Is there a better unintentionally-appropriate name for a hardcore venue than “Bonk’s”? This “crabhouse and bar” is located on the corner between nothing and jack-shit in a well-littered commercial area just off I-95. The closest business is an auto-body shop that blares a looped female-voice recording when you hit the motion sensor: “this area is monitored by video”. The Bonk’s folks rent out the back enclosed patio area for private parties, a deal of which intrepid hardcore youths have taken advantage for all-ages hardcore and punk shows that probably cap out at around a hundred or so. On a Monday night immediately following a weekend-long hardcore fest in the same city (Breakdown, Underdog and Killing Time headlined), some kids remained insatiable, and I was glad to be among them.
The scene was lively and congenial upon arrival, and I would like to confirm that I had a crew of my own: three lifelong buddies / bandmates / ex-bandmates. If we were ten years younger, we still would’ve been the oldest guys in the room. I know how we got there – we drove – but the why we went remains a bit of a mystery, as none of these bands were a must-see for any of us. I think the most straight-edge guy in my crew (all three are edge but he’s the most by far) really wanted to see Life Force, as he had custom-ordered a straight-edge varsity jacket made by the singer. Before we knew it, we were eating delicious deep-fried vegan food at the weed-themed (but confusingly, not weed-infused) restaurant Blazerz Food Joint before heading over.
First up was Skives, whose name rhymes with “knives” and isn’t a misspelled old-timey term for underwear. Clad in all black except for the drummer (drummers are always the last to get the fashion memo), they rolled through their set of lengthy metallic hardcore-crust songs. Each song was stuffed with parts, from solemn intros to ugly half-time beat-downs to epic crust gallops… any sort of typical blackened metal/core influence was grist for their mill. Why they needed to stuff all of these parts into five-minute long epics instead of breaking them down into smaller songs, I do not know, but I appreciate that they came with their own perspective. Vocalist JL had a raspy sneer that reminded me of Stephanie McMahon when she would scream, and they kind of look similar to each other, too. I was pleased to learn that Skives are from the Lehigh Valley, which is also where I tend to claim as being from. I will keep an eye out for them the next time I visit my parents.
Up next we have God Instinct, repping Philadelphia hardcore, the first of the three bands bearing the New Age Records banner (yep, the very same New Age Records from the mid ’90s). While Skives received some modest, obligatory hardcore dancing, the room erupted for these local faves. The X’ed-up sound guy repeatedly ran into the pit, leaving his post to dance hard, and then would scamper back to the mixing board to play God Instinct’s interstitial atmospheric soundscapes. That’s called hardcore dedication! The singer wore a sick, beat-to-hell Words To Live By Words To Die For hoodie, which beat out the door-guy’s Shady Maple Smorgasbord hoodie by a hair as best of the evening. God Instinct’s hardcore was energetic and moshy, but not in an overtly tough-guy way; I had heard murmurings that today’s hardcore youth are getting sick of the chugga-chug crowd-kill vibe, and are leaning in a faster, more posi, more “old school” direction, which I certainly appreciate. Even so, the dancing was mostly a mix of sideways crowd-slamming and silly arm-flailing “karate” moves, but I have reluctantly accepted such foolishness as the typical modern standard, especially as the vibes here were communal and friendly. I had not (and still haven’t) heard studio recordings from any of the bands who played, but my one friend confirmed that God Instinct are a touch more melodic on recordings (he mentioned both Tragedy and Good Riddance as touch-points, interestingly enough). I’m glad their sound was scuffed up by the raw in-room sound and modest PA capabilities, and that the singer’s few attempts at “singing” were drowned out by the live noise. Someone ordered fries from the bar during this set, and the delicious smell quickly filled the room and lingered there the rest of the evening. Alongside God Instinct’s animated performance, it was impossible to not be appetised one way or another.
Moral Law followed, hailing all the way from Denver and again part of New Age’s present-day crop. They were proudly “militant vegan straight-edge”, and while I am none of those three things, I found no aspect of their performance off-putting (though I still can’t tell if the show-goer in the “marijuana kills” t-shirt was wearing it seriously or ironically… thumbs up either way). They could’ve bantered a bit more, considering their militant stance and all, but the fully torso-tatted singer was content to leave brief intros like “this is a vegan song” at that. Moral Law were the most metallic outfit of the night, akin to late ’90s Earth Crisis or late ’90s Cave In with Left For Dead’s crude guitar tone, though unlike those two metal-core icons, this drummer occasionally struggled to keep up (as did, let’s be honest, literally every drummer of the evening). I’m used to this sort of music operating with a pro-gear / pro-tude presentation, so the scrappiness on display here, with pedal configurations that weren’t labored over and the occasional flub here or there, was appealing and relatable. A far superior metallic hardcore experience to the outlandish polish of August Burns Red, who I saw last year at a festival outside of Copenhagen, performing with zero amps on stage and an engineer controlling the direct-input mix via an iPad. I wasn’t even sure if Moral Law’s bassist knew how to tune it, which was how hardcore should be. And speaking of bassists, I spied the Disclose-shirt-wearing bassist of God Instinct devouring a big, chewy chocolate-chip cookie on the edge of the pit during Moral Law’s set. I can only assume it was vegan, so on second thought, maybe it wasn’t that good.
Finishing off the gig around ten PM, Texas’s Life Force (AKA Life Force (9) on Discogs) quickly set up on much of the same shared gear as the other three groups. The singer of God Instinct played bass and the singer of Moral War played guitar, a compacted scab lineup to help enable Moral Law and Life Force tour Europe together in April. Maybe Animal Collective should share members with Life Force for an easier European touring experience? Vocalist Flint Beard (best cis-masc name I’ve heard in a while) commanded the proceedings, a vocalist sure, but an excellent public speaker first and foremost. I think the last thing anyone really wants is to be preached at by yet another self-assured white guy, especially in this day and age, but I found his presence and words to be heartfelt and thoughtful, aware of his privilege and passionate yet appropriately humble. The band gave him plenty of space between songs to rant against injustice, imperialism, transphobia, genocide, and other glaring American inequalities in a way that, while not revelatory, felt good to hear coming from someone at a hardcore show filled with a small-yet-diverse crowd suffering from similar and different forms of oppression. I saw Infest play with four other hardcore bands a few days after Trump was elected the first time, and was a little stunned that none of the bands (not even DC’s Pure Disgust!) had a single thing to say about it on stage. Life Force’s music was typical speedy, youth-crew posi-core, complete with one of the sloppiest renditions of “True Til Death” I’ve ever witnessed (which was also surprisingly the only cover of the entire evening). Beard confidently brought us all in with him, and didn’t even seem to mind that his bandmates could barely play their instruments. May they thrive in Europe and be allowed safe passage back to this godforsaken country.
Before leaving the gig, my crew stopped by the merch table (set up outside the venue as there was simply no room for a folding table inside) and each one of us bought the same item: a New Age Records t-shirt based on one of Unity’s classic designs, inexplicably sold by Life Force for five bucks a pop. I tried to get us all to put them on and pose for a pic together in front of the big New Age Records banner, but my friends refused to match my level of shamelessness. Sure, this was some comicon-level behavior I was pushing for, but the fun, goofy, hardcore friendship solidarity was intensely pumping through my veins, alright?
Donna Allen (of the beloved Chronophage) strikes out on her own with Atom-ic Citizen Of The Dying Empire. It’s a tender marriage of folksy AM-gold rock and peace-punk perspective, an anti-capitalist ramble through the stranger crevices of our boomer parents’ record collections. Chronophage’s “Love Torn In A Dream” had a real ’80s downer sit-com theme song vibe, and Allen strikes a similar chord on “Candle-Watching”, an earworm-y melody (punctuated with “doo-do do do” backing vocals) ready to support Mary Tyler Moore as she dumps her loser boyfriend and moves to a commune upstate with shaved-head women who knit anarchist tapestries and grow their own mushrooms. The softer sides of late ’80s Flying Nun shines through as well, care of the deftly-worked, unexpected melodies and pastel textures; there isn’t a single distortion pedal to be found in the practice space, not when multiple acoustic guitars, keyboards and drum brushes are scattered about. Throughout, Allen deftly weaves hard-skinned reality into her fantastical lyrics, natural beauty and persistent survival intertwined to form a barb that latches onto the lapel of the empathy-lacking oppressor. Irritating for him, but inspiring for the rest of us. 
As the weather warms up and we look for fresh tunes to blast out of open car windows, have I got a new one for you! I don’t know how Ball haven’t been a part of my life up until now, but Satanic Ecstasy, goddamn, here’s a record to blast while robbing a liquor store, jumping fifty feet into a quarry with your jeans still on, basically anything risky and cool that you could’ve also done in the ’70s. Of course, I’m more the type of person who separates his recycling before dutifully putting it on the curb every week than one to conjure mystical fiends through heavy LSD trips, and yet I still feel as though my entry into Ball’s Satanic sex party is authorized, so righteous and timeless is their outlaw rock for all willing to follow it. Imagine, if you will, the sounds of Vincebus Eruptum as performed by the band in Stunt Rock but with El Duce on vocals, all swabbed in Comets On Fire’s self-titled drug-effects, and you’re pretty much there – this Swedish hard-rock outfit pushes overblown riffs and bad taste to the limit, recorded as if the room was, if not actively on fire, freshly charred. It’s sleazy and a little cheesy, but certain sounds, when committed to fully and unrelentingly, are God-like in nature, and that’s the case for Satanic Ecstasy from start to finish. I’ve never considered myself a religious man – maybe someday I’ll pick up a book about Buddhism – but Ball have me strongly considering changing my voter registration to “Satanist”. That’ll show ’em!
There’s no room for sub-par hardcore anymore, not even in Chicago! Coronary have been around since 2015 or so, M.A.D.ness being their second full-length, both on the daringly-named Rad Girlfriend Records (what if y’all break-up??). They’ve got a feisty, energetic sound, almost as if they want to play every hard-edged strain of hardcore all at once. There are power-violence blasts, ugly-face breakdowns, galloping heavy d-beats, metallic thrash leads, gang vocals, tricky stop-starts… if your face is in danger of being punched by any particular hardcore or hardcore-adjacent sound, Coronary will find a way to integrate it. Vocalist Ryan Morris somehow sounds like the least energetic member of the band, every other instrument flying off the rails as he digs deep into his gut for his persistent snarling bark. Cool stuff, as it’s not often I hear a band sound like Power Trip then Extortion then Look Back & Laugh then Bib then Bolt Thrower in the same minute-long song. Punks have co-opted the concept of mutually assured destruction for their band names and song titles since the dawn of hardcore, and it still clicks, especially for bands as furious as Coronary. 
Cousin’s newest EP is titled Wake The Town, though that seems an unlikely outcome from the chill music within. This Australian producer has delivered a steady flow of low-slung electronics, dipping toes in dub, ambient, deep house and techno (and lowering his entire foot into the vague and fertile pool known as “downtempo”), and this six-track album is an excellent showcasing of his skills. Opening with the title track, the mood is set: distant bongos on the horizon, an overzealously agile bass-line, the commingling of precise digital techniques and sticky jungle mist. Percussion is usually centered, yet Cousin’s tracks never feel like workouts; the hand-drum loop that guides “PicL” acts as a subtle evocation of spirits, not a dance-floor compulsion. That seems to be the key to Cousin’s music, the sense that his tracks are guided by sensuality and exploration while gently tethered to the meat and bones of rhythm. I could picture Sade listening to this as much as Richard D. James, is what I’m trying to say. Not a dud in the bunch here, nor does the album ever sag – a rarity for a techno producer’s first full-length! – but I’d direct you to “King Tide” as a particularly nice place to start. Over a light bed of crackly textures, a hypnotic new form of post-post-dubstep slowly takes shape. 
Darkside is one of those projects that appears pretty perfect on paper (Nico Jaar with a guitar guy doing funky post-punk), and in execution? Perfect there, too! I’ve been a big fan since Nicolas Jaar and Dave Harrington released that first self-titled ten-inch, my god, somehow fourteen years ago, and the duo has continued to fine-tune its mix of showboat-y guitar licks with the outermost regions of avant-garde production. We are truly in an age of risk-averse music – what, would you want to disturb “the algorithm” and possibly reduce your play-count? – and I love that Darkside continue to make bold, unique choices with their music. Big decisions, like the sound of the vocals and the overtly funky riff selection, are as wild and hairy as the tiniest details: a cowlick of feedback here, a hook that is only teased and denied, a house-shaking party anthem where you least expect it, and so forth. Each track is packed with a variety of twists and turns, often feeling more like four songs in one – “Graucha Max” is a good example, shifting through a variety of upbeat dance rhythms before settling on a distorted closer. Nothing can be reminiscent of Jaar’s Against All Logic throwback dance trax rinsed with some of that good ’70s acid, but then maybe The Faint showed up with some Galaxy Gas, then wait, is Flea here now too, riding on Thom Yorke’s shoulders like a little kid? Did Daft Punk’s CPUs get reprogrammed as a Pink Floyd tribute act?? Nothing consistently showcases the best possible outcome of brazenly maximalist music, where the rush of the sounds, the rhythms, the ostentatiousness, the unself-consciousness and freewheeling vibe takes full control. It’s an absolute joy for the body and mind, with really nothing else like it out there, and I can already say with confidence that Nothing will appear high up my year-end best-of list in nine months’ time, may the algorithm forgive me. 
There comes a time in every rational adult’s life where they learn about the concept of surveillance capitalism, and I say, why not have Marie Davidson provide the lesson? The French-Canadian producer/singer/DJ apparently got really into Shoshana Zuboff’s book of the same name in the time she was crafting City Of Clowns, her newest (and greatest?) solo full-length, the concepts of which inform her lyrics. Don’t expect a sleepy PowerPoint presentation, though – with the help of Soulwax, Davidson’s music is riotous and addicting, a brash mix of throwback electroclash, Brat Summer and catchy, personality-driven tech-house. Her lyrics are a highlight as well, as she’s not afraid to go over-the-top, land a hilarious zinger or speak an uncomfortable truth with the deadpan smile I associate with many of Aubrey Plaza’s characters. It’s like Green Velvet and Miss Kittin throwing a party in an abandoned co-working space after the tech startup failed. One of my favorite singles of last year, “Y.A.A.M.”, reappears here, alongside powerhouse synth-wave cuts “Demolition” and “Sexy Clown”, a thrilling one-two punch sure to convert even the most inert of audiences into a wiggling bacchanal. I listened to City Of Clowns driving en route to a wedding a few weeks ago and nearly crashed three times, which seems low considering how hard I was jamming with my passengers. The wedding DJ’s selections were as limp as my “roasted vegetables” entrée by comparison, but how could they not be? 
With more new music than ever, there’s more music that sounds like other music than ever, too. Not so with Adrián de Alfonso’s debut solo full-length, Viator, an occasionally beautiful and frequently jarring album of voice and guitar unlike much else. The instrumentation is consistently sparse, and the songs swerve between experimental guitar wanderings to painstaking repetition to various strains of traditional Spanish guitar (flamenco, bolero and such). There are surely some names in the Spanish guitar heritage that de Alfonso is drawing from, but my American ears are imagining some sort of campfire gathering of Jandek, Devendra Banhart, Derek Bailey and Dylan Carlson, the latter three all poisoned by Jandek, who commandeered final say of the resulting music. Some tracks sound like an acoustic guitar actively de-tuned beyond recognition (almost reminiscent of Vomir’s “shit-folk” as Roro Perrot), whereas others patiently pursue a two-note pulse over foot-stomp percussion and de Alfonso’s dramatic vocal. Viator finds itself frequently at odds: musical and anti-musical, traditional and groundbreaking, listenable and unlistenable, ludicrous and dead serious, an artistic sensibility in league with Mattin, yet a sound Adrián de Alfonso can comfortably claim as his own. 
Philip Sherburne’s Balmat label has been a fun one to follow. You’d think one of the best regarded electronic music writers of our time would know how to run a small-press label, and he certainly does, from the consistently gorgeous cover art designs of José Quintanar to the curation of artists, most of whom operate from left-of-center but not in a way that neglects melody or accessibility. DOVS is the duo of Mexican producer Gabo Barranco and Johannes Auvinen AKA Tin Man (whose third album I released way back in 2010, jeez has it been that long?), two open-minded technocrats who are unwilling to solidify into a single solid form. On Psychic Geography, they made the decision to do away with kicks or any sort of anchoring 4/4 pulse, preferring to let their synths frolic and explore like two adorable off-leash puppies. Auvinen’s synths are always identifiably downy – even at their iciest, it sounds like he’s recording in a room full of lush blankets – and his melodies remain poetic and pleasantly downcast here. His music often sounds like it was made by a friendless child forced to create their own rich and imaginative world, and whether or not Barranco tends to share a similar headspace, that’s certainly what’s happening here. Quintanar’s art really fits the vibe here, looking like the cover of a ColecoVision game where you find lonely sheep and feed them fruit candy. That’s at least where my psychic geography is at while listening.
The few and proud among you who recognize the name “G.W. Sok” right off the bat will surely be excited about this one – a collaboration between The Ex’s long-time vocalist and something called Dream Skills. Turns out Dream Skills is the solo work of one Donald Grant McLean, a British artist with a history of underground music under his belt as well, and he provides the digital turf over which Sok croons, croaks and cranks. Dream Skills’ soundscapes are active and jittery, the lumps of IDM, ambient and experimental-techno smoothed over into something befitting the duo’s elder status. (Party music this ain’t.) McLean’s avant-rock group Action Beat had previously collaborated with Sok, but As We Speak is dislocated and sparse; on certain tracks, the lopsided rhythms of the music seem to have nothing to do with Sok’s vocal delivery, which is interesting, but I prefer when it seems like both gentlemen are actively engaged in a duet, like the weary balladry of “Rufus”. When it comes to pairings of tricky electronic production and legendary post-punk vocalists, it’s near impossible to top Von Südenfed (Mark E. Smith & Mouse On Mars), but Dream Skills & G.W. Sok aren’t competing, not with others nor with themselves. As We Speak is often haunting, sometimes screwy and occasionally profound. 
Even as the Bay Area continues to be overrun with wretched tech-bros of the grossest order, new weirdo synth/punk/garage bands manage to spring up from that hostile environment, like weeds with mop-tops, horn-rimmed glasses and Rickenbacker bass guitars. Unlike many of these groups, Dry Erase only seem to share one member with the rest of that scene, Rob I. Miller (of Flex TMG and Blues Lawyer), and for whatever reason it took the German label Phantom to bring their first full-length to the masses. Maybe they’re outcasts among the San Fran post-punk outcasts, though their music fits in nicely, a loose and fantastical take on experimental synth-led post-punk. Their songs aren’t aiming for frictionless pop-song memorability – they act more as obscure little one-act plays, in the rich Bay Area tradition of Subterranean Records’ cadre of non-conformist freaks. They could’ve easily covered an Inflatable Boy Clams or Voice Farm track here, that’s for sure! These songs are unhurried, spacious and creepiest when they’re at their most major-key melodic, very much in the Residents school of electro-obscurity, but tethered to laid-back post-punk grooves ala Exek or Patois Counselors at their least guitar-centric. If years from now, the future’s version of a Numero Group or Soul Jazz decides to excavate this ’20s Bay Area underground scene with a definitive compilation, they’ll have to reserve space for “Thought Captive”, the gem of Decay Model. I’m gonna sing the chorus to my boss and see what happens.
With most records titled In Space, I would assume it’s meant as some sort of cute gag, but this one, coming from the duo of Dan Melchior and Adam Smith (of Columbus Discount recording artists Necropolis and Unholy Two), well… maybe they actually were in space when they recorded it?? These two musicians have clearly professed their love of the rock song from a quick scan of their prior musical resumés, but they explode that notion like a SpaceX rocket here. Melchior runs his guitar through the ugliest fuzz (there seems to be black mold growing on it) and chugs hard, while Smith thrusts his synth through the ’60s, ’70s and today, a choppy time-warp that off-gasses a burnt plastic smell. At only five tracks on a full-length LP, the Employees dig deep into these stanked-out portals, like if the Fuckin’ Flyin’ A-Heads got into transcendental meditation and couldn’t find their way back out. To be honest, Melchior kinda carries this one, what with his merciless guitar and astronautical muttering, but Smith’s synth-work is a nice cherry on top, a friendly reminder that Employees Of The Month is two freaks in agreement, not the work of one lone outsider. In Space displays a raw and unapproachable blues form, in the spirit of Joe Bussard’s collection but just as likely to have frightened him up the stairs and out of his record basement. 
The Goodbye Boozy I know got its kicks releasing one-sided seven-inch records, and now they’ve pressed two different bands, one on each side of the vinyl? This must be what it was like when the first neanderthal discovered fire. Don’t worry though, this pairing of German punk bands will destroy any freshly connected neurons Goodbye Boozy may have gained. The Gents are particularly dirt-brained; they’re behaving like the guys you’d want to avoid at any party and proud of it. Their mid-tempo snot-punk takes issue with coffee in “Coffee” and defecation in “I Can’t Shit”, what would’ve been the perfect party-starter for any time The Dwarves or The Queers came through Hamburg in the mid ’90s. This is the third release for Sven Klint on the Goodbye Boozy label (fifth if you count FLAC-only releases, which, come on, I don’t), and his artificially-sped-up electro egg-punk fits right in. The guitar sounds like it was played as a sample on a Casio, which is kind of a cool move, though the muffled fidelity reduces any power or thrills these songs might possibly have provided – did Will Killingsworth actually master this, and if so, why did he let it be publicly known? I would venture that Klint’s punk rock isn’t about power, nor thrills, so much as the annoying buzz of a gnat in the ear. In that case, it’s a job well done.
Glorious return for the duo of Morgan Buckley and James Grünfeld, formally presenting as Gombeen & Doygen. This new single is right in step with their 2021 debut, a playful and stylish take on minimal techno ala Ricardo Villalobos’ Alcachofa. “Prada” skanks along with a bevy of sounds, from mute-picked guitars to swirling dub effects, all in constant restless motion. The secret weapon of course is James Grünfeld’s richly altered vocals, his words rippling with the force of an AutoTuned orchestra, generally unintelligible (not simply because they’re often in German) and almost painfully suave. It’s about ten minutes long, but I’m not sure what compelled them to stop there, as I don’t see any good reason to cut the party so soon. “The Sequel” locates a punchy house groove in line with DJ Sotofett, layered with a mutant New Order arpeggio that has me considering the track’s general Torn Hawk-like qualities, though Grünfeld’s semi-conscious mumbling moves the tune in a totally different direction. It has the sensation of sleeping through a rave, but in a way that wouldn’t raise the concern of your friends. Speaking of sleep, unless you were awake and on the internet at 8:00 AM GMT a few weeks ago, you probably missed out on the immediate sell-out of Prada / The Sequel. Mercifully, more copies have trickled out recently across the usual digital vendors, but who knows for how long? Delay picking up what will surely be one of the year’s finest electronic EPs at your own peril. 
It’s fitting that goth is one of the most enduring underground aesthetics, seeing as it’s based around a fascination with death and the dead (and the undead) and the spooky beauty of it all. You simply can’t kill goth, but I tell you what, I could easily tile the roof of my house with all the goth / death-rock / dark-wave albums that have passed through these pages over the years, from the excellent to the middling. Spinning Silk For Parasites is the newest to haunt my record room, the full-length debut from Boston’s Gossip Collar. Good for them for having some unabashedly morbid fun, complete from the CD version released on their own “Bat Cave Productions” label to the back cover photograph of a The Ring-looking lady wandering through The Blair Witch Project to a song ostensibly invoking the tale of Dorian Gray (“Dorian”). Their music is firmly rock – no dark-Renaissance balladry with strings or ambient-synth atmospherics – and while I appreciate their preference to be a band with amps instead of a scripted drama, I wish the riffs and melodic progressions offered anything more than the most basic School Of Rock-ready pre-sets. Opener “Breakfast (For The Baby)” blatantly cribs The Cure’s “A Forest” melody, and nothing that follows rises to a level that could charitably called inventive, unique or gripping. For better or worse, it’s a by-the-numbers affair in essentially every way, though those numbers continue to satisfy so many fans and artists alike, so what do I know. Maybe after I’m done with my roof I can move on to the patio?
No matter how obscure an underground musical genre is, sooner or later someone is going to co-opt it and try to extract whatever wealth they can from it. Cool system we’ve got! While I don’t behoove any musician to refuse the money being offered to them, especially these days, I also want my Taco Bell separate from my hardcore, you know? This is part of why I derive pleasure in listening to a band like England’s Hollow Eyes (featuring members of Terminal Cheesecake, BONG and Head Of David), whose blackout-wasted noise-rock has zero capitalist function. They groove on a riff (or more accurately, a note) for as long as they feel like, which is usually kinda long, guitars sandblasting off in scattered directions while the bassist miraculously remains upright and the drummer keeps hammering on, playing like he’s in a band that might actually go somewhere. It has the misanthropy of Iron Monkey, the sourness of Rusted Shut and the primitive psychedelia found within that bizarre Solar Anus double CD that tUMULt released like twenty years ago. That Solar Anus collection was titled Skull Alcoholic, which feels like a similarly fitting moniker for this Hollow Eyes album too. “Speed / Dead Leaf”… what is even happening here, it’s like Upsidedown Cross running through the intestines of a dragon, all diverticulitis-like, yet the beers keep flowing regardless. Sorry Ozempic, there’s a new cause of bowel blockage in town!
Alongside Bruce’s excellent stamped-label single, is the British electronic vanguard having a moment with the classic seven-inch format? Too early to say? I won’t think too hard about it, as I personally find them appealing, especially when the music is as high-caliber as what we’re getting with Holy Tongue (and that phenomenal Bruce single). The trio of Al Wootton (propulsive techno savant), Valentina Magdaletti (number-one ranked avant-garde percussionist of myriad projects) and bassist Susumu Mukai (of Vanishing Twin) have been making somewhat traditional digital dub for a few years now as Holy Tongue, and while “Ambulance Dub” follows a similar trajectory, it’s a memorable tune nonetheless. Seemingly full-digital from bass to drums and everything in between, it’s a somewhat haunted cut, the sparse atmospherics conjuring a mood akin to Black Rain or even early Burial as the pulse persists. If it’s an ambulance, the passenger is sadly already dead. “The Bigger Tutti” claims the flip, and Magdaletti’s drums are, in a word, sick. She is in full coordination with the techniques of dub rhythms, but also simply beats the hell out of her kit. A stem of her drum tracks alone would be sufficient for my enjoyment (and I’m going to see her live in a couple months, so my wish may be granted), but the intermittent piano line and dubbed-out strings are a pleasant fit, the rare cut that would find both James Brown and Philip Glass unable to find fault, no matter how nitpicky they were feeling. 
Obnoxious teenage energy comes through like an infected pimple on Homemade Speed’s debut EP. This Virginia hardcore band dismisses a formal bio, opting to insult three cities and one philosophy (Virginia Beach, Norfolk, New York and straight-edge) on theirs. Incorrigible! It’s not often I get a new record that immediately calls to mind Tuscon’s Useless Pieces Of Shit, so I’m having quite a bit of immature fun blasting Faster Is Better at inappropriate hours and volumes. It’s like the sonic equivalent of refusing to wash your hands after using the bathroom, in line with other nasty, early flailing hardcore offshoots like Stark Raving Mad, S.N.O.T. and Olho Seco. These songs fly by like the bug-eyed skate-punk on the cover, overly excitable in overall tempo as well as riff changes, performed as if the ADD they’re so clearly suffering from arrived in the form of a skin rash. I appreciate how direct, raw and unaltered it sounds – the vocals, for example, are unintelligible moans and screams, but natural, not delivered in a popular Zouo- or United Mutation-informed monster voice. If used as a soundtrack to a skate video, Faster Is Better would only work for a montage of slams and bails, gnarly full-body concrete contact with bleeding palms brandished alongside menacing smiles. Homemade Speed won’t quit until everyone is knocked over. 
There has been an incredible amount of overwhelming records by John Toohill (he of Science Man, Alpha Hopper, The Hamiltones, Night Slaves and more, apparently all at the same time), and let’s add Ismatic Guru to that list, his “recording project” with Brandon Schlia. Wouldn’t you know it, they let their love of Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart loose in the egg-punk cabinet, and managed to squeeze no fewer than twenty-six(!) songs out of it. These cuts are freaky, funky, loose and unhinged, difficult progressions and tricky riffs played without distortion alongside bass/drum tracks that sound artificially sped-up (in the proud egg-punk tradition). It’s like one of those non-essential (but still cool) no-wave records on Ze (or, say, The Stick Men’s This Is The Master Brew) crammed with more musical ideas than traditionally considered safe or advisable. I think some people get thrilled by this sort of thing, like Melt Banana or John Zorn obsessives – I suspect most ‘normal people’ would find themselves immediately drained – but for me, if I’m able to force myself to concentrate on the musical trash-tornado that is Ismatic Guru, and give in to the album title’s premise, I’ll admit that it ain’t half bad. 
King Blood is one of those artists that I never, ever wanted to mellow out or lighten up, yet Eye I Aye Ivy, his fourth full-length and first since 2019, is King Blood’s broadest-sounding release to date, and by my severe deliberation, his finest. If you recall King Blood’s previous material, it came in the form of biker-rock riffs jackhammered in repetition and delivered with a High Rise-esque molten crust, and while the same could be said for a majority of the tracks here, this album feels especially rich and vibrantly exploratory. I suppose that comes down to the riffs themselves – these songs live and die by them – and whereas King Blood heavily leans in the dark-stoner direction of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Rainbow and Electric Wizard, he’s not afraid to wriggle his bare toes in the grass here. Following a suite of gloriously punishing riff-demons, the a-side wraps with the introspective “Count To Nine”, which reimagines that moment where Slash was playing guitar on the edge of the cliff, though this time he slowly sails off the edge. It’s a reasonable prep for “Masques”, the b-side opener, which integrates synth arpeggios and a hazy guitar drift that has me envisioning Klaus Schulze in a black-leather trench coat (which, I’ll be honest, isn’t the first time I’ve had such thoughts). While mostly percussion-less, “Recoil” features some distant crashing of drums, whereas “(House Of) The Arrow” is like Brainticket in a cheap blender. There’s some streetwise Girlschool-style riffing happening too, and as was the case with the prior LP, Hocus Focus, the bass-lines wander away from the guitar riffs on occasion, a more complex yet no-less-satisfying approach. Petty Bunco shelled out for the full-color print job and fancy graphic design on this one, though you could slap an oily rag on the naked vinyl and it would be just as fitting. Is King Blood the Christian Marclay of stoner-rock? 
London’s Known For released two Bandcamp EPs in 2024, ending the year by collecting them in the form of one self-released LP. Smart move! I’m a little surprised they didn’t have a suitable label reaching out to get a piece of the action, seeing as their aggro rock n’ roll is easy for a wide range of audiences to enjoy. I say “rock n’ roll” not to be annoying but because their songwriting really spreads wide across the guitar-based terrain, veering from upbeat, anthemic riffs ala Eddy Current to bony-limbed post-punk ala Institute to the energetic party-punk blather of early IDLES. And then there are some good ol’ fashioned hard-edged punk tunes here, Damned Damned Damned-style riffing with all the attitude of a lead singer who just might swipe your drink and guzzle it in one fluid motion. Maybe it’s because they’re another ensemble of lads trying to figure their way through London without winding up broke or worse, but I can also picture them chumming it up with Chubby & The Gang at a pub with ratty old carpet and a bathroom the size of a phone booth – both groups tend to appreciate the foundational tenets of what makes working-class rock music exciting without taking themselves too seriously. At first, I thought the title was actually Catching A Stray Known One, some sort of cool Cockney phrase I didn’t understand, but it’s really not too late for Known For to make that into something. You see that guy fall sideways pissed into the kebab shop last night? He was catching a stray known one, innit!
File under WTF, which is easily one of my personal favorite files: the self-released debut full-length from singer/songwriter Kevin Koplar, originally of St. Louis and currently residing in Los Angeles. I have no idea how this guy realized Yellow Green Red is a place to send a record for a review, but I’m glad he did, as To A Better Dark has been an enjoyable experience. Standing at five feet tall, Koplar realizes he’s an outsider long-shot for rock stardom, but that isn’t stopping him from chasing his dreams. His music hits a folksy, Starbucks-pop sort of pitch, as if Jack White never started the White Stripes and instead tried out for American Idol and The Voice over and over again, only grabbing a little camera-time when Simon decides to be insulting. Koplar’s croaky falsetto is convincingly passionate, almost Daniel Johnston-esque at times, delivered with solo guitar accompaniment as often as with an array of studio musicians (was that a backing choir I heard on “Love, Lies & Lust”?). There’s the sense that Koplar is powerless to his muse, in a similar way to misunderstood or ignored misfits like Lewis (of L’Amour fame) and especially Tommy Wiseau. Similarly, Koplar also clearly paid for the production of this album with funds unrelated to his chosen artistic practice – according to his website, we missed his sole listed performance at the Viper Room on April 15th, 2023. I can almost guarantee that few of you will have read this review in full, and even fewer still will seek out the music of Kevin Koplar after reading it, and I’m fine with this; besides Daniel (see the sixth track, “Give This Song To Daniel”), it feels like I might be the only person on this planet to have shared this musical moment with Mr. Kevin Koplar, and that’s special.
Cincinnati’s Motorbike follow their 2023 self-titled debut with Kick It Over, and if I was tasked with writing a cheesy little one-liner for it, I’d say this time, the training wheels are off!. The debut was cool, if not necessarily the establishing of a distinctive new voice in garage/punk, and Kick It Over feels bigger and bolder in all the right ways. The songwriting is more confident, evident in the slower pacing and richer instrumentation. Sometimes a new punk band presents themselves like a public speaker anxiously stumbling through their speech at double speed, whereas Motorbike deliver their tunes with the calm and steady conviction of Obama (sans drone attacks). I hope I’m not making it sound like a “mature” record, though – Motorbike rock pretty hard here, tracks like “Currency” and “Afraid Of Guns” throbbing with the mighty pulse shared by The Adverts, Eddy Current, Reigning Sound and Jonathan Richman’s “Roadrunner” if they were loaded up on stem cells like that creepy billionaire trying to reverse his aging. Motorbike’s got full control of these tunes, simplistic riffs dressed up big and bold from the way in which the songs are written and delivered as one hell of a good time. I never thought of Cincinnati as a hard-partying city – to be honest, I never really think of Cincinnati at all – but with bands like Motorbike setting up shop at the cool bars in town, there has to be no way around that now. 
Bunkerpop’s sixth release is as tantalizingly cryptic as the first five, another reissue from some forgotten sticky corner of the post-punk sub-underground. Robert was apparently the band that followed ?Fog (whose seven-inch Bunkerpop previously released), and I can understand why the label threw a little money behind this one, replete with an attractive booklet full of color photos and a lengthy, illuminating band interview. Anyone still demanding more Robert content after picking this up is being unreasonable. The music certainly deserves to be given a fresh chance, as this group had a cool thing going on, an artfully bratty spin on post-punk. I’m willing to assume and state plainly that The Fall must’ve been a major influence (and rightfully so), but I’m also hearing a touch of Flipper’s groove-based nihilism, with the boomy production and vaguely menacing presence of Campingsex. “Waste Your Life” adds an extra note to the “Sex Bomb Baby” riff, but instead of ripping into a shirtless acid party, Robert simmers over low heat, big ’80s reverb drums flapping around disinterested guitars and an aggressively spoken vocal performance. Like an uncertain treaty between Crass Records’ sonic anarchy and Onset/Offset’s homespun charm, brought to you by an unclear number of creative housepunks. There’s a great shot in the booklet of their red Victorian-era weatherboard terrace with no fewer than sixteen punks hanging in and around it, looking like a deleted scene from Dogs In Space, the iconic Aussie punk film from 1986, the same year Robert The Record was originally released. What are the odds Michael Hutchence ever crashed on Robert’s couch?
German producer Sa Pa trades in extremely lowercase techno, dance music for white-walled gallery spaces where absolutely no one is dancing, if anyone is even in the room at all. His production teeters on the edge of perception, often little more than a 4/4 thump and some subliminal digital scratching, and while I am the one writing this and find my own description to not be particularly enticing, trust me – it works really well! Opener “Captigon” sets the stage with a barely-there, flickering pulse, a rave of windowsill dust. “So Simple” is ever-so-slightly more lively, the basic nervous system of dub-techno quarantined with fragmentary sonic accompaniment, like sifting through the wreckage of a dance track that was unplugged twenty years ago. “Boredom Memory (Extended Mix)” has a bit more flair; Sa Pa adheres its hushed pulse to the strange discordance of plucked strings(?) and rattled materials, like one of those barely-audible Marginal Consort performances forced to volley with a dying electronic vibration. At thirteen minutes, it’s a slow-release novocaine shot, a zone I keep wanting to re-enter. “Gausian Ecstacy” finishes the EP without any pulse or vibration, focusing instead on distant piano and up-close shocks of digital effects. Paired with the curious terrain of Will Bankhead’s cover photography, The Fool whisks my mind into a low-lit state of inaction. If Sa Pa could bottle this stuff, he could market it as an anti-energy drink, sold in a separate cooler next to the Red Bull and Monster displays. 
Interesting reissue choice here for the ever-reliable Beach Impediment label: Tokyo’s unheralded hardcore-punk act (The) Scumbag, who existed from 1988 through 1989. They didn’t make much of a splash in their day, and listening to this compilation of their studio material now, I can’t imagine a modern-day re-assessment will reveal a missed opportunity for stardom. Scumbag’s poppy, thrashy, un-serious take on hardcore certainly isn’t en vogue in this moment, but “popular trend” isn’t a metric that any true hardcore lifers abide by. I’m reminded of later-period Lip Cream, where it gets a little more melodic and poppy, maybe some RKL in there too, and I dunno, a goofiness that verges on the Anthrax-esque – the set opens with a silly instrumental-thrash pisstake, just because. Judging from the photos of the band, along with their sound, I get the impression that the skater culture of the time resonated with them, back when Thrasher was a legit beacon of underground culture, weed was lumped in with crack and heroin as “dangerous drugs”, and as long as your shorts were baggy and cut way past the knees, it didn’t matter if they were garishly gingham or Dockers khakis (size 42 waist with a braided belt). There are probably a thousand bands like this, all existing for a short blip, all memorialized on the MCR Company label, and all awaiting rediscovery. Is it too early to get construction going on the MCR / H.G. Fact wing of the Punk Rock Museum?
Dark Entries’ reissue game is so strong that I had forgotten they also dabble in contemporary artists, which they’re also quite good at. Istanbul’s Eylül Deniz released her debut with Dark Entries back in 2022, and All At Once is the follow-up, serving up exquisite goth hair on the cover and extremely dreary song-fractures on the vinyl. Imagine Grouper stripped down even more than her music already is – her rickety rowboat reduced to a single oar, her forest cabin replaced by a canopy of twigs and branches – and an image of Sunfear’s noise-ambient atmospheres is revealed. “Daycare” is slower than Noothgrush, a post-suicidal sound that drifts like Mammal’s most recent offerings with barely more light filtering through the cracks. It’s kind of a dangerous place to dwell in, but it’s also kind of sumptuous too, the textures redolent of velvet not leather, even at its noisiest (and Sunfear is not afraid to get down in the murk). The watery sounds of “Steps” pulls you deep below, but its adjoining bass-line at least ensures you’re going out in style. It’s not until the final track “Form Changed” that it feels like you’re listening to an actual “song”-song, replete with intermittent guitar strum, timekeeping percussion and melodic vocals, but even then, Sunfear refuses to ensure safe passage, All At Once leaving its mark on its audience like a mystery bruise. 
Milan’s TV Dust are a victim of their own hype sticker, which describes the group’s full-length debut as “an incredible collection of no-jazz, breakneck rhythms, mutant-wave, trance-funk, shredded sax jags and furious, yet mysterious assaults”. That sounds pretty bad-ass to me (though I’m not sure the ostensible play on no-wave of “no-jazz” really holds up as a descriptor), and I was eager to give it a spin! Perhaps it’s impossible for any group to live up to such a wide-ranging assortment of exciting hybrid genres, but Transition isn’t really doing much for me. The bass/drums/sax trio suffers from uninspired, stock melodies, played in a frantic (but not too frantic) Y2K post-punk sort of way, sounding like a group whose demo Troubleman Unlimited would’ve received and passed on. It’s not nearly experimental or virtuosic enough to dazzle, and with such typical melodic progressions, I’m surprised they didn’t bother enlisting a singer (or try singing themselves), considering the large amount of empty space in these songs primed and ready for an injection of character. I’m hearing bits and pieces similar to groups as varied as Viagra Boys, Fabulous Diamonds, Tussle, Guru Guru and Naked On The Vague, but guitar-less, vocal-less versions sans captivating hooks or irresistible personality. Probably would be a bad idea to put that on the hype sticker, though.
Have you ever heard anyone say they were running out of new ambient music to check out? Me neither! Upsammy exfoliated my brain back in 2018 with her dazzling Words R Inert EP, but turned to exploring ambient music’s crowded precincts in recent years, much to my declining interest. Open Catalyst, a new four-track EP for Dekmantel, picks up where her earlier explorations of sparkle-pop drum n’ bass left off, and I’m learning what it feels like to be born again. It’s so good! “Relict” is the sonic equivalent of that first sip of McDonald’s Sprite after a sweltering summer’s day, its effervescence dancing on the tongue inside one’s mind. It’s like the rave-pants-wearing child of Drexciya and Sophie, and they are proud as hell of their offspring. “Telluric” squeaks and snaps in a hyper-speed half-time, the sort of thing that Missy Elliot should be rapping over in 2025, but instead I get to enjoy it all by myself, with or without headphones. The other two cuts come from the same sonic embryo, and the results are just as satisfying, a restorative barrage of tiny techno bubbles. This music is probably already being rolled out as a fancy new spa treatment in South Korea or Switzerland, but you can stay ahead of the trends and pick up a copy of Open Catalyst this very minute, for home or travel. 
The why might remain unclear, but Feel It has bothered quite a bit with this Iowan synth-punk group, releasing eight, count ’em, eight Why Bother? full-lengths since 2021. They’re fixing to become the Zoogz Rift of Feel It Records with these kinds of numbers! With this already expansive discography, I’ll admit to having always enjoyed this group but never really finding the appropriate time (or, I suppose, inclination) to stick with any one of those particular albums. You can add this new seven-inch EP to their stack, and I don’t know if this abbreviated (and punkest of all) format is doing it, or if the tunes are just particularly enthralling, but I feel like I need to pick out at least one of those earlier Why Bother? albums and get re-acquainted, because this EP rules! Opening with a sample of propagandized dum-dums, “Listen” tackles the unexpected theme of modern food frustration in the form of a fuzzed-out poppy punk zinger, ripped from the early pages of Killed By Death and just as memorably gristly. “Inside The Medium” sequesters an old-timey blues riff inside a psychedelic Twilight Zone haze, very Dan Melchior-esque and a real delight. I love that they go even further out-there on the second side; “Speck’s Lament” offers a hesher-metal intro that wanders an abandoned cul-de-sac before briefly peeping in Robert Smith’s window, and “The Older Witness” wraps things with an early-industrial discharge not unlike Nocturnal Emissions or Robert Turman. Why Bother? don’t care if they blow it all to hell, they already gave up sugar and folic acid on the first track and concluded the EP with America’s newest pastime: picking through the wreckage. 
Melbourne’s Wild City are hoping to impress with their brash rock n’ roll moves, and I for one am buying it. For example, they sent me their LP in a soft envelope all the way from Australia, bent-up on arrival. Their music hearkens to a time when records were played hard, left sleeveless on the shag carpet, ashed on and generally treated with basic disregard, so why capitulate to the modern trends of treating them like collector’s items? I had no trouble spinning Alchemist Junkyard (kick-ass title!), which shimmies and slams in that ’80s underground hard-rock sweet spot, somewhere between The Saints, Mudhoney, Crime & The City Solution and maybe a lil Fat White Family for good measure. They aim high with their songs, carried not by unique hooks so much as timeless rocker chutzpah, sunglasses-indoors type riffs/grooves that welcome bad news and laugh at the devil himself. I don’t know much else about the band, like if they have any toxic interpersonal relationships, or a history with the law, but I can only hope that if their reputation doesn’t precede them, it’s because they’re still in the process of crafting one. If it turns out they’re just friendly, good-natured geeks dabbling in homemade garage-rock pyrotechnics, I will take the laptop I wrote this on and light it on fire. 
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