moniker is still one of my favorite techno albums of recent memory, and 2020’s Masse Metál is one of my favorite industrial albums also of recent memory. He’s been plenty busy ever since but those two overwhelmed me to the point where I’m only now checking back in with his output, specifically this new AD 93 album. The man loves thematically styled releases, and Project Mirrors is quite simply “a collection of loops recorded between 2016-2021”. It seems like an intentional distinction to classify these tracks as “loops” instead of songs, as they are free of bass-lines, percussive elements or hooks. Each loop has its own little ecosystem, often in the form of trance-y arpeggios and krauty keyboard spirals. Defnitely the Klaus Schulze-iest I’ve ever heard Milyakov get, and surely his most meditative, far from windowless European club floors or whatever toxic construction site Masse Metál was produced at. A Russian native who’s since relocated Berlin, it’s not a surprise that his sonic interests have moved from the raw and heavy to the light and uplifting, considering the misery and conflict that continues in the Ukraine without end in sight. It’s a pleasant listen, though closer “Epic” might be my favorite, sounding like a gang of Slashes on the cliff of the “November Rain” video, except they’re playing bagpipes and Korgs instead of guitars.
Kassem Mosse Workshop 32 2xLP (Workshop)
Deeper than the universe’s bellybutton, this new double twelve-inch album from Kassem Mosse is a beautiful beast. He’s been around for years now, lurking on the periphery of the techno/house scene and (as far as I can tell) operating the great Workshop label. It’s all alluringly low-key – it often feels like Mosse makes the listener come to his music rather than vice versa, and those willing to pull one of his plain-looking EPs into their bag will be rewarded by his oblong, dance-if-you-want-to styles. Workshop 32 actually comes with a picture cover, and considering its lengthy runtime and the variety of sounds within, it feels like his updated state of the union address. Many of these tracks share Omar S’s playfulness, often with the various techno necessities (4/4 kicks, bass-lines, builds and drops) truant or misplaced. It sometimes feels like I’m listening to techno upside down, though the loopy whimsy of “D2” has my brain swimming in my skull in the nicest of ways. It’s clear that Mosse could craft some Prince Of Denmark-styled artisanal techno any time he wanted, and while he does display his prowess throughout, he loves scuffing up the zone with abstract vocal samples, be it strangers chatting in a corner or the asthmatic huff that permeates “B2”, perhaps my favorite cut here. Pound for pound, probably the best way to spend thirty-five bucks on techno this month!
Narrow Head Moments Of Clarity LP (Run For Cover)
The predecessors are obvious: Hum, Smashing Pumpkins, Deftones and Rival Schools all laid the groundwork upon which Texas’s Narrow Head travel. And yet, as is the case with a few other modern artists who refine and clarify previously-established sounds, I find myself listening to Narrow Head more than the originators! Maybe it’s simply that they’re excellent at this form of ’90s snowboarder alt-rock, because the songs here are lively and fun and memorable, if obviously indebted to prior generations. 2020’s 12th House Rock got plenty of play around these parts, and I think I’ve spent more time with Moments Of Clarity than any other record this month. It feels good always, with its huge alt-rock grooves (very Hum and Helmet), sky-ripping Siamese Dream-styled guitar solos and pleasingly-whiny vocals (I can’t help but hear a sleepy Mike Herrera of MxPx in the voice of Narrow Head’s Jacob Duarte). It’s no departure from 12th House Rock, but a further concentration of the group’s strengths: heavy melodic grooves, quiet/loud dynamics and painless hooks with a drowsy emo delivery. It takes a truly masterful group to get me singing along to lines like “how good does it feel / to be you, to be real”, and yet here I am doing just that, wishing I was wearing the Jansport backpack and baggy skate jeans required to complete the experience.
Northeast Regional Brand Managers Of The Mid-Atlantic LP (Magnetcoil Media / Tor Johnson)
Here’s another punk band operating under a dismally-corporate moniker – both band name and album title conjure painfully boring Zoom meetings and gravy-colored office cubicles, presumably to be taken ironically (or at least with a grain of salt). While the other bands who opt for names in this style generally play punishing noise-rock or nervous post-punk, Northeast Regional play a deeply positive form of poppy hardcore, a sound I’d equate with “The Fest”, Jade Tree Records, Fiddlehead, Kid Dynamite, Militarie Gun and so on. It’s an enduring sound (there are probably kids born in the year of Kid Dynamite’s debut that are moshing to Fiddlehead now), and the genre should feel proud to have Northeast Regional in its ranks, particularly as they keep it interesting with weird moodier cuts amidst the posi-mosh rockers. It’s the project of Jeff Byers (of Wow Owls and Roomrunner), though calling it a solo project is inaccurate as he’s enlisted a good number of friends to play these songs with him. It can be hard to wrangle a full-time band as a full-time adult, but Northeast Regional sounds perfectly in sync with each other, like they’re primed to open for Fugazi and Good Riddance in 1997, or Touché Amoré in 2013, or Drug Church last week. Barring time travel or an unforeseen desire to “make it”, at least we have this nice LP.
Phil & The Tiles Phil & The Tiles 7″ (Anti Fade)
Maybe it’s an Australian thing, but I feel like I’m missing some sort of pun in the band’s name. If Phil was joined by the Istines it’d be obvious, but who can really say. He’s got The Tiles backing him here, a whopping six-piece group delivering four playful fits of indie post-punk. It certainly fits with the Anti Fade style – non-aggressive punk reliant on melody and personality – and these four songs wander the same line between cheery and sarcastic that I’ve come to expect. When they slow it down and the keys drive the tune, I’m reminded of The UV Race; when the guitar leads the way, I’m reminded of Eddy Current dipped in a paisley psychedelia. I like Phil & The Tiles best when they lean further into funky hippiedom, like “Nuns Dream”, where everyone is grooving and multiple members are singing different parts at the same time. This four-song EP is a fine way to reveal your band to the world, though I’d imagine seeing them all crowded on a small stage together, bopping around like Dr. Teeth & The Electric Mayhem, is the best possible way to experience Phil & The Tiles.
Speed Plans Statues Of God 12″ (Iron Lung)
That Welcome To Pittsburgh… compilation from a couple years ago might be the best regional hardcore comp of the modern era, establishing the Steel City as an undeniable hotbed of true-blue hardcore-punk. Speed Plans had a track on it, and Iron Lung wisely took it upon themselves to release this new one-sided twelve-inch EP (presumably because selling seven-inch EPs is a far more difficult proposition in these sad times). Anyway, it’s the music that matters, and Statues Of God is a fantastic ripper, grounded in the first-wave but taking cues from various fast, thrashy waves that succeed it. The guitar has a Jan’s Rooms tone, the drums flail beyond their pay-grade like classic Neos, and the vocalist has a suitably gruff bark. (The bass is unremarkable, which of course is how it’s supposed to be when it comes to true hardcore-punk.) When they really blast off, I’m reminded of Capitalist Casualties and No Comment, though any resemblance to grind-core seems based on Speed Plans’s outsized intensity rather than any intentional genre-abiding behavior. Jerry’s Kids, Mecht Mensch and contemporaries Electric Chair come to mind as well, particularly regarding the group’s ability to dish out memorable hooks amidst the hardcore fury. “Jesus Christ” is a personal sing-along favorite, but I can listen to ’em all, and right in an uninterrupted row no less!
Spray VT Trad 12″ (Kalahari Oyster Cult)
The ’90s nostalgia/cultural excavation has overturned every last stone at this point, and on the whole, I’m not entirely mad at it? It seems like most ’90s-worshipping artists know how to highlight the aspects worth highlighting and discard the bits that aged poorly. So when the cool Kalahari Oyster Cult label released this new 12″ of ’90s-devoted progressive trance by Spray, I decided to give it a shot, and I’m pleased I did! These four tracks are throwback dance-floor euphoria, replete with high-energy BPMs, gleeful synth stabs and meditative voice-overs. It definitely sounds like the background music anytime the local TV news reported on dance-clubs in the ’90s, but that’s a pleasant memory for me, and Spray is clearly a studied craftsman of the genre. No breakbeats, no outdated cultural references, just driving trance that would sit comfortably next to Hawke’s 1993 bliss-out 3 Nudes In A Purple Garden or at any rave that featured at least one psychedelic smiley-face on the flyer. There’s a track here called “Zippycher”, which sounds like someone’s AOL handle that you met in a Happy Hardcore chatroom, an appropriate signifier for its Drexciyan groove. I tend to think I’m too cynical and cautious to ever get sucked into a cult, but these Kalahari Oysters are looking pretty good right now…
Tongue Depressor Bones For Time 2xLP (Worried Songs)
Four rich sides of rustic zone-outs here from New Haven, CT duo Tongue Depressor, and rightfully so – their sound greatly benefits from ample time and space. Over the past few years they’ve released a ton of tapes, most of which I haven’t heard, but I get the impression that Zach Rowden and Henry Birdsey cycle through various soundmaking devices when making Tongue Depressor music, usually somewhat organic in nature, favoring strings that can be bowed incessantly and surfaces that hum when scraped. Across the four tracks here (each over eighteen minutes in length), they utilize double bass, tape loops, pedal steel, bagpipes, harmonium and cello to craft these large-scale atmospheres rich with aching drones, unsettling hum and the crackling of an AM radio roasting on an open fire. I’m reminded a bit of Bill Nace’s solo material here, in the way that a queasy buzz will be utilized as a backdrop for more active textures, all from unplaceable analog sources. At least on record, Nace is more apt to switching the settings every few minutes, whereas Tongue Depressor take the long way home and lose themselves along the way, which of course is why Bones For Time works so well. Wander through any holler long enough at night and it starts to feel like some alternate world, much like the sounds of Tongue Depressor.
The Tubs Dead Meat LP (Trouble In Mind)
There are a handful of British vocalists who could sing the phone book and I’d contentedly sit and listen, and though The Tubs are a relatively new group, their singer Owen Williams is one of them. His voice calls to mind Morrissey, Tweed’s Stéphane Savary and Paul Weller, emanating both vulnerability and strength, confidence and peril. A subway poet with a shrouded (and thus universally appealing) sort of sexuality, or so his voice would lead me to believe. Anyway, it’s probably hard to go wrong with any band fronted by Williams’s distinguished voice, but The Tubs make fine work of it on their debut full-length. The long-haired mods play a fittingly jangly form of morose indie-pop, with enough grit to ensure it’s taken seriously and top-shelf melodies that haven’t been played to death by others. The street-smarts of The Jam butt up against the disarming sincerity of Eddy Current, often in the same song. Plus, they hit hooks like The Police without, umm, being The Police. They’re in the same sonic ballpark as The Reds, Pinks & Purples but I’m reminded of them more for the way that they both share a sort of “I’m heartbroken even though I know better than to be heartbroken” attitude… both groups are able to assess their fragile conditions from all angles, and the songs are all the better for it. Far and away the best jangle of the month!
Beau Wanzer A Dead Person’s Monologue 12″ (iDEAL)
I own maybe a dozen Beau Wanzer records at this point, and could easily go for a dozen more – this Chicago freak is in a league of his own, with a very distinctive aesthetic that he can apparently mine without end. A Dead Person’s Monologue is one of his best yet, which also follows his usual anti-linear timeline, as the tracks here were recorded between 2009 and 2015. How does he have endless tapes of killer tracks, and how does he manage to sit on them for over a decade before releasing? I don’t understand it, but I sure do appreciate a cut like “Warm Waterboarding”, which slinks into the room like a human-sized slug on a basement budget, the soundtrack to a homemade horror movie 1-800-HOT-DUCK (check the Instagram) would screen. The rest of this EP (which, at eight tracks is pushing “mini-LP” status) are equally infectious and gross, though not nearly as in-the-red as many of his prior productions. “Melt And Smelt” isn’t hindered by its lack of sonic grit, however, as the synthetic bells he deploys are as bilious as ever, and it contrasts nicely with the title track’s paranormal voice modulation over an extremely minimal death march. Can’t wait until 2033, when he releases the tracks he’s making right now!
Fifth full-length in as many years here from Melton, Australia’s Alien Nosejob (the enduring solo affair of one Jake Robertson). If you’ve followed his work, you know that Alien Nosejob can veer from sneering, distorted punk rock to synth-based disco-pop, sometimes in the same breath. With the Total Punk stamp of approval on Stained Glass, I expected no funny business, and I was correct – this record is non-stop party punk the way Mother Nature intended. Guitars are front and center, hip-shaking and peacocking in the vein of the first-wave punk that descended from The Rolling Stones, Alice Cooper and Mott The Hoople. Of all the Alien Nosejob records I’ve heard (and I’ve heard quite a few), Stained Glass wears the tightest pants for sure. The consistent swagger and pub-rock grooving reminds me of Vanity before they went full Oasis mode, as well as beloved natives like AC/DC and Rose Tattoo (though you can tell these songs are played by a devoted record nerd, not a ballroom bully). “Shuffling Like Coins” follows “Shuffle Boogie” and it might be the most AC/DC-ish tune here, yet somehow distinctly different from other hard-rock worshipping Aussie punks like The Chats and Amyl & The Sniffers (whose global domination seems to remain on the rise). Might be too late for Robertson to give himself an ironic mullet, but tunes this fun and tough don’t need a silly haircut to get by.
Arbor Labor Union fit check: on the inner band photo, we’ve got two out of four wearing floppy farmer hats and three out of four in button-up flannels. Long hair is abundant, too. Seems perfectly appropriate for a band playing this sort of sun-dazed indie-rock, as I want this kinda music to be made by folks who politely avoid the straight world, those too obsessed with their guitars or insistent upon sleeping ’til noon to push papers around for money. There’s no hiding Arbor Labor Union’s southern roots in these frisky guitar songs (they’re from Atlanta), though their most direct sonic resemblance comes from the west – the Meat Puppets vibe here is too strong for any head (sober or toasted) to ignore. It’s kind of impossible to rip off the Meat Puppets though, and Arbor Labor Union don’t try, they simply arrive at similarly acid-country-fried conclusions, handling these playful ditties with a soft firmness no matter how fast the drummer is playing. Plus, you really need some high-caliber chops to be compared to Meat Puppets, and Arbor Labor Union have got the stuff, doling out double-helix guitar lines with ease and comfort, even if I’m sweating just listening to these dazzling, curvy melodies. Classic rock ignited by punk and smoothed out by indie, Yonder is a pleasant trip for all living generations, from our parents to our kids and us in the middle. 
There’s no shortage of loudmouths in the world of underground rock – it’s pretty much the perfect place for such personalities – so I gotta hand it to Melbourne’s Michael Beach, who strikes me as the exact opposite type of guy. The benefit of being a quiet and considered person is that when you actually do bother to speak, people listen, which is what I’ve been doing with this great new EP of his, co-released by Goner and Poison City. Understated to the core, Beach’s vibe exists solely on the strength of his songs, a risky move if you want to be famous but a solid move if you’ve legitimately got the goods. Hell, the cover art here looks like basically nothing at all, but those clued in to Michael Beach will surely savor EP like I am. Beach has always been kind of the king of basement-rock balladry, and it’s directly apparent here, pairing brash rockers like “Out In A Burning Alley” with the low-lit swirl of “Have You Ever”. I’m reminded a bit of fellow kindhearted Michael-named rocker Mike Polizze, though Polizze’s warm and appealing style is more Dinosaur Jr-minded whereas Beach dips far deeper into the influence of Neil Young. Beach even wraps the EP with sit-down piano ballad “Only A Memory”, a gorgeously sad closer that reminds me of what it was like to listen to Red House Painters alone on a rainy day before we all knew what a disgusting POS Mark Kozelek is. I’d say that I hope Michael Beach stays good, but I have complete faith that he will.
Your move, Ryebread: the Total Punk posse just pulled an ace out of who knows where, reissuing this hitherto unknown sleeveless punk chestnut. Hailing from somewhere in central Florida circa 1980, Ervin Berlin is apparently the work of an acid burnout in his late 20s (an elderly status for anyone playing punk rock in 1980) and a couple of neighborhood troublemakers, and it’s crazy that a single this delightfully amateur and undeniably punk laid untouched for this long. “Junior’s Got Brain Damage” is like the high school bully equivalent of The Generics’ “The Bitt”; imagine if Jacky Shark met up with Randy & The Goats in a Kroger parking lot and you’ll get even closer to the Ervin Berlin sound. B-sides to singles like these are often a toss-up – cheesy instrumentals or novelty tunes are not uncommon – but Ervin Berlin shakes even more action with “Last Time”, recalling Dust loading out at CBGBs as The Dead Boys load in. If Ervin Berlin ever laid down any other tracks, I sure hope the Total Punk archivist has access to those, as these two cuts are too kick-ass to not explore further. I wonder if the underground archivists of the 2040s will find a way to unearth the unheard gems of our time. What will they have to do, locate dead SoundCloud links and Bandcamp downloads?
“Post-hardcore” is such an ugly term, practically a pejorative at this point, and yet Philadelphia’s Carnivorous Bells are filling it with sparkling new life, managing to point beyond hardcore without losing any of its imperative qualities (harshness, fury, disgust, disbelief). Their first album was a cool way to enter the room, a buttoned-up take on the scalding styles of The Jesus Lizard and Saccharine Trust, and Room Above All moves well beyond that into some new category the rest of us have to catch up with. I’ve loved guitarist David Vassalotti’s playing since his Merchandise days, and he pushes himself further than ever before here. When he noodles, it’s captivating, when he rips through his jagged chords it’s invigorating, and when he shoots for the stars I’m reminded of Sir Richard Bishop or Magma, untouchable giants of underground rock. The group shifts from simmering, jazzy tension to fast-paced ‘core with the dexterity of a Russian gymnast, and when they do play fast it’s never the sort of thing you can predict – tracks like “The Master’s Plate” and “A Frigid Mass” are unlike any hardcore I’ve heard (maaaaybe Spike In Vain?) but I’d feel wrong categorizing them anywhere else. As is the case with their debut, these sharply-angled songs don’t lend themselves to easy vocal patterns, but vocalist Matthew Adis sounds completely at home here, squelching his larynx or softly singing as he deems appropriate (like on the acoustic-grunge-turned-math-rock “Perfectly Still”). This group always had potential to be something completely unique and great, and by jove they’ve done it here! 
New one here from the ever-restless Stefan Christensen and crew (Ian McColm and Dave Shapiro aka Alexander) under the plain-jane moniker of Center. Ironic then that the music of Center is the furthest out-there that these guys get, miles beyond traditional song-form toward realms of barely-there improv and beleaguered frequencies. These tracks utilize guitars alongside a host of junk-store instrumentation, bent and fractured pieces like you might expect from the Open Mouth label. They’re likely to let a single tone evaporate over the sound of recycled air or see what happens when you leave a guitar plugged in for over 24 hours… if anything comes close to a major chord, Center take lengths to disguise it. I suppose it helps to understand the rulebook if you’re going to throw it out a moving window, and as these three are more than capable of crafting orthodox guitar songs, it’s fun to hear them dissect and rearrange things so fully. If standard rock n’ roll is mozzarella string cheese, then Center are the wispy tendrils pulled from it, misshapen strands as wide as a thumbnail and thin as a horsehair. Equally delicious, really.
Much like the real CIA, CIA Debutante tried to quietly slip this past us at the end of last year, but I’m on high alert for warped post-punk electronics such as theirs. These two new songs are welcome transmissions from fans of the duo, and if you’re not already hip to CIA Debutante, why not start now? It comes to us from Digital Regress after all, one of the few American distribution lifelines for much of the post-noise European underground. “The Punch” drips and drops some sort of disconcerting story, a beacon between the darkened shores of Cabaret Voltaire and the tiny Call Back The Giants ship out floating on the cloudy sea. The vocals are discernible yet tweaked, like they’re coming from a TV you thought you turned off. “The Garden” is motionless in comparison, a faded transmission across AM frequencies whose synthetic pulse lulls us unconscious… this is probably what it sounded like when SPK went to sleep back in 1979. No resolution or tidy conclusion, just some light electronic clanging as digestif, perfectly suited for the seven-inch single format. 
Trying to imagine the type of person who would hate on The Cool Greenhouse, and while I struggle to draft their exact personality profile, I know for sure I wouldn’t want to spend any time with them! This British group (guy?) is an absolute hoot, and their minimalist poppy post-punk is at the height of its powers on Sod’s Toastie. Their songs are generally repetitive and groovy by design, with stripped-down drums (often of a pre-programmed synthetic nature), easy rock guitars and a splash of electronics/keys as needed. The vocals of Tom Greenhouse are the signature twist, as his softly-spoken short stories flow elegantly and hilariously over these cyclical grooves, only on occasion offering up any sort of repeated chorus line if warranted. The Fall are an obvious and significant comparison, though there isn’t even a hint of bile or fury within The Cool Greenhouse – you could play these songs for a room full of elementary school children and they’d happily bop about, the sly adult references zooming innocently over their heads. I don’t know what Greenhouse means when he says “It’s like Windows 98 in here”, but at the same time I know exactly what he means, as he communicates modern life in such a casual, breezy and spot-on way through these songs. After all, this is the only band I’m aware of that’s written a song about Amazon’s Alexa, one of the more insidious inhabitants of our world, and their style is keenly refined throughout Sod’s Toastie.
Intriguing new hardcore unit outta Austin, TX here, featuring a few Total Abuse fellas, a Nosferatu guy and a Philly ex-pat who used to be in Creepoid. Discreet certainly lean closest to the Total Abuse aesthetic of the three groups mentioned, what with Hospital Productions-style design and a provocative aesthetic that has me thinking at least one member of Discreet can quote Peter Sotos from memory. If that sounds kind of tired, allow me to assure you that the music of Discreet is in fact quite invigorating and fresh… sure, it’s noisy hardcore-punk with metallic riffing at its core, but it’s delivered with an intensity and commitment that goes beyond your average pastiche of influences. I can’t help but think of all the bands that took influence from Brainbombs in the ’10s and went nowhere with it, and how Discreet actually imbue their songs with menace, misery and drain-swirling riffage. Certainly no Brainbombs worship here, but it feels like Discreet thoughtfully bare some similarities. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the singer’s voice is a 99% match for a young Hank Rollins… I can practically hear the Einstürzende tattoo materializing on his bicep as these tracks plow through. It’s an uncanny similarity, the sort of throat you’re born with or not, and he enunciates with that same weary Get In The Van bitterness, like he’s slept on a pile of cardboard in a friend’s attic for the past month and is singing at an audience he hates. Just check “A Bug In A Jar” if you want to see what I mean: it’s the sort of Rollins-fronting-Brainbombs brutalizer that’ll knock even the sturdiest Chat Pile fan on their butt. 
Just as I was starting to recover from the danked-out haze of Frank Marchi’s solo album, this Empty People album on his Carnalismo imprint is here to ensure the whites of my eyes remain bloodshot. Empty People are a bass / drums / vocals trio featuring Frank Marchi on bass, Tombs’s Andrew Hernandez on drums and none other than Oxbow’s Eugene Robinson on vocals! Perhaps unsurprisingly, Marchi’s musical history seems to have the strongest presence here, resulting in a manic riot of grind, dirge-core and power-violence, very much in the Deep Six / 625 Productions school of thought. Marchi runs up and down his bass like ’90s Eric Wood, absolutely dominating the field while Robinson barks and growls across two vocal tracks. Along with the liberally-applied squealing electronics that pepper these tunes, what else could you need? Few people could sing songs called “Street Beef Stroganoff” and “Drug Burn” with legitimate ownership, but Robinson is one of them, the perfect foil to the unhinged squall that forms Hernandez and Marchi’s rhythms. Had Empty People shown up in 1998, they’d surely have been one of the hottest Slap A Ham acts, doing split EPs with No Less or No Comply, but instead they’re somehow here with us now, decades after hardcore’s power-violence evolution, reminding us of the unmatched brutality this form of hardcore can provide.
The first couple Equipment Pointed Ankh records I checked out passed through here happily and somewhat uneventfully… I knew I dug this loose-limbed musical collective of Midwestern weirdos, but none of their material (besides the unforgettable cover image of their live LP) really stuck around in my headspace for too long. That changes with From Inside The House! It’s an absolutely fantastic album that lured me in from the throbbing boing of “Rubber Slacks” that opens it. I feel like this is what I always wished Animal Collective sounded like: joyous and warped music made by a band with a rich appreciation for the more colorful corners of classic krautrock (lotta Can similarities) enriched by its own particularly American weirdness. The grooves here are immense, and they perfectly support bold forays into horns, bongos, banjos, probably a couple unusual synths or maybe just some usual synths made to sound unique. The b-side even features the spoken-word of newly inducted EPA member Jenny Rose, who beats Dry Cleaning at their own game without trying (or even acknowledging a game to begin with). So often, this sort of lunatic DIY post-prog indie stuff can fall apart under its own hodge-podginess, but From Inside The House is full of endlessly-replayable tracks, an exceptional work from a very cool group. Big recommendation!
Been a minute since I got excited for a Saddle Creek release… The Faint’s Danse Macabre? Bright Eyes’ Fevers & Mirrors? There’s probably like five generations of emo that passed me by in there, but whatever it is that Pittsburgh’s Feeble Little Horse are playing, I really love it. They are a young band with a young point of view, which is to say more stressed-out and cynical than the generations that preceded them, and rightfully so! That perspective is deep within Hayday, an album of psychedelic slow-core, buzzing lo-fi indie-rock and DIY shoegaze. Reminds me a bit of Empath, as both groups plant beautifully soft melodies within a beehive of fuzz and distortion; they’re also close to No Age, Pavement and Duster when they were all young and restless. Feeble Little Horse’s secret weapon are the emo-y pop-punk hooks within these tracks – if you cleaned up songs like “Drama Queen”, “Chores” and “Termites”, Charly Bliss or Bully could masquerade them as their own hit singles, but it’s more fun hearing what Feeble Little Horse do with them anyway, what with their weird grainy edits, conspicuous overdubbing and vocal tracking. Hope I didn’t scare you with the word “emo”, you geriatrics who don’t need to buy Codeine and Bedhead reissues because you still own the originals will dig on Hayday too!
Cleveland happily skips well into the 2020s as a continued source of demented and immature hardcore-punk. I’m still having fun with those Woodstock ’99 records, for example, and now here’s the debut from Flea Collar, who share at least one member of Woodstock ’99 (as well as their general sensibility and emotional demeanor). Which is to say, this self-titled album has songs called “Jacken It” and “Buttcrack Man”, and the group is happy to end a song with slide whistle. Their music follows the rowdy ‘core style of Woodstock ’99 alongside bands like Brown Sugar and Bad Noids (who also share personnel with Flea Collar), fast and full of personality, where nothing stands in the way of a good (ie. tasteless) joke. Not sure who the singer is (the band members all have pseudonymous, uh, dog names) but they’re doing their best Doc Dart throughout, albeit a Doc Dart who occasionally has to scream along to wild hardcore-punk. Why not emulate one of the most gloriously annoying punk vocalists of all-time if you know someone who can? So often in hardcore, the more self-serious the scene the more notoriety it receives, so it’s nice to know there’s a thriving antidote to that in Cleveland. I get the sense that if I moved there and tried to start a band called The Booger Pickers, I wouldn’t only be welcomed, I’d have multiple punks offering to play kazoo. 
The hard thing about establishing an aesthetic and mining it so thoroughly and thoughtfully is, where do you go from there? This new album from Jonas Torstensson aka Franciska certainly fits the Discreet Music MO – minimalist homespun instrumentation with incidental sounds – and while Tryghed might have hit me like a brisk breath of fresh air if it existed back in 2015 or so, I’m experiencing far less excitement encountering it now. Through two unhurried and untitled sides, Franciska offers open-air piano rehearsals with occasional tape disruption, field recordings, pastoral synth drones and melancholic improvisation roughened by the crude tape it was recorded on and the hands that held it. It’s certainly not Franciska’s fault that everyone else is trying it right now, this melding of brusque New Zealand-style home-taping and soft instrumental ambience from a place of isolation, but as a fan of creative underground music the deluge of records that sound like this are dampening my enthusiasm for the micro-genre as a whole (especially in a landscape where I have to plunk down thirty-five bucks or more for a basic retail LP). The relative “anyone could do this”-ness of the style doesn’t help either, as it can be difficult to separate the inspired artists from the trend-hopping pretenders when all the (non-)music sounds remarkably alike. I hold some of these records very dearly, while at the same time wonder if I don’t need to hear another new record like this for at least a little while. 
Make sure you’re properly stretched, here’s a new Giant Swan EP! This Bristol duo have always taken their techno in a playfully physical direction, and while I need to spend more time with their 2019 full-length, Future Food is an immediately satisfying riot. There’s something about Giant Swan’s music that sounds more human than most British post-dubstep producers; while it’s clear they recorded in a studio, it sounds like their shirtless bodies were pressed up against the glass, writhing and kicking along to their speedy jams. That’s very much the case here, as multiple tracks utilize vocal sounds (or maybe “mouth sounds” is more accurate) throughout, from the exhaust of a gut-punched stomach to the licking of chops. Tracks like opener “Sugar And Air” remind me of the aggressive potency of Powell before he went off the avant-garde deep-end, whereas “Abacuses” has big-room potential, a sort of hairy crowd-teaser one might discover in a Nina Kraviz or Marcel Dettmann set. Giant Swan always balanced their sonic abstraction with a penchant for fist-pumping grooves, and they play those opposite ends nicely against each other throughout Fantasy Food, throwing a sweaty kick under bolts of synthetic shrapnel as if there wasn’t any other way to do it. I’d say that I hope they come to the States so I can see ’em live, but I’m not sure an American audience would know how to react to techno as fun and brutal as this.
If you’re brave enough to read this review and not immediately skip to the next based on this band calling themselves “Hot Tubs Time Machine”, you’re a better person than I! If they hadn’t kindly sent me a copy of Double Tubble I’d have immediately erased any memory of having encountered this band’s name, but here I am, spending my personal free time listening to and thinking about them. Turns out, it could be far worse: this Melbourne duo plays a fairly cheerful form of simplistic, dance-y post-punk indie, as if LCD Soundsystem stayed in the bedroom, writing cute little inside-joke songs solely for the amusement of the band and their close friends. Drums are programmed, synths are used in a swirly electro-pop manner on some songs and a stabby post-punk technique on others, guitars generally operate outside of the spotlight and the vocals are confidently spoken. To my credit, the vocalist reminded me of the humble and disarmingly conversational style of The UV Race, and what do you know, vocalist Marcus Rechsteiner (of The UV Race) is none other than Hot Tubs Time Machine’s vocalist! It’s all starting to make sense now. He’s a real-deal weirdo through and through (I sat next to him at a bar once before realizing who he was – my personal experience confirms this), and it makes sense that he’d move from a large garage-pop ensemble to this portable duo. Rechsteiner always had a Swell Maps kind of energy about him, and it’s still evident in the synthetic oddball-pop of Double Tubble.
I know that as a music reviewer, I’m supposed to distance myself from the word “ethereal”, but whoever made those rules must’ve never heard Lore City. How else can you describe the music of this married Portland duo? The Pure Moods drumming, cloudy hum and vaporous vocals would guide any seance into spelling out E T H E R E A L on a Ouija board immediately. Their music reminds me of Tamaryn sans designer photoshoots, or perhaps Grouper if she crafted her music to be played inside one of those hipster “provisions” shops that sells $36 olive oil, and while that may seem like a slight, I find it perfectly peaceful. Both tracks on this self-released single arrive on dark cushions of ambient tone, the second of which hovers in place for its full duration, like that one alien movie where spaceships appear in random spots all over the globe, do nothing, and everyone is wondering why. That track is called “Very Body” but they could’ve just as easily called it “Very Body (Vape Break)” and attracted an entirely new audience. Of all the things a married couple can do to spend their time together, there is far far worse than starting a dark n’ stormy 4AD indie-drone thing, and I’m glad Lore City are at it.
Comforting minimal techno familiarity here from frequent collaborators Thomas Melchior and Bruno Pronsato. They’ve got a wealth of productions under their belts, and I sincerely appreciate that while the electronic music scene reinvents itself on a weekly basis, what with micro-genres popping up and dying with increased frequency, these guys are still doing what they’ve always done. “Candidate” is the opener, and it’s amazing that two people contributed to the mix, as it’s so streamlined and stark. A confused vocal is chopped and released over a snappy digital hi-hat, with errant synth chords forming a queasy melody. Feels very in line with Villalobos’ Sei Es Drum, which is fine by me. The same general production technique is at play with “Cumulus Ruckus (Back Version)”, a different cut-up vocal over simple rusty percussion. I dunno, this sorta thing just really works for me, to the point where such a fairly simple track bears repeated playback in my household. “Nijinski Picnic (Bells Version)” is the poppiest of the three (by comparison), though still oddly roomy and stripped-down, like the corpse of a ’90s house track reanimated barely enough for party functionality. Why cater to the trends when you can keep making music like this?
Back in the cursed year of 2020 Bill Nace released what might be considered his first “statement” solo record, Both, which was also his first for Drag City. That record rules, and Through A Room is even better! If you want to hear Nace in full-on harsh squall formation, there are lots of recordings and live documents to enjoy, but Through A Room displays him at his most considered and melodic, very much solo and lurking in the colorful maze that is his mind (possibly depicted through Dan Higgs’s cover painting). Of course, “melodic” means something different when talking about Bill Nace’s music; these songs all utilize patterns of notes and tones, but nothing remotely close to a chorus or hook is pursued. Fine by me! His guitar (and small assortment of other sound-making devices) throbs, pulses, tickles and wheezes throughout. Some songs (or should I call them “pieces”?) slowly assemble a solid form through multiple loops, whereas others shift through a single motif, wringing out every possible sound from that particular setup of gear. Through A Room occasionally calls to mind the syrupy blurt of Mark Morgan’s guitar playing on some of the later Sightings records, the motor-driven compositions of Remko Scha or the impossible-to-place preparations of Keith Rowe, though I’d imagine any dutiful reader of this website who fancies those three already picked up Through A Room and could probably tell me a thing or two about it. I’m listening! 
In contrast with immobile dogs, I suppose? It’s a fitting name for this weirder-than-weird duo (featuring a member of Dick Diver and released by the appealing Swedish label Maternal Voices), whose playful and hands-on post-punk electronics exist freely on their own. “Ads In Bed” has an inorganic rhythm that falls over itself a bit, as lively as Kraus but bearing the otherworldly keel of Idea Fire Company. It’s a song more than it is a “piece” or a “work”, but only barely. “Sleeping In The Vacuum” is a bit less stable, conjuring images of electronic boats lapping against a dock as a neon-orange sun sets in the opposite direction. It’s kinda close to Ulla’s newest album if she had a sly sense of humor about it, and not as studiously polished. Put these two tracks together and it feels like a shaky bridge over the gap between the modern post-ambient scene and the post-Kye non-musical zone of question marks… or, let’s say, the dawn of industrial tape-trading home projects upgraded with today’s modern gear. Cool that they did a seven-inch single (with art by the ever-busy James Vinciguerra no less), but I’m eager to hear what the Portable Dogs can get up to if given a full twelve inches to sprawl out upon.
For each underground NYC rock band from the late ’70s that I’ve heard of, it seems there are a dozen I’ve yet to discover, a testament to the insane level of musical activity from that scene (and perhaps less flatteringly, my limited knowledge of cool bands). Take The Revelons for example, who check a lot of appealing boxes for me – primitive rock n’ roll with outlandish sassiness, proto-punk attitude and even a touch of no-wave antagonism – yet I’d never even heard of them until this archival collection from HoZac came through! They almost seem like a fictional band to me in that regard, as if I’d expect them to only exist within the world of The Deuce or some New York Dolls-inspired CBGB movie rather than the actual real New York The Revelons inhabited, so familiar are their moves (right down to the lipstick-painted band logo). Through this comprehensive collection, they offer up some Television-esque moments of contemplation alongside glittery stomps redolent of Milk & Cookies and whatever “Red Hot Woman” is – Ramones under the tutelage of Glenn Branca, perhaps? Sure, they only released a seven-inch single (on the legendary Ork!) in their day, but I feel a little foolish for not being aware of “The Way (You Touch My Hand)” before, as it hits a remarkable level of coolness, like The Rapture covering Richard Hell or something. Time to go ask Lydia Lunch if she remembers these guys – if she hasn’t knocked out or knocked up at least one of them, maybe they never were real after all.
Third twelve-inch record from Smirk since 2021, the one-man song factory whose parents named him Nick Vicario. From the start, Smirk was all about stripped-down punk, tuneful strum played with a hardcore mindset and the compact, precise drumming that generally accompanies any good solo punk studio project. I’m not sure two years is really enough time to “mature” or whatever, but nevertheless Material is less rough around the edges than previous affairs – once you’ve done this a few times, you can’t help but show some signs of technical improvement, I suppose. Thankfully, Smirk is still mostly the same as it ever was; with the exception of some guest vocals, there are no dramatic shifts in the Smirk sound. Which is to say, it sounds like a tuneful update of Institute’s downer jangle, not dissimilar to Crisis, Mission Of Burma, Shoes This High and that great Hand Grenades Demo To London EP. Pretty cool sound, though even after repeated listens individual songs aren’t jumping out at me the way they did on previous records. This could be a me problem, though, as one of my close trusted confidants put Material high on his “best of 2022” list and I know he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t mean it. I’d give it some dedicated time over the next few months to see if it’ll fully click with me, but there’ll probably be a new Smirk record out by then anyway, knowing how this guy works!
For a while there in my neck of the internet, the term “BBQ sauce” was used pejoratively towards garage-rockers who veered in an uncool sort of -abilly direction, and now here’s Strange Attractor flaunting his love of buffalo wings on the cover, his sloppy dinner’s remnants assembled into jewelry! It helps to take a firm stance as a punk, even if it’s a doomed or idiotic one, and Jeff Houle (who appears to be the sole stockholder of Strange Attractor) plants his flag with Good Boy Bad Boy, his fourth vinyl full-length. That’s plenty of time for any punk to get a grasp on what they want to do, and in the case of Strange Attractor it’s a raucous, personality-driven punk bop, led by aggressive jangle and frustrated vocals. He seems to be having quite a bit of fun here, stomping out garage-inspired punk that reminds me of Chain Gang and Black Time with the gleefully obnoxious party attitude I’d associate with collectible classics like Freestone and Child Molesters. Kinda weird if this is simply Houle’s solo project, as these songs really do sound like they’re coming from a well-rehearsed band of garishly dressed punk weirdos rather than one guy in a room by himself. Maybe they will be someday, or there’s some sort of live formation that already exists? Who knows, technology is crazy!
Anyone else still having trouble accepting that British hardcore is… good? I grew up with it being a given that there was Voorhees and basically no one else, and yet I acknowledge that in the past decade or more, some of my favorite hardcore-punk and hardcore-punk-adjacent records have come from England. Virginia hardcore label Not For The Weak, on the other hand, has no problem flying the Union Jack with the second EP from Sheffield’s Stray Bullet. They share a member or two with Rat Cage, and opt for more of an American-inspired style here, a burly and energetic sound that can be traced as far back as Poison Idea, The FU’s and The Fix but sounds more like the last couple generations’ take on that “old-school” style. Which is to say, Factory wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Gloom Records in 2003 or Deranged in 2010. These songs are too complex and rich in parts to truly adhere to the first-wave sound, which of course is fine, as they do a fine job of jumping on your back and crawling between your legs in the same forty-second song. Hardcore is alive and well, even in bloody England!
When I first got into hardcore, it was likely that I’d check out a band because I loved the zine done by someone in the band or their label. Now I find myself checking out CT’s Wreckage because I love the Scheme email newsletter! It’s kind of the best case scenario of “guys being dudes”-style hardcore writing; their youthful enthusiasm is contagious. You can tell the Scheme guys truly believe in their bands, and it’s informing my enjoyment of Our Time. This is NYHC-inspired hardcore, reminiscent of Burn, Killing Time, Breakdown and Beyond without specifically aping any single group. Not a bad way to approach hardcore! These songs are energetic, metallic around the edges, aggro without being macho and avoid formulaic tendencies for the most part. The fast part in the title track comes as a pleasant surprise, and with various mosh parts in the mix (though never gratuitous), I give Our Time a firm thumbs up. I spend the majority of my hardcore listening time with bands that wear boots, and while Wreckage are clearly of a cross-training sneaker persuasion, I cannot deny what they’ve got going on here. If it doesn’t hit for you on first listen, go read the Scheme newsletter where they talk about how excited they all were to get together for Our Time‘s New Year’s Day release and see if you don’t feel the hardcore spirit bubbling up inside of you. 
Downright impossible to find fault with this, a deeply loving compilation LP of punk bands from Hattiesburg, MS. The Feral Kid crew drove from Buffalo to Hattiesburg (phew!) and recorded eleven Hattiesburg bands in one day at a makeshift studio, documenting the strange and lively activity happening in this humble Southern burg. Sure, the limitations of this DIY approach are going to be evident, but that makes it all the more charming, especially in this day and age of flattened culture and depleted local flavors. If Big, Big Wave is to be taken as an official scene document, it seems that Hattiesburg aligns in favor of rudimentary and oddball punk with plenty of room for goofin’, simple one-two one-two songs favored over precision and flamboyance. Alongside personal faves like Pleather and Judy & The Jerks, there are a number of new-to-me artists contributing here, like the snotty punkers Bigg Band and the Man’s Ruin-styled stoner grooves of Stellatone. Stellatone’s “Golden Zeppelin” leads right into the frantic yap of Judy & The Jerks’s “Dog”, and within that transition I can start to visualize the shape of their scene, united by shared resources, an outcast sensibility and thoroughly unpretentious attitudes. 
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