Actress Tranzkript 1 12″ (Modern Obscure Music)
Been downright intimidated by the overload of new Actress records in the past couple years, to the point where it feels like I’ve barely checked out any of them. I’d need a second life to properly devote the time and attention they deserve, but when I saw this new EP with his cool phonetic-misspelling style, I couldn’t help but peep. It seemed digestible by comparison, and while it certainly is, it’s also so damn good that I’m thinking I need to put some of my hard-earned PTO into a week where I privately listen to all the Actress records I’ve missed, just me and a decent wall to stare at. “Baby U Lar” takes me back to the Actress of the early ’10s (ala Rainy Dub, Splazsh and Xoul), wherein extremely peculiar zones are drafted, the listener is situated inside at an unusual angle and forced to float in a queasy, pleasant stasis. This cut pairs meandering piano, unevenly looped, with a twitchy electronic voice, like a microwave oven trained on AI to believe it’s Beyoncé. The lonely hi-hat of “Guardians” is dappled in British rain, paired with alternate-reality dial-tone and a distant moan… it’s truly alien music from the outer limits. “We Walk Together” sounds like reverse-techno as played through one of Alvin Lucier’s room-sound experiments, and “Kjj_” is little more than elegant, reverberant piano, looped on angel’s wings. Top-of-his-game material from start to finish care of one of modern electronic music’s most adventurous thinkers.

Artificial Go Musical Chairs LP (Feel It)
Post-punk aficionados were bowled over by Artificial Go’s debut EP last year, yours truly most certainly included. It was as if the trio were thawed from a cryogenic chamber sealed in Sheffield circa 1979, first-wave post-punks unaware that Margaret Thatcher was out of office, let alone deceased. In reality, I’m pretty sure Kurt Cobain died before the members of Artificial Go were born, and they’re proudly repping Cincinnati, one of the most robust and thriving American punk scenes (thanks in no small part to Feel It Records, both label and shop). Vocalist Angie Willcutt offered a caricature of cool style on that debut, and goes even wilder here, flaunting and fluttering her fake British accent while dressed like a high school bandleader at homecoming, complete with decorative helmet (amazingly not a sole photo shoot, but a way of life). Musical Chairs is pretty much Willcutt’s show, but her bandmates give her plenty to work with, from the charming indie-pop of “The World Is My Runway” to the no-wave-abilly of opener “Lasso” and the Flying Nun-ready “Circles”. They’re all hits, and Willcutt’s femme-clown presentation runs wild, listing breeds of dog, demanding a car and generally just chattering wildly, doing all she can to establish your undivided attention in this age of constant distraction. Hers is a full commitment, and it leads to some remarkably catchy tunes, from the spoken bits of “Tight Rope Walker” to the truly out-there way she sings the hook on “The World Is My Runway”, a bizarre Scottish(?) inflection that you’ll want to sing along with just to feel the fun of it rolling off your tongue. It was easy and it was cheap, but Artificial Go actually makes you want to go and do it, too.

Bart & The Brats Missed Hits LP (Feel It)
God bless the Shatter font, responsible for the logos of infinite striped-shirt-leather-jacket garage-punk records. No other font would fit French punker Bart De Vraantijk and his non-existent Brats so snugly, his vibe a clear descendant of the Rip Off Records turn-of-the-century heyday, one fiendishly brandishing black sunglasses, band-logo pins on lapels and, on special occasion, size-small t-shirts with skinny scarves. The recording here isn’t as budget-y as I’ve learned to not only tolerate but appreciate from the Goodbye Boozy diaspora, and this warmer, cleaner sound works too, highlighting De Vraantijk’s repetitive choruses and scoffing lyrics. Reminds me of The Unnatural Helpers in their sleekest garage mode, or Buck Biloxi after receiving his first Tinder match (there’s some swagger here). De Vraantijk’s not afraid to turn a whole song out of a couple of well-worn chords, or wear his influences proudly on his sleeve – there’s a cover of The Kids’ immortal classic “Fascist Cops” here for good measure. Missed Hits is one of those genre-specific records that devotees of the genre will savor and less-fanatical types will comfortably endure… anyone who despises sassy, simplistic punk rock should be avoided in the first place anyway. Beat on them, Brats, with a baseball bat!

Chris Brokaw Ghost Ship LP (12XU)
There’s a short list of musicians I trust to provide me with a profound sense of loneliness vis a vis their guitar, and Chris Brokaw (of Codeine, and Come, and wow, if Discogs is to be believed, also of GG Allin & The Aids Brigade) is one of them. He knows how to rock, and will surely rock once more, but Ghost Ship is him out on the end of a decrepit pier in the misty bay, his electric guitar somehow powered by the ocean of tears shed to classic 4AD records. It’s very Grouper-esque in that sense, but there’s no murk to navigate or dust to wipe – Brokaw’s guitar might be dimly lit, out of somber respect, but it’s in plain view. His tone often reminds me of Red House Painters’ Down Colorful Hill, each separate note rippling mournfully, though Brokaw is free to move about the funeral chapel. He even shakes his carafe of holy water wildly in the form of “Anything Anymore”, which opens with the bracing couplet of “Thank God I’m not in jail / Thank God I’m not on Fentanyl”. Lots of people love to throw around the evocative concept of a “ghost ship” within their art, but Brokaw’s is all too real. Give it a wide berth and hope you aren’t beckoned on board.

Bruce Belly / Burned Alive 12″ (Poorly Knit)
Bristol’s Bruce seems to have gone off the deep end, a tack I’d recommend more buttoned-up post-dubstep producers take. Why play by anyone else’s rules? In comes “Belly (Passing Squall Edit)” on this hand-stamped twelve-inch single, and it’s a riotous charge of elephants out for blood. Over a stoic gallop, an unnatural, fierce trumpeting shakes you by the collar, resulting in a violent sort of techno I could picture Stephen O’Malley cosigning. “Burned Alive (More Gauze Original Mix)” maintains that aggression over a swing out of Peverelist’s toolkit. Alarms blare, cars crash and weapons are enhanced like a Twisted Metal that wasn’t a teenager’s video game but a death-cult’s way of life, one that Objekt might consider joining. “Hot One (Chapped Lips Version)” closes it out with some semblance of peace, a lone twitching piece of hardware surrounded by spirits as it ascends to the dumpster out back behind Heaven. Bruce is uncaged here, a very DIY vinyl presentation (on “eco vinyl”, which we used to recognize as the cheap stuff that would otherwise be thrown away when United did it) with tracks too hot and undiluted to pass through a third party. I hope he’s okay, but even if not, I hope he keeps dropping new records like this.

Arianne Churchman & Benedict Drew The Tree Of The Left Hand LP (Folklore Tapes)
They didn’t have to tell me that The Tree Of The Left Hand Path was recorded in a haunted bungalow in Suffolk to know that it was recorded in a haunted bungalow in Suffolk. The duo of Arianne Churchman and Benedict Drew sparked some darkly-bucolic magic on last year’s glorious double LP May, a record as supernaturally dangerous as it is beautiful, and this follow-up whips up a similar mood, regardless of how many protective runes surround you. The first side is less overwhelmingly immersive, with acoustic strings, harmonium and synths acting in tandem more so than unison, providing some meditative breathing room for Churchman’s droning vocals, delivered with the confidence you’d want in a pastor performing a bedside exorcism. By the time you flip to the second side, the storm is upon us, elegantly put in the title “Portal Emerges To A World Reversed”. If you look deeply enough within, images of Ben Chasny, Nico and Tony Conrad might reflect back at you before it’s too late. The nymphs that lurked in the shadows of Comus’s music are recognizable here too, peeking out the edges of the track’s imposing doom (which is then parted by the lighthearted strings that beam down about six minutes in). A vocal choir (presumably all in matching white ponchos) escorts us to the other side, where time melts like mushroom chocolate. Even if they’re simply setting me up for the Wicker Man treatment at the dusky close of The Tree Of The Left Hand, I have no regrets.

Church Shuttle ESP Grifter / Junk Oracle LP (Torn Light)
You want pure authentic Midwestern junk electronics? Well Chris Durham AKA Church Shuttle set up his crap on a rickety stand in front of the boarded-up corpse of a Sears, the parking lot too cracked and decrepit to attract skaters, or even taggers, and he’s got some fresh tunes for ya. I really love this sorta thing, damaged DIY sound-art that isn’t so formless as to be filed under “noise”, but it’s too fried to be industrial either, and while it might share an ethos with post-punk, there’s nothing sonically “punk” about it… that’s a sweet-spot for me. These tracks curdle and flutter like early Esplendor Geometrico beat-mixed with that great/terrible File Under Pop single (just mainline the first dozen Rough Trade releases straight into my brain, 24/7 if you please), delivered with the freewheeling whimsy of Prick Decay or Nautical Almanac. Or rather, I ask you to envision those early Whitehouse records if the point of the group wasn’t to shock and disgust, so much as to get baked, order a big bag of garlic knots and fade out to some Andy Sidaris movies on the couch. While fitting in with the Hanson / American Tapes oeuvre, I appreciate that Durham renders these Church Shuttle tracks with some sense of intention and progress – I’m sure there’s some improvisation happening, but they still feel like some sort of structural pre-planning took place, all for the listener’s benefit. As far as I know, Sears never openly embraced the DIY electronic-noise scene… could that have been the fatal flaw to their business model?

Culture Shock EP 7″ (Youth Attack)
It feels like many of my over-forty hardcore peers have grown weary of Youth Attack’s aesthetic, which has honed in on the insular Denver hardcore scene over the past, jeez, ten years now? The bands seem to be the same basic guys in different arrangements, all with the trademark look of Mark McCoy’s aggressively black-and-white designs, more and more sounding as though they were recorded in adjoining trash cans. I suppose the repetitive sameness of it all can be tiring, but I still have an appetite for comically-angry hardcore made by scowling men in black band t-shirts, so I snagged up a couple of records from the new drop based solely on their cover art, the same purchase-criteria I followed as a teenager going to a used CD store. I love the cover art of this Culture Shock EP (I had plans to do a similar “brick letters dropped on a landscape” design for a project of my own that sadly didn’t work), and while these four quick tracks offer zero surprises, they rip hard, which is the important thing. The drums that open “Crumble” are as cavernous as they are crusty, and from this opening the EP rages forth in a manner befitting the neighborhood-wasting landslide on the cover. It’s like Men’s Interest and Sex/Vid trying to play This Is Boston Not L.A. (Culture Shock even cover SSD here!), which I greatly prefer to today’s riffless Gag/Gel/Bib/Spy clones. I chuckled at the back cover image, wherein an audience member is snarling in a Mangled State t-shirt – do any of these Denver hardcore dudes know that non-Youth Attack hardcore bands exist? I’m hoping the answer is no.

Dommer Thoughts On Unpacking / Kevin’s Speech 7″ (no label)
I’ve been considering a VIP paid tier of Yellow Green Red where you are granted exclusive access to me saying things like “Brooklyn’s Dommer should hook up with Prurient and call it Dom & Dommer”, but I can’t figure out an appropriately high enough price, so you get that one for free. This Brooklyn duo is doing things in a music-business-averse way that I find highly appealing: they’re self-releasing seven-inch singles, rather than posting daily Instagram reels and paying Spotify for boosted playlist positioning. They’re kind of an odd band too, their sound positioning itself within unlikely crevices of indie/punk at large. See “Thoughts On Unpacking”, which opens like classic Joan Of Arc with high-pitched vocals delivered over a succinct yet noodly riff. The chorus gets some fuzz on its chin, but it still behaves like the secret fourth Kinsella quadruplet. “Kev’s Speech” incorporates some dinky keys and walkie-talkie vocals to resemble the earliest No Age singles that accidentally tipped over into Gilman Street pop-punk. Not sure what to make of Dommer, which is much better than knowing exactly what to make of them. I wouldn’t mind seeing them give Eyes & Flys a run for their money on the self-released seven-inch race, at least… only eight more until they pass them!

Evinspragg The Neo Forms Of Soliloquy LP (Inscrutable)
If the two people on the cover of Evinspragg’s vinyl full-length debut The Neo Forms of Soliloquy are believed to be the band itself (which I’m not entirely sure is the case), one might anticipate music in a goth-y New Order / Cruel World festival sort of way, the duo bathed in foreboding purples, pinks and oranges, their visages obstructed by the severe shadow of a fingerless black leather glove. The label lives up to the name of Inscrutable, as Evinspragg actually play a sort of gremlin-y synth-punk, recorded in aggressively, lop-sidedly digital-sounding form. The slippery punk slime of Geza X and the trash-picked futurism of VON LMO are recognizable here, though Evinspragg’s production, mixing drum rolls and sound-effects far louder than guitar (that’s a guitar in there, right?), is uniquely their own. I’m sure they appreciate Screamers and Suicide – what righteous mortal among us doesn’t – but they’re (mercifully) not recreating the past so much as banging around with the contemporary crop of Feel It’s punk-informed, synth-centered artists and the looming, maniacal presence of Martin “Lumpy” Meyer, even if he’s publicly buried that character in the dirt. Punks have infiltrated enough Italo disco DJ nights by now to know the ropes, even if what they end up making comes out as neurotic and demented as the egg-punk bands they dissolved a couple years prior. How else to explain the gloriously dizzying budget-Grace Jones torment of “Once In A Dream I Saw A Man”?

G.I. Jinx Mind Freak LP (Celluloid Lunch / Psychic Handshake)
For better or worse, I don’t think Montreal’s G.I. Jinx had Criss Angel in mind when coming up with the title of their debut LP. There’s no glitz or glam here, not even in a darkened or theatrical manner – Mind Freak feels more suited to when your mind is actually freaking you, like when you’ve seen enough roaches running through your moldy apartment at night that the shadow of your empty cereal bowl gets a nervous double-take. It’s punked-out noise-rock in the classic late ’80s CBGBs sense, akin to Action Swingers and Drunks With Guns in particular, ready to share a weeknight bill with Unsane and Bastards attended by a sparse, morally ambiguous crowd. Mind Freak summons a variety of seedy bands that I find particularly appealing from a distance, where I don’t have to physically shake hands with any of them and wonder what else they had recently touched. G.I. Jinx exist in the here and now, however, an era where you have to be relatively thoughtful and amicable to exist as a functioning underground band, so it’s a pleasantly harmless daydream, knowing it almost certainly doesn’t apply to this group. Vocalist Anna Arrobas’s disenchanted sprechgesang is reminiscent of Kilynn Lunsford in her garage-ier days, and it certainly fits the mood, stanking punk riffs that conjure negative sensations akin to petty-thieving roommates and indoor smoking. Criss Angel could never.

Harold Holt Search Party RIP LP (Budget Brown)
Wasn’t sure if the band name was a private in-joke or something, so I looked up “Harold Holt” only to learn that he was an Australian prime minister who disappeared while in office in 1967 (hence the rest of the band name). Why can’t this happen to more leaders of first-world countries?? This Aussie quartet wield that sort of sarcastic energy alongside a fairly traditional take on screamy punk rock, working with durable riffs in the vein of The Hives, The Saints, Fucked Up… very time-tested stuff. Even if the vocalist wasn’t shirtless, hairy-chested thick and sporting a large brown beard, I’d still be reminded of those great early Fucked Up tracks, but his look drives the point home. Song topics are appealingly provincial, including a song called “Footy”, and there’s “Heroin”, which sardonically repeats the line “bring heroin back”. Could’ve gone for a lyric sheet to fully suss out the scope of their mordant humor, but alas, maybe the trick is to just sing along and see what happens. Probably not a record to get excited about from continents (or even cities) away – it’s back-to-basics punk rock, and very much basic in that regard – but if I lived in their quaint home city of Bendigo, I’d probably hang at all their shows and determine which of the two Cooney brothers who play in the band is Reece and which is Warwick. As it stands currently, I have no idea.

I Pentiti / HDPE Divided World / Il Mondo Diviso 7″ (CCP)
Some fascinating co-operation (not competition) happening here, care of new Communist punk label CCP Records (out of Sydney, Australia). For their inaugural release, CCP paired Milan’s I Pentiti with Sydney’s HDPE in a flagrant showing of unlistenable hardcore-punk, just the way I like it. I Pentiti are a wild one, opening with “I Debiti”, a scalding dirge full of reverbed-out drum rolls ala Flipper and an eventual noise-core tantrum ala Cyanamid. “Non Abbiamo Senso” is ever-so-slightly more discernible as a “real song”, with more of those echo-y drums, unhappy chord progressions and that frothing high-pitched vocalist, as if they were kidnapped from a black-metal group’s frostbitten mountain cave. It makes me wonder what is happening over there in Milan, and HDPE, a self-proclaimed “anti-hardcore” group, raise question-marks of their own on their side of the record. “A Vision” is ugly punk with a big open hi-hat sloshing around and an incessant bullhorn vocalist, re-tooling the lyrics of The Crucifucks’ “Hinckley Had A Vision” in praise of contemporary folk-hero Luigi Mangione. They squeeze all four minutes of “Anti-That” after it; there’s over seven minutes of music crammed on their side to ensure an appropriately-suffering fidelity. I’m glad they did though, as “Anti-That” recalls the sourest first-wave art-punk somewhere between Negative Trend and Slugfuckers, that spark of “grab an instrument and we’ll figure it out on the fly” that makes for a profoundly more enjoyable listening experience than one of polished, stadium-ready rock n’ rollers. I’d love to see a conservative punk label try to release an international split as evenly unhinged!

Kaleidoscope Cities Of Fear LP (La Vida Es Un Mus)
From the same community of New York buds that brought you Straw Man Army and Tower 7, Kaleidoscope hit the scene first, offering up psych-tinged hardcore-punk that, to be honest, didn’t really grab me all that much. Of course, I’ve since gone wild for those Straw Man Army (and Tower 7) records, so I peeped Cities Of Fear and boy am I glad I did. What a thrilling record of artful-yet-uncompromising hardcore-punk! I swear Kaleidoscope didn’t sound like this before, but if they did, please slap my wrist and point me to those records, as this is really excellent. Opener “Burning Alive” gallops like my favorite Aus Rotten moments, just boiling with triumphant rage, and the record twists and winds from there, calling to mind the uglier sides of various underground hardcore strains. I’m hearing the crusty, anthemic flair of Born Against at their fastest and Eucharist at their catchiest, the aforementioned Aus Rotten and the best possible Profane Existence stench, a touch of Mutha’s implied violence, and a pal of mine compared the record to Bl’ast, which I also can’t unhear. Looks like I just drafted one of the sickest mixtapes to throw in your vegetable-oil-converted van’s stereo as your punk band screens thrifted t-shirts outside of the squat, but Kaleidoscope really manifest the most riveting and catchiest elements of the other bands I’m hearing in their sound. Thoughtful, progressive, ripping crust-punk that feels especially precious in the year of our lord 2025, and it comes highly recommended.

Kirkwood Master Of Dragons LP (Out Of Season / Hosianna Mantra)
Out Of Season and Hosianna Mantra, having already released three handsome, uniformly-designed LP reissues of early ’90s material from unintentional dungeon-synth template-drafter Jim Kirkwood back in early 2024, did the sensible thing: they released three more! That’s six Kirkwood albums, all freshly remastered from the original recordings, with titles, themes and art inspired by Michael Moorcock’s richly-constructed fantasy realms. Both Souls That Dance On The Edge Of The Sword and Tales From A Melnibone Tavern feature side-long cuts – “Stormbringer” assuredly brings the storm – but if I was to point you, a weak level-one mage poseur, towards merely one of the three Kirkwood LPs that are recently out and worthy of possession, I’d go with Master Of Dragons. Broken up into nine distinct tracks, Kirkwood doesn’t shy away from dramatic flair here, or even the occult horror – a track like “The Ships Of Xerlerenes” is an atmospheric bog ready to test the courage of our unlikely hero and his elven sidekick. As always, Kirkwood’s drum programming is measured and determined, and while the synth settings vary nicely, the overall vibe is soaked in an era-gone-by, one of pre-internet mystery and direct-to-VHS mystical horror, a subculture that truly has to be searched for to be discovered, like a secret hole in the wall in the original The Legend Of Zelda. I’ll take six more, please.

Jorg Kuning Elvers Pass 12″ (Wisdom Teeth)
Nothing describes the music of Jorg Kuning as accurately as the cover art of Elvers Pass, eye-catching neon pastels in a pattern that could be an x-ray of a rare orchid or an infrared cross-section of an alien’s frontal cortex. His techno oozes unlikely colors, full of hairy purrs, cozy bleeps, drip-drop percussion and what’s that, an extended cello solo on “Mercedes”? Kuning harnesses the mid ’00s minimal-techno reverie of Luciano and Ricardo Villalobos and doses it with Matias Aguayo’s tropical fruit flavor, the resulting tracks being extremely easy to enjoy, never too hard or too soft. “Synthetic Squashies” embodies this in particular, a fully rubberized production that has the durability you’d expect from the Kompakt label with the winking eye of Melchior Productions. At six tracks, there’s plenty to enjoy, but it moves fast, too playful and sprightly to ever bog down into repetitive looping or rhythmic routine. I thought I had entered Diddy Kong’s lunar new year rave on the opening cut of the second side, but the title gently corrects me: it’s “Squidward’s Viola” that I’m hearing. Elvers Pass is the all-purpose antidote for industrial-dungeon techno, bad moods, chafing, unseasoned food, reality…

Last Bias The Sea Hates A Coward LP (Twistworthy)
Ten years ago, all the elder emo-core dudes were still on ice, but it seems they’ve thawed out at this point, reintegrated into the general population to get their old bands back together, or in the case of St. Petersburg, FL’s Last Bias, starting a new one. Last Bias feature ex-members of Light The Fuse And Run, a group I remember by name but not song, and I appreciate that their music feels both true to their past and present. That is to say, there’s a strong Ebullition feel to The Sea Hates A Coward, a gritty emo-core that has me thinking about how my Half Man and Econochrist LPs still rage pretty hard (and can be had for probably ten bucks total, even with todays staggering emo-flation rates). The songs simmer rather than boil, with notably more upbeat riffing than anything released by The Mountain Collective in the ’90s, an energy level more befitting fully-grown folks than fresh college dropouts. Someone in the band is inspired by Fugazi’s bounce, and someone else probably enjoys Page 99’s dramatic wall-of-crust guitars, and in the middle is where Last Bias comfortably meet. Try to keep up with your morning exercises, guys – only thirty years or so until you can start booking the Last Bias reunion tour!

Kilynn Lunsford Promiscuous Genes LP (Feel It)
You ever dry-hump the creature from the black lagoon in a 17th century French chateau… and like it?? Post-punk no-wave has been a formative element of the music Kilynn Lunsford has been making since she was a wee lass, but Promiscuous Genes, the second full-length under her own name, is a master-class in shaping those basic sonic elements into something uniquely wild and fun. Sophistication and trashiness don’t cancel each other out here, but rather enhance the overall experience… it’s like a high-end couture version of Spirit Halloween (wedged into the decaying skeleton of some recently-deceased business) freshly looted and set on fire. Opening on the understated groove of “Nice Quiet Horror Show”, I’m reminded of Chandra’s urban-chic grooves, but then there’s the minimalist funk of “Disney Girls” that could’ve been the best track on Beck’s Odelay, and what’s up with all those psychotic pitch-shifted voices on “Lillibilly” and the title track, straight from one of those demented Flossie & The Unicorn puppet shows and black-and-white zombie movies? If Lunsford has placed limitations on her sound, I cannot discern what exactly those parameters might be – the thread that connects all fifteen of these tracks is the maniacal brain that conjured them into reality, and it’s strongly double-stitched, full of class rage and implied smut. Cleaner and dancier than her fantastic debut, Promiscuous Genes is a constant thrill, mandatory for all seekers of slippery post-punk underbellies.

Nape Neck Nape Neck LP (Dot Dash Sounds / Red Wig / OCCII)
At least around here, it feels like another art-school closes its doors every couple months, but that doesn’t stop the art-school aesthetic’s persistence in underground music. That’s certainly what’s happening with Nape Neck out of Leeds, and while I don’t know if there are any accredited institutions providing instruction on how to be an artsy freak over there, they’ve at least got the Brudenell Social Club, which probably offers a more robust education anyway. This trio deliver post-punk in its most jaggedly melodic form, a rigid-yet-rubbery style that reaches back to Kleenex, Gang Of Four and Contortions, though Nape Neck’s sound veers closer to the turn-of-the-millennium resurgence that was guided by labels like Troubleman Unlimited, Archigramophone, Gilgongo and Thin The Herd. Careening guitar/bass interplay (or what’s the opposite of interplay, inter-fighting?), highly intentional drum patterns, and shouted vocals bounce back and forth, Huggy Bear-style… multiple genders attacking from multiple angles. While the shock of music this forked and divergent has long since worn off for me, the pleasure derived from a band talented in the genre remains, particularly on a song like “The Gate”, what with its ping-ponging vocals, low n’ funky bass and a guitar so tortured that I was certain it was a synthesizer for the first few measures.

Blone Noble Life’s New Adventure LP (Industry Standards)
Who looks like Nick Cave and sounds like David Bowie? I wish “you’re looking at him” was the answer to this riddle, but it’s actually Blone Noble, an awkwardly, anagrammically-named Los Angelean newcomer. On his debut, Life’s New Adventure, we get a taste of Noble’s fantasy world, one where the sparkle of LA illuminates its squalor and excess. The cover photo invites us into his shoebox-sized bedroom, random ripped pages of art and poetry under his bare feet, as if to insist that Blone Noble doesn’t require the basic comforts of furniture or food – he can subsist off scraps of art photography and his own scribbled diaries. These songs aim for the mystery of Low and the hip-shaking synth-pop of Let’s Dance, delivered with the aggro mindset of someone linked closer to the DIY punk scene than the major-label farm-system. Reminds me a bit of Cairo Pythian, if anyone remembers him – synth-wave music as glam-indebted as it is antagonistic – with a touch of Ric Ocasek’s vocal delivery and Kid Creole’s lunacy (check “Too Big To Fail”). In LA, the chance of stardom is an impossible toss-up, so Blone Noble winding up on one of those gross “Spotify featured artist” billboards in a year, or never being heard from again, are both in the realm of possibility. He already looks like William Basinski’s pool-boy, and that’s a smart first step – always dress for the job you want.

Evan Parker & Bill Nace Branches LP (Otoroku / Open Mouth)
You ever witness two brothers fight each other? It’s a unique human encounter, one where it’s obvious they love each other deeply, yet are also possessed by the need to fully demolish each other. There’s a specific wrestling match between Jay and Mark Briscoe that exemplifies what I’m talking about (HCW Mandatory Suicide, 6/25/2005, it’s on YouTube), and in a slightly different and non-biological sense, Branches, a live recording of Bill Nace on two-string taishōgoto and Evan Parker on soprano saxophone, carries a similar feel. Of course, Parker and Nace had barely encountered each other prior to this gig at Cafe Oto, but man, you’d think they were life-long frenemies the way this thrilling battle plays out. With Parker doing his circular-breathing goose-squawks and Nace’s fingers flying across the strings on his lap, it feels like I’m bearing witness to a violent sprint, gravel embedded in the competitors’ feet. The intensity is absolutely relentless, and seemingly exacerbated by each other – neither man wanted to be the weak link here, and we as listeners get to celebrate their sweat-soaked tie. Not a record to be played for people dealing with heart conditions, pregnancy or anxiety issues, as the constant mania of Branches could rouse a grizzly from hibernation. I just checked the vinyl after spinning both sides, and amazingly, it’s room-temp – how could these sounds have emanated from a piece of plastic that isn’t on the verge of catching fire?

Perverts Again The New Man LP (Saalepower 2)
Cleveland’s Perverts Again are so seriously un-serious that I’m constantly on guard for (and wildly amused by) their deadpan antics. Even the fact that they got the German label Saalepower 2 Records to release The New Man feels like some sort of a gag? Alongside their alternate arrangement as the more hardcore-inclined Cruelster, this is the only new punk band that Sam McPheeters has bothered to appreciate in the last couple decades, an accomplishment well-deserved. We hadn’t heard from Perverts Again in a couple years, but The New Man delivers gloriously, full of their relaxed-tempo punk riffs over floor-tom-centric drumming and a rapid-fire overdose of dry humor. This time, they seem to target society at large rather than looking inwardly, skewering the bounty of humdrum horrors encountered daily in America: the self-obsessed sociopaths, the conspiracy-seeking nincompoops, the social-media loudmouths and NIMBY racists all properly clopped. Their skill lies in the delivery, full of overlapping characters (often with pitch-shifted voices) delivering ridiculous, memorable lines; little tricks, like the background “shut-uppp”s in “Hyper With You” or the Black Flag- and Germs-appropriated riffs in “Head On My Photo”, elevate their catchy, poppy punk. I can’t get the chanted mantra of “I wish you knew my IQ it would shock you” in “Isn’t That Stupid?” out of my head, an exhaustive screed from the worst guy you went to college with ripped directly from his worst Threads post. Like Tim Robinson busting out tre flips on his skateboard, it’s razor-sharp yet inherently silly, and the finest distillation of this crew’s genius to date.

Quade The Foel Tower LP (AD 93)
The predominantly electronica-minded AD 93 is an unlikely source for fresh and exceptional guitar bands, and yet with Moin, YHWH Nailgun and Quade, they’re already possessing a mighty stable. Quade’s debut LP struck a chord with me, a heady mix of Dirty Three, Loop and Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and while that’s still kind of happening here, the path of The Foel Tower feels new. As an album it’s colder and darker and bearing fewer electronic refinements, a forest without leaves soaking in interminable English countryside precipitation. These songs are brooding and guarded, less openly psychedelic or tranquil, and I’m enjoying it more with each consecutive listen. “See Unit” is unusually close to This Heat, operating on its own classified time-signature, with scary snare hits and quiet-loud dynamics to give it that authentic Cold Storage feel. That’s the only track that’s really like that here, though, as Quade cover plenty of stylistic, if not atmospheric, ground throughout. “Canada Geese” is like Fevers & Mirrors-era Bright Eyes, but don’t let that spook you – nestled alongside the swirling mouth-harp drones / turbulent post-rock strings of “Nannerth Ganol” and the crackling, violin-led beauty of “Black Kites”, the parts of The Foel Tower are great but the sum is even greater.

Schatterau Übers Jahr LP (Hands In The Dark)
German duo Schatterau have landed on a confluence of musical attributes that I personally really like: solemn, downtempo / no-tempo ambient post-punk vignettes with occasional spoken vocals (not in English) and an atmosphere at once frosty and cozy. These seventeen tracks veer closer to song than non-song, somewhere amidst the stained subway tiles of O$VMV$M (whom I swear by), the icy cobblestones of Brannten Schnüre (whom I adore), Tin Man’s cold-wave soliloquies (whom I went so far as to release a record of), the ambient-jazz noise-collage techniques of the Last Resort label (gimme) and the lonesome German post-punk synths of Matthias Schuster (solo and with Geisterfahrer). Can you tell I’m excited? Those are enough disparate “things I’m hearing” to hopefully express the point that Schatterau are firmly themselves, exploring a variety of mysterious, low-lit moods that never grow dull or played-out. I’ll single out “Die Wüste” for a moment: a woman speaks in French over aquatic bells, melodic hum and a one-two rhythm strut, as if you took a time machine to 1982 and explained trip-hop to Antena. It’s followed by “Saison”, anchored by a dusty two-note piano loop and mild chords, male German vocals oozing with a goth-noir pathos, like Philipp Otterbach as Coil’s newest member. The whole thing plays out like this, one novel and enticing idea after another, quietly waiting to be discovered in a European basement lounge, or at least one of Bandcamp’s most alluringly darkened corners.

Shrapnel Sedan Crater LP (Tenth Court)
Here’s what I propose: if you want to use a band name that has already been used by a band that features at least one member of Monster Magnet, you’ve gotta write a better song than the OG ever did. That’s a tall order for this Australian Shrapnel – “Combat Love” is an American power-pop classic – but what they lack in memorable hooks, they make up for in scope and depth. There are seventeen tracks on Sedan Crater, which of course is only five away from matching Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty, and they deliver all sorts of indie-guitar-centric sounds, a lil’ something for everyone. They go paisley-pop jangle quite a bit, as collegiate-soft as Harpers Bizarre, but they also yuck it up like The Clean if they wanna, power up a dusty old drum machine and see what comes out, skip merrily like Of Montreal and stand up tall like Car Seat Headrest, often with a vocalist that sounds a lot like Whatever Brains’s Rich Ivey (a net positive). It feels like a ton of songs coming from related-yet-different angles, and while I applaud their ability to sprawl, I find Sedan Crater a little overwhelming (and consequently exhausting) to listen to, particularly as there isn’t any single moment that shakes me to my core (or even really nudges me towards it). If I owned like a dozen records, and this was one of them, I’d probably spend enough time with it (weeks, months) that my appreciation has no choice but to sprout and grow, but I’m too old, and Shrapnel too unremarkable, for that connection to spark.

Skee Mask Stressmanagement 12″ (Ilian Tape)
Last winter’s in-depth Resident Advisor feature really endeared me to Skee Mask, an enigmatic techno upstart revealed to be a studio-recluse who would rather spend all day and night making tracks than, you know, eating, bathing or sleeping. It would seem that he has endless reels of tracks, running the gamut of techno styles; thankfully, he also has a few solid relationships with labels that curate and release them. Take the reputable Ilian Tape label – this new EP is the eleventh release in the dedicated “Ilian Skee Series”, which is separate from Skee Mask’s other work on the label. I was excited to check it out (and, even with international shipping, it was one of the cheapest new twelve-inches I’ve purchased this year), four new songs pulled from Skee Mask’s windowless, unventilated back room, synths stacked up like Jenga blocks. These four tracks share a similar relaxed-fit mindset, dub-techno with a swinging gait; chill-out room appropriate perhaps, but active in mind and spirit. I love the volleying jolts of “Panic Button”, though “LCC Rotation” is my favorite of the four. He shape-shifts a breakbeat through careening debris, like the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid field, inexplicably ending on some melted-tape voice memos. If only we all were allotted the time and space to be as freely ourselves as Skee Mask gets to be Skee Mask.

Johnny Skin Johnny Skin LP (Inscrutable)
The Lumpy Records extended cinematic universe was always filled with weird, larger-than-life characters, some heroic (The Wad) and some villainous (Black Panties). Inscrutable Records might be the less-disgusting, post-graduate rebrand, but they still can’t resist weirdoes like Johnny Skin – if that’s him on the cover, he looks like a human Charles Burns character, a hundred pounds soaking wet in relaxed-fit leather dungarees and opaque shades, a hammer wielded for unclear purposes (it doesn’t seem like he’s here to lay drywall). His music jumps all over the place, like a fashion-makeover movie montage where a character pops out of a designer closet over and over in repeatedly outlandish outfits. The a-side has plenty of Suicide-derived electro-billy, an obsessive reaction to Alan Vega’s Elvis obsession. I half-expected Mr. Skin to continue in this one-dimensional mode, but then there’s the kitten-squeaky indie-pop of “Misery”, the aggro chop of “It’s All Too Much” reeking of wet pennies, and what is probably my favorite, “Fixing A Hole”, which operates in a theatric stop-start manner that recalls the more unclassifiable end of early no-wave outliers like Beth Anderson and Boris Policeband. I could go for less of the silly high-pitched singing over air-fried doo-wop and more discordant klang ala “I Need You Pt. 2”, but they couldn’t even get Johnny Skin to put on a shirt for his photo shoot – why would he ever consider my suggestions?

Sleep D Big Sky, Liquid Sun 12″ (Butter Sessions)
If I wanted to treat global electronic music like ESPN’s Sportscenter, I’d say that Melbourne has been a real up-and-coming force on the scene, an unexpected upstart who quickly found their way into the thick of the pack. There’s a variety of quality Aussie producers to choose from, including the duo Sleep D, whose trance-inflected, new-age-indebted house feels particularly contemporary in a non-pejorative way. They open their new EP with “Green Thumbs”, which hovers on the edges of ’80s new-age cheese without ever dipping in completely… a pleasant vibe-setter ready to soundtrack a boutique that only sells organic-cotton totes and Aperol spritzes. They get the party kicking with “Mountain Ash”, which sparkles and throbs in a very Kalahari Oyster Cult sort of way, hipster-trance close to Avalon Emerson and a few blocks away from The Postal Service. “Acheron Cauldron” moves similarly, with the shades pulled down and a selection of variously-colored pills arranged on a mirrored tray. Lightweight and punchy, but still with some cool bass moving underneath it all, one of those tracks that is complex in its creation but simple to enjoy. “Magma Flow” wraps the record and reclines into a dubbier mode (there’s even a sporadic vocal), like Rod Modell trapped inside of Ecco the Dolphin‘s glistening pools. The cover’s psychotically pixelated appearance is well-suited, conjuring half-remembered dreams of ’80s nostalgia reconfigured for today’s yassified art-design style.

Star House / Vedic Dread Chapter One: Into Misty Visions 12″ (Hydrate The Channel)
A little Discogs sleuthing led me to conclude that Star House is the work of Steve Peffer (see last month’s reviews for his full CV), and it seems he already knows the proper way to release left-field ambient-techno music: with barely any info at all on the record! He shares this stamped white-label twelve-inch with Vedic Dread, who is apparently James Donadio AKA Prostitutes (whose electronic music has graced high-quality labels like Diagonal, Night School and Opal Tapes). Let’s get back to Star House though, which finds Peffer in a cramped back room, two or three synths close at hand. His music here is more ambient than not, kraut-y pulses that cut through the cosmic butter like a warm knife. Reminds me of J.D. Emmanuel’s Wizards if Graham Lambkin mixed it into a guest NTS spot for the after-after-hours crew. How’s that for a nicher-than-niche description? Vedic Dread resumes Star House’s basement-ambient vibe comfortably, opening his side with overactive wind chimes. It moves fast, however… various spongy beats arrive and disperse, quickly replaced by other active combinations of kicks, bells, toms and waterlogged synths. My techno training has brought me to the point where I can appreciate unwavering beats that last as long as Seinfeld episodes, but Vedic Dread keeps it moving, eager to showcase his various pads, swells, loops and frog calls. For the big personalities involved, kind of a personality-deprived split, but perhaps calm anonymity amidst various synths was the point of this inaugural chapter.

Ultra Pulverize Gorillas In The Fist LP (Sophomore Lounge)
In a bold display of doing whatever the hell they want, Sophomore Lounge gently set aside their family-heirloom Martin acoustic guitars and reissued a damn CD by Ultra Pulverize, a mid ’00s aggro synth-punk outfit from Louisville, on twelve-inch vinyl. Ultra Pulverize existed in that micro-era of ironic frat-boy avant-gardism, that underground moment where Wolf Eyes audiences insisted on moshing, Hair Police would wear football helmets and, well, just type “Muscle Factory [Live Music] Trocadero, 11.13.10” into YouTube’s search browser and see what I mean. The thoughtful (and kinda touching) liner notes here quote an anonymous description of Ultra Pulverize thusly: “they have a bodybuilder guy rapping over a drum machine and a synthesizer”, and while that’s not inaccurate, there’s a surprisingly thoughtful touch at the heart of these songs, even with titles like “Don Knotts Looks Like A Sock Puppet” and “That Book Was Written By A Maniac”. The cheapo synths and pre-set drum-machine sounds (always at maniacal tempos) work well together, akin to Danse Asshole and Sewn Leather, made distinctive by Andrew Vititoe’s near-constant flow of lyrics, sounding like the love-child of Screaming Mad George and Twista. Even with all that’s against it – time, taste, visibility – Ultra Pulverize are pretty great, certainly greater than they had any right to be, one of those forgotten MySpace pages that had to be seen to be believed. Can’t imagine Sophomore Lounge will sell many copies of Gorillas In The Fist, just knowing the world we currently live in, but what are we as respectable underground artists and curators of artists supposed to do, give the public what it thinks it wants, or what it doesn’t know it needs?

Tornado Wallace Bitter Suite 12″ (Test Pressing)
Residing in Berlin by way of Australia, Tornado Wallace has had a hand in many a fine dance track across a fairly broad spectrum of styles. If he’s ever tried out something ill-fitting, I haven’t heard it, from quirky, shuffling house ala Pépé Bradock to downtempo and acid, and now, with the cleverly-titled Bitter Suite, some of the most sumptuous Balearic guitar this side of Chris Rea. “Bitter Suite” opens with a good four minutes of MIDI-controlled acoustic guitar, exquisite and tasteful… it’s like a dog whistle for people who’ve literally had sex on the beach while drinking a Sex On The Beach. I wish he filled the whole a-side with this steamy guitar diversion, but it slowly shifts into neon-lit club mode, a pumping acid valve that lends itself to night-drives on dangerous cliffs and VIP lounges cloaked in native palm trees. A beautiful rush from start to finish. The b-side splashes in the a-side’s wake, offering the even more cleverly titled “Bitter Suite (Symphony)”, five minutes of pensive Italo programming in a delectable Transfer Station Blue mode of high-caliber ’80s cheese. I could sit in this one forever too, like a hot-tub without potential health consequences, but it skips over to “Bitter Beats”, whose self-descriptive title offers some transitional thump for any DJ looking to demonstrate not only class, but style. I know it’s almost 4:00 AM, but we’ve got time for another “Bitter Suite”, don’t you think?

Blammo / Riboflavin split LP (State Laughter)
In this digital age where we all groomed to perceive ourselves as the central character of the narrative, it’s nice to see a record as inherently ego-less as this new split from two groups who share the same “core members”. (I’d like to send a shout-out to the non-core members – respect.) The insert doesn’t even specify who plays in Blammo and who plays in Riboflavin, listing all the members together, and the bands aren’t separated by side, instead having their songs seemingly shuffled at random. There are eight Riboflavin tracks to Blammo’s six, and one track credited to both groups. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a split record this scattered and mashed-together, and I certainly appreciate both the concept and execution. As for the music, both groups share a penchant for scrappy, non-binary pop, a sound that recalls cherished touchstones like the K and Flying Nun labels as well as more obscure delights like Chronophage, Alternative TV and Ruth Garbus. The melodies twitch with a weird optimism, like they want to put a smile on your face and a quiver in your belly – I still wince at the line in Riboflavin’s “Don’t Delete My Love Note” about sitting on the toilet wiping toe-jam off their feet. Definitely an indie-pop outlier for the demon-screaming hardcore label State Laughter, but we’re all old enough to understand that punk is more valuable as an ethos than as a formulaic sound. The camaraderie and collective creativity on display here has more to do with my definition of punk than, I dunno, the umpteenth Dickies / Dead Boys / Christian Death / etc. reunion tour.

Jim E. Brown The Sky is Ugly LP (House)
Jim E. Brown has been a welcomed distraction in my life over the last few weeks of bad and worse news. His whole deal hearkens back to the carefree late ’00s, when people were figuring out how to garner a pre-social media virality through their internet stunts, weird videos and funny characters, the golden age of Tim and Eric. As I spin The Sky Is Ugly, Jim E. Brown’s debut LP, I’ve been trying to figure out precisely how much of his deal is meant to be understood as an act, or if not an act, a deliberate hoodwinking, and I think the answer is “most of it”, but who knows besides the lad “from Manchester” himself? I’ll ask you to Google a picture of Jim E. Brown now, or better yet, pull up the video for the opening song here, “I Want To Open For Foo Fighters”. Brown pairs the over-the-top self-humiliation of Neil Hamburger with the first-thought wonderment of Wesley Willis, all while sounding like the suicidal love-child of Ian Dury and Robert Smith. His bio (clearly written in 2024) states he’s nineteen years-old and born “one day before the 911” (I chuckled), and he seems to reside in or near Philadelphia, though of course his questionable British accent says otherwise. Regardless, he knows how to turn phrases/song-titles such as “I’m A Pre-Diabetic” and “I’m About To Fall Over In Asda” into replayable sing-along pop hits, elevating his jokes to full-band indie-pop far more catchy and pleasant than it has any right to be. Looks like another LP of his came out recently too, and while I feel satisfied with playing The Sky Is Ugly over and over, I do kinda need to hear what the song “My Urine Is Foamy. Do I Have Kidney Damage?” is all about.

Carrier Tender Spirits 12″ (Carrier)
Following the bombshell that was the FATHOM EP, Carrier EPs quickly became a buy-or-die proposition for those of us in the market for extreme forms of propulsive dub-techno refractions. Tender Spirits is the second twelve-inch on his own Boomkat-distributed label (they know where their bread is buttered), and unlike prior Carrier recordings, this one takes a more reclined position. The a-side’s “Light Candles, To Mark The Way” enters with the flicker of those aforementioned candles in a digitally-rendered ice cave. Dub-techno on its face, the rhythm convulses and snaps, like the frantic, oxygen-deprived final contractions of an astronaut with a spacesuit leak. “Slow Punctures” opens with an electronic interpretation of icebergs cracking, and then the kicks arrive, as if Echospace and Andy Stott co-authored a track that was then stripped of anything beyond its rebar and metal joints… the faint ringing of one of Harry Bertoia’s “sonambient” sculptures. I was ready for Carrier to drop a few drumkits on my head for the last track, “Carpathian”, but the pensive mood continues, as if there is an ominously watchful eye hovering over the proceedings. “Carpathian”‘s unintuitive kicks pair up with a ninja clan’s frantic sharpening of knives, as empty of a track as that recent Sa Pa EP yet bearing a decisively killer instinct. It points to a fresh path for dub techno, its familiar gaseous clouds wrapped tight in razor wire.

Circuit Des Yeux Halo On The Inside LP (Matador)
Placed alongside that fantastic new Darkside LP, is the new home for boundary-pushing experimental pop… Matador Records?? Stranger things have happened, but either way I’m loving Darkside’s Nothing as well as this new one from Haley Fohr and her long-running Circuit Des Yeux project. She’s always been a curious outlier of scenes, and while I can’t say I’ve followed her career much outside of her formative Midwestern noise days, Halo On The Inside is blowing me away. I can’t help but hear Scott Walker and Diamanda Galas in her astounding voice, a weapon I didn’t know she had until I saw her perform with Bill Nace last year, howling through like four different octaves (and a few Phil Minton-esque tongue-tortions too). Her voice is so deep and forceful throughout, extreme confidence bursting through songs that imagine a future where Nine Inch Nails leaned into nu-metal following The Fragile, or an appended track-list to the original The Crow soundtrack that featured The Prodigy, Jarboe and Nurse With Wound. If you recall the theme-song to the Buffy spin-off Angel (and I certainly hope you do), much of Halo On The Inside dwells in a similar romantic gloom, any residual cheesiness replaced by high artistry and bold, fearless intentions. Quick, throw on “Canopy Of Eden” right this minute and you’ll hear all the artists I mentioned thus far wrapped up into the cyber-goth dance track of the year.

Combust Belly Of The Beast LP (Triple B)
I have a small cohort of old friends who listen to hardcore and only hardcore, among whom the name Combust is frequently lauded. Figured I should join in the fun so I peeped Belly Of The Beast, the New York hardcore group’s sophomore full-length. From the name (and my own mental biases), I was expecting something in the Warzone / Gorilla Biscuits school of hardcore, but Combust operate on the metallic / gym-playlist end of the NYHC spectrum. They are not alone these days, as the resurgence of “ignorant” beatdown hardcore has persisted like a Cold As Life pit bruise, so it takes a little more to stand out from the thick-necked pack. After running through Belly Of The Beast a few times, I can’t say that Combust necessarily stand out, but they do keep up with the big dawgs, presenting a fine-tuned collection of bouncy, metallic hardcore that wears its influence on its full-tatted sleeves. The title tracks opens with a full on Best Wishes-esque Cro-Mags tribute, weaving through progressions, drum patterns and mosh breaks in a manner clearly indebted to Breakdown, Killing Time, Trapped Under Ice and the occasional Cause For Alarm-era Agnostic Front flourish. If that’s what you want, I can’t imagine Belly Of The Beast will disappoint, full of lyrics about how life is pain, enemies can’t be trusted, suffering builds the streetwise character necessary to survive, all those typical and timeless hardcore chestnuts. And with a long list of guest vocalists, from Terror’s Scott Vogel to Danny Diablo (on the self-explanatory “N.Y.H.C.”), you don’t even have to throw on a different record to hear all your favorite hardcore singers who’ve lost count of how many fools they’ve beaten to a pulp.

Jeffrey David Decicca Cardiac Country LP (Sophomore Lounge)
The hype sticker here only reads “featuring Pedal Steel legend, BJ Cole”, and I can’t help but get hyped on imagining the scenario where some pedal-steel enthusiast is casually flipping through the bins and stumbles upon Cardiac Country. Halleloo! With this most recent batch of Sophomore Lounge releases, I’m realizing that this label is firmly Americana, and probably always has been to some extent. The thread between Tropical Trash and Equipment Pointed Ankh to American roots music is a frayed one, but I can still follow it, and with new records from Grace Rogers, Spectre Folk, Styrofoam Winos, Ned Colette and Jeffrey David Decicca, it’s like the modern-day DIY (or maybe “do it together”) answer to Nonesuch. Cardiac Country, unlike many of those other artists, bears zero relation to anything edgier than Peter, Paul & Mary or Starland Vocal Band… hell, even The Cherry Blossoms are rougher around the edges. Deccica’s songs are in the John Prine / Tom T. Hall school of ’80s singer-songwriter country made by guys in button-up shirts with sitcom-dad haircuts, as tender as a baby lamb in the arms of a grandmotherly librarian on Earth Day. It’s undeniably well crafted, and BJ Cole’s pedal-steel playing is certainly of the highest echelon, but it’s generally not a style of music I personally relish or gravitate towards, and Cardiac Country does not change my mind in that regard. Tempted to keep the album handy in case I ever find Jesus, but with all these Beherit and Venom records lying around it seems unlikely.

The Destructors Club Meets… Scientist 12″ (Sleeping Giant Glossolalia)
The Destructors Club features a couple of dearly, dearly departed icons in its ranks: Lee “Scratch” Perry and Mark Stewart. It hurts to think about our loss, but thankfully these colorful geniuses left no shortage of music behind, including these three cuts in both original and Scientist versions. It’s dub, of course, but The Destructors function as a band – drums, bass, guitar, horns, keys, effects as-needed – playing songs that sidestep the two-dimensional hypnosis of classic dub. I like it both ways, and I’m certainly enjoying it here; “Orphans Of The Storm (Album Version)” almost has a touch of Pop Group stick-and-move to it, though at a far more relaxed pace. Of course, if you want relaxed, the Scientist versions on the flip are as loose-fit as JNCOs, the disembodied rhythms sputtering forward as tripped-out effects pan across the stereo. A soothing balm from the sweltering summer months that are soon to arrive, delivered by a variety of kind souls, some in body, some in spirit. “The rhythm rocks, and the rhythm rolls… Lee Perry, at the controls…”

Charlotte De Witte & Amelie Lens One Mind EP 12″ (B2B)
If my Google search results are to be believed, both Charlotte De Witte and Amelie Lens command booking fees anywhere between $150,000 and $299,000 per gig. I’ve neglected to run the numbers for Mary Jane Dunphe or Beau Wanzer, but I think these two might be the highest grossing solo performers ever reviewed in these pages! For as vast as punk is in 2025, electronic music is far vaster, as people can spend their whole lives digging into wide swaths of electronic sub-genres and still miss countless other popular or pivotal artists. Charlotte De Witte and Amelie Lens are currently running victory laps through the highest-financed echelons of dance music, and while the cynic in me might point to their runway-model looks and brand-partnership willingness as obvious advantages in the Ibiza / Coachella / Tomorrowland circuit, I don’t really care – someone’s gotta be millionaire EDM celebrities, so why not these two? On this new two-song single, their simplicity is effective, both cuts bursting with streamlined acid squiggles, festival-shaking kicks and both of their whispery voices subtly mixed throughout. No frills, and certainly nothing new, but enough confidence and power to have me buy into it. A lot of amazing (and comparatively broke) artists built the sonic foundation that De Witte and Lens are capitalizing on, but that’s a tale as old as popular music itself. Spin One Mind and pretend you’re one step closer to a seat on their private jets.

Jad Fair & Samuel Locke Ward Pure Candy LP (Stationary (Heart) / Shrimper)
From the Absolutely Nothing To Prove Department comes a new one from the legendary Jad Fair and his younger outsider chum Samuel Locke Ward. Always one to zig when the rest of the world zags, Fair fills Pure Candy with ecstatic love songs. Songs about love, loving love, loving those who love you when you’re loving too, just over the top happy vibes (yes, he even finds a way to sing “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” in there). It’s a love-fest overload, to be sure, but it’s in that overwhelming maximalism that Pure Candy succeeds. “Geniuses Of Love” has an imposing post-hardcore sway, not the sort of thing you’d think could be covered in candy hearts, but Fair is persistent and committed, and most importantly, it really seems like he means every word, even when rhyming up a storm Dr. Seuss-like in “That Is That”. Locke Ward is responsible for all the music and he’s clearly relishing the freedom, trying on all sorts of different looks in the indie-pop strum, sparkling power-pop, slacker pop continuum, like an earnest Ween or a tightened-up Maher Shalal Hash Baz. Pure Candy is a big belch of sunshine in a time of widespread misery… let’s hope these guys remain blissfully unaware of what is really going on out there.

Grand Scheme EP 7″ (11 PM)
There is nary a more positive scene than DC these days, yet the fury of Grand Scheme’s second seven-inch EP might have you scared to walk through Georgetown at night. This straight-edge unit plays an extremely traditional form of American hardcore, equally in step with first-wave NYHC, late ’90s youth-crew and ’00s mosh-forward stylings. Which is to say, they also sound like what they are: a young and excitable band that walks among us today. Maybe it’s the brawny vocals, but I’m picking up a sense of ’86 Mentality’s street-core on a few of these songs too, more so than I clocked on their debut EP. The opening monkey-beat blast of “Think Twice” is a fierce declaration of intent, followed with more speedy pounding on “Counter Culture”. They make us wait a full fifty seconds before the pit opens up (that’s all of “Think Twice” and half of “Counter Culture”) but our patience is rewarded. Closing cut “Marketing Budget” might be my favorite of the bunch, as it arrives with a hard-bouncing rhythm ala Breakdown that has me thinking of the fact that there’s an obscure NYHC band called Loud And Boisterous (whom I still need to hear one day). A solid, unfaltering second effort, and I’m not just saying that because Grand Scheme are the last band I actively moshed for. EP makes me want to smack the gin & tonic out of my own hand.

Heavy Möther II Heavy Möther II LP (Tota Punk)
The dividing line between studio-project, functioning band and unexplained hallucination disintegrates with Heavy Möther II. Keen listeners of intergenerational punk will recall Heavy Mother’s Feel It album from a couple years ago, featuring Eddie Flowers of first-wave punk goofballs The Gizmos alongside members of The Cowboys, and the updated Heavy Möther II has recently emerged. It features those same initial players now linked up with at least one Retail Simp and Craig Bell (of the damn Rocket From The Tombs) on bass and synth for an impromptu recording session, songs conjured from minimal (if any) rehearsal. I’m a fan of spontaneous rock music, and Heavy Möther II is more than you could reasonably hope for from such a conceit. These songs rip pretty hard – you can feel everyone leaning in – and amazingly, Flowers had ten songs’ worth of lyrics ready to go; cool ones, too. No one wanted to be the weakest link here, and no one is… it feels like the proto-punk answer to Endless Boogie, a fuzzy garage-beat slam where the players are fully locked-in with each other, led by a grizzled singer content to blather and shout with more confidence than a hundred twenty year-olds combined. If they’re taking requests for Heävy Möther III, could we maybe add Steve Turner of Mudhoney, Zac Davis and Kilynn Lunsford to the mix? Let me know if you need some phone numbers, Total Punk.

Kim Hiorthøy Ghost Note LP (Blickwinkel)
Kim Hiorthøy helped establish the Smalltown Supersound aesthetic back in the early ’00s, where IDM and electro commingled with a willingness to dip into avant-garde, hip-hop, jazz, noise or whatever else might spring to mind. There wasn’t the same genre fluidity then that there is today, and I appreciated Hiorthøy’s freewheeling attitude, even if my younger ears sometimes found his records a little too inscrutable. My ears are eager for a record like Ghost Note right now, though, Hiorthøy’s first album in ten years, which feels very much in line with the current domestic room-noise ambient trends of today while also effortlessly transcending them. He grabs a variety of instruments, and while an enumerated list isn’t provided, I’m pretty sure I’m hearing pianos, synths, junkyard/homemade string instruments and metallic percussion. Lots of organic material in here, much of which sounds like it was played back on an early Victrola in a room full of dust, but whereas many artists get by with simply obscuring the sounds made by a similar selection of instruments, Hiorthøy really makes them sing. Harry Partch comes to mind, as does Ulla and that Salenta + Topu album, all favorites around here. There’s something about Hiorthøy’s approach to composition that sticks out, though: his crusty sounds are integrated so thoughtfully, so that a composition like “Book Legs” seamlessly veers from solo piano into charity-shop percussive jam while still maintaining a high-minded melodic touch. Only two hundred copies pressed of this one, and if any of those two hundred owners are unsatisfied, please, pass it on to someone who will cherish it.

Leopardo Side A, Side B LP (Dotdash Sounds / Chrüsimüsi)
Someone must’ve dosed the Swiss water (or chocolate?) supply, as Fribourg’s Leopardo continue to dissolve into a sluggish psychedelia on this new full-length, the somewhat redundantly titled Side A, Side B. I’m pretty sure these folks are punks deep down in their heart of hearts, or at least once emanated from the margins of the punk scene, but their music here has more in common with Beachwood Sparks and Jennifer Gentle than Buzzcocks or Ramones (though if you squint hard enough you can hear all four). When they’re upright and buzzing, Leopardo’s sound approaches the “madman orchestrating a portable circus” feel of The Fall’s late ’80s material, and when they simmer down to a honky-tonk slow-dance, I’m reminded of Country Teasers if they found a cure for the hate in their hearts. There are horns, melodica, harmonium, all the hippie-dippie love-child accoutrements besides an artisanal kaleidoscope and a necklace of daisies, though I haven’t checked to see what Leopardo are wearing. I appreciate that they seem to have a lack of foundational rules regarding style and taste – all ideas considered, no matter how kooky or ostentatious – though it’s probably a little too sweet, sedate and silly to perfectly match my own personal taste profile. Maybe if my country had the best healthcare system in the world like theirs does, I’d be taking the right cocktail of drugs to lie in the green grass and stare into the center of the universe, Side A, Side B flowing from a nearby boombox.

Mazozma Bathing In The Stone LP (Sophomore Lounge)
It seems to be widely accepted that Robert Beatty is the coolest record-cover designer of our era – I’m on board with this assessment – and he hits another homer here with this new Mazozma album (Michael “Ma” Turner’s current recording incarnation). I just love it, those airbrushed pastels used to depict an altered reality, in this case starring some funky Martian who stares out of a row-home under a cotton candy sky. It’s not a guarantee that I will love the music that comes with this cover, but I’m certainly primed to do so care of Beatty’s seemingly bottomless well of creativity. I’ve enjoyed plenty of Turner’s music over the years; his vision is consistently unique, as those Warmer Milks records operated on a different scale of time (long) and space (wide yet claustrophobic), in tandem with but not pandering to the “New Weird America” freak-folk of the ’00s. Weirdness wasn’t his goal then so much as a natural by-product, nor does it seem to be now as Mazozma, wherein he plays acoustic guitar and sings alongside the twelve-string guitar and bass of James Bandenburg. Wish I could say it’s hitting me with the same otherworldly satisfaction as the cover, but Bathing In The Stone isn’t really grabbing me, I’ve discovered. The guitars are patient and cyclical, folk as meditative practice and really quite beautiful at times, but his doleful voice is pointedly off-key in a way I find unpleasant and distracting. I’m sure Turner is fully aware of the sound of his pipes – even his haziest, dirtiest material has always felt fully deliberate – but his intentions here, unlike Beatty’s, do not inspire me with wonder and joy.

My Wife’s An Angel Yeah, I Bet LP (Knife Hits / Broken Cycle / Grimgrimgrim)
There’s a dark, aging, depressing and unreasonably potent corner of the modern American social experience that, as far as I can tell, no agitational noise-rock bands have yet dared to plunder: it’s called Facebook. While Philly group My Wife’s An Angel don’t explicitly refer to the social-media giant turned abandoned internet strip-mall in their songs, Yeah, I Bet hits me like a CAPTCHA that refuses to believe I’m human. The group’s name sounds like something your forty-something coworker from the Northeast burbs would post to Facebook on his anniversary right before being caught cheating, and the songs here intertwine with samples of sad elderly voicemails, grown adults caught in the act of arguing, calls from jail… it’s the true beating heart of America (valves clogged with plaque and fear-based hatred) on painful display, under-informed people making poor decisions and doubling down on them, one unexpected hospital bill away from total ruin. It’s this stark social underbelly that My Wife’s An Angel digs into here, and their music is a perfect fit, which calls to mind Landed’s cyclical noise-punk combustion as well as the late ’90s, garage-y end of Load Records’ gleefully antagonistic roster, unreasonably aggressive and uncomfortable, with an attitude that might resonate with Clockcleaner fans. The most obvious punchline on the record is the opening of “Funny How That Works”: with the band dropped out, vocalist Garrett Stanton Vandemark asks “anybody ever think of killing their dad?”. Their laughter isn’t the best medicine, it’s the cheapest way to keep from crying.

Neutral Lågliv LP (The Helen Scarsdale Agency)
Perhaps some of my most obsessive readers can relate to the feeling of disappointment that arrives when you find out that one of your favorite artists just released new and exclusive material… as part of a limited-edition ten-cassette boxset. That’s what happened with Neutral, whose three full-lengths rank at the top of any worthwhile list of 2010s industrial music, but the very entity that released that brick-sized boxset, The Helen Scarsdale Agency, has mercifully reissued Neutral’s contribution on this vinyl LP. Only took ’em seven years! I’m just playing, it’s great news that Lågliv is now a stand-alone release, as the quality of these tunes is up there with the rest of Neutral’s stunningly corroded / corrosive discography. The duo utilizes guitars at their murkiest, hypnotically delivered and spinning in and out of focus as the crustiest, loneliest sounds of scrap-rot and human absence flutter about. The ambiance is unsettling and uncompromisingly harsh – akin to Anne Gillis in that way – where an outlying track like “Röda Sten” is notable for the warble of some dark-wave keys, a poisonous Muzak amidst so much grey, brown and black noise. If the disemboweled carousel ride turned occult-folk hallucination of “Ganska Lågt” and the cohabitating guitar abuse / church organ filled with mud of “Också” are the last tracks we get from Neutral, it’s been a truly stellar run, but I am hopeful that there is plenty more to come.

Olivia’s World Greedy & Gorgeous LP (Little Lunch)
It’s Olivia’s World, but we’re not living in it – singer/songwriter Alice Rezende seems content to keep her poppy indie-rock tucked away in her doodle-filled notebook, avoidant of the mainstream and its follies. Greedy & Gorgeous is the group’s full-length debut, and they use the allotted space accordingly, nine songs of guitar-centric rock-band that vary in volume, speed and emotion. I saw that Rose Melberg played drums on a previous Olivia’s World release, and while I’m not sure how that happened (seeing as Olivia’s World are located in Sydney), the shared aesthetic interest is a reasonable point of reference for what Olivia’s World is up to. There’s a little Tiger Trap in these tunes, very ’90s-coded in a way that has more or less become timeless in the decades since. Songs are about crushes, jerks, relationships, unreasonable societal expectations (ie. physical appearance, bank account status)… pretty par for the course with just enough quirk to keep things light. Reminds me a bit of Boomgates too, though Olivia’s World is more likely to employ sarcasm and abstraction than the exceedingly earnest Boomgates. “Sourgum” rocks – that’s a fun one worth playing a few times over – but the album on the whole isn’t doing much for me, as is the case with many similar-sounding artists. Two things can be true, I suppose: one, that I do not personally fit the intended listening demographic, and two, that it’s not a record that really stands out, for better or worse. Let’s face it, I haven’t bought myself a wool button-up cardigan in at least a dozen years…

Peer Pressure Zombies Screen On The Green LP (no label)
Cheers to Steve Peffer for releasing so many different and fantastic records throughout the years. If my Nine Shocks Terror, Factorymen, Homostupids, Folded Shirt and Pleasure Leftists records fell on my head from a high shelf, it’d probably be enough to kill me, which might not be a half-bad way to go. Peer Pressure Zombies is a new project of his (great name, by the way!), handling bass / synth / vocals alongside Janet Yellen on drums and Noah Depew on guitar / synth. Much of Peffer’s non-hardcore material has tilted in a provocative / pranksterish direction ala The Residents and Men’s Recovery Project, a disposition that suits his weirdo perspective nicely – more weirdos could benefit from fine-tuning their personal approaches like this. Peer Pressure Zombies maintains a similarly off-putting vibe but delivers it in the sturdy form of actual songs, synth-centric music that’s not particularly wave-y so much as dark and antagonistic… a blacklight cosmic alien-abduction poster in the corner of an unfinished basement. Peer Pressure Zombies fuse the crustiest mixtape versions of Gary Numan, Chrome, Rah Bras, Nervous Gender and some accidental smudge of Klaus Schulze, made especially memorable by Peffer’s droll, repetitive lyrics. I’m already singing along to “Germany” after a couple listens, and while I can’t quite make out all the words to “Reeking Garbage Pile”, they repeat it enough that I’m singing along anyway. Recommended!

Pisse Dubai LP (Phantom)
German punk band Pisse might seem kind of silly on face value: there’s the band name, the various amusing cover designs and the split ten-inch with a group called Perky Tits among other examples. And yet, their synth-enhanced punk remains as German-punk sounding as ever, as if the band, even at their happiest, are unable to muster a single smile, let alone laugh out loud. Dubai might look tough, its lettering befitting thick-necked hardcore bands like Speed and God’s Hate, but the music within is staunchly in the Zickzack school of disaffected art-punks slammed head-first into the grey drudgery of daily modern life in Wittichenau. Lots of punk bands are attempting a similar sonic aesthetic, the collision of speedy, arthritic post-punk riffs amidst a suffocating atmosphere of melancholic gloom, certainly an appropriate sound for our times. Pisse’s music connects with me because they emphasize the punk aspect, with the atmospheric part seemingly a natural by-product of their existence, not a trendy affectation. I love a 45-rpm twelve-inch like this, one that gets to the point right off the jump and wraps up before you have a chance to settle in, especially when it has me thinking of Abwärts’ debut EP, Computerstaat.

Bruno Pronsato Autoportrait En Deux Coupes 12″ (Logistic)
Bruno Pronsato has been at the game of abstracted minimal techno for over two decades now, which places him far from the zeitgeist and in the sad purgatorial territory of artists who get taken for granted and semi-ignored simply for the crime of consistently existing for a long period of time. You won’t see Bruno Pronsato playing at Unsound or hyped up on Resident Advisor, but I’m always going to check out what he’s up to if and when I get wind of it. This new EP on French label Logistic doesn’t cater to today’s smudged-ambient trends, but I do wonder if his style is going to exist long enough to eventually return to flavor-of-the-month status. “Coupes 1” is sparse and airy: tightly-edited snippets of drum rolls, pitched-up clicks, meandering pianos and various taps mingle like it’s minimal-techno night at a warehouse gallery space. It has the feel of a Luciano production circa 2008 drained of blood and kept on ice. Unlike the a-side, “Coupes 2” offers a consistent rhythm track, a head-bobber that maintains the same spaciousness. A funny little man’s voice grunts his approval in time to the beat, various electronic squiggles snapping in all 360 degrees, some truly tiny wave-forms sprinkled throughout care of Pronsato’s software of choice. If I opened a coffee shop, I would license Bruno Pronsato’s music for continual and exclusive in-store play (and charge $12.99 for a 12 oz. cup to offset my generous royalty rate). Be thankful I put my efforts into music, not business.

Pyrex Body LP (Total Punk)
The fiery noise-punk of Pyrex has always entertained me, though I’ve found myself wondering what’s actually on the minds of this Brooklyn-based trio. Their vibe was always kind of like Metz – that is to say, vague – but at least on Body, their second Total Punk full-length, I’ve learned that they have been thinking about their bodies a bit. It’s a loose theme running through these songs, from “Protein” (“it’s absolute / and that’s all we eat”) to their eyeballs (“Cones”), insides (“Nerve Ends”, “Vertebrae”), reflexes (“Reflex”) and sleep (“Coma”). The blazing opener “Face Off” even fits the subject in some unclear way – how else to interpret the lines “I need the blood / give me the blood”? Maybe they’re accredited scientists, maybe they’re obsessed with their horrific bodies in the same manner as Pharmakon, maybe they’re getting old and feeling it, maybe it’s all a coincidence, but it’s nice to get some further grasp on what these guys feel compelled to play their loud music about. The songs are sharpened here too: “Vertebrae” reminds me of the dearly-missed Video (their Leather Leather is considered a modern classic around these parts), and Pyrex mix it up nicely between sounding like a garage band covering crusty hardcore and a hardcore band covering post-punk. It’s heat-resistant, time-tested stuff, unlike their shoddy imitator, Tupperware.

Rest Symbol Rest Symbol LP (FO)
Rest Symbol is a newly assembled British trio, its members previously lurking in the electro-occult allies of labels like 5 Gate Temple and Apron. Real present-day England’s Hidden Reverse moves here, where the ghosts of trip-hop and dubstep encircle London’s cell towers, resulting in poor reception. Rest Symbol frequently feels like a Portishead acid trip gone dark – you see Beth Gibbons down the end of a darkened alley, and as she opens her mouth to sing, she slowly morphs into the Momo Challenge. It’s unsettling, fractured music, somewhere between the outside-of-time curiosity found in some of Stroom’s low-key synth-pop offerings and Nina Harker’s world of dark avant-garde trickery. We live in a time of chill-out vibes and constant low-level terror, and Rest Symbol’s music reflects this back at us, snatches of beauty and calm (“Twelfth Hour”) rubbing up against horror-movie Muzak (“Darkness Settles In Perception”). “Ascending Shadows” pairs softly cooing vocals with eerie synth-drift, like a beautiful pair of lips smiling to reveal blackened teeth. You should allow yourself to fall into Rest Symbol’s gentle embrace, just be sure to take a shower immediately after.

Sandwell District End Beginnings 2xLP (The Point Of Departure Recording Company)
Sandwell District has gone through two phases: that of being highly influential to techno writ large, and that of everyone talking about how influential they are. This is the first techno album I’ve gotten that uses a Billboard quote on the hype sticker (“Sandwell District’s influence on underground techno can hardly be overstated”), and it’s gotta be at least a little annoying to have everyone talking about your overwhelming influence when you just want to make aggressive, precise, emotional techno music with your mates. End Beginnings seems to be the product of such a mindset, the group’s core members Regis and Function teaming up with Mønic, Rivet and Sarah Wreath for an all-hands-on-deck club affair. Chalk it up to whatever, but there’s less of a dimly lit closed-circuit vibe here; “Restless”, for example, busts out all sorts of shakers through its propulsive night-club rhythm. Sandwell District always felt like a purely after-midnight affair, but “Restless” and opener “Dreaming” allow for a crack of sunlight to sting their vampire skin. The majority of End Beginnings, however, is dank and sexual in a Rick Owens way, the dual acids of “Citrinitas Acid” and “Hidden” adding new-beat drama and eerie sensuality to their concrete techno forms. Ending on a stirring tribute to their sadly fallen friend and colleague, “The Silent Servant”, End Beginnings doesn’t reinvent, dramatically influence or shock the current state of techno music. It’s simply Sandwell District being Sandwell District, same / different as it ever was.

Shit & Shine Mannheim HBF 2xLP (12XU)
Shit & Shine have entered their twenty-first year as a recording artist, and have sounded like at least twenty-one bands since that time. Craig Clouse has been at the helm since day one, and has presented the project as stoner / doom / techno / dubstep / minimalist / maximalist / noise / punk / noise-punk / electronic / drone throughout that time, kind of like a modern-day Butthole Surfers sans the body-painted nudity and inexplicable MTV hit. About a million records have been released, even though I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say the band name out loud, but maybe that’s because it’s not the sort of thing you say in polite company. Mannheim HBF is one of the newest Shit & Shine offerings, and as expected, it’s unexpected. Across four sides of twelve-inch vinyl, Clouse loops short rhythmic snippets until they build out into something else entirely… imagine Powell’s simplistic, chopped-up post-punk patterns extended, Water Damage-style, out beyond the horizon. It’s like footage of someone having a seizure drastically slowed down so that it looks like they’re performing avant-garde choreography. I love when music transcends a nervous tick into extended-release hypnosis, and that’s what I’m getting from the similarly-minded tracks of Mannheim HBF. I have to wonder, might a novel release like this get a little more traction in the world if it wasn’t released under such an aging and vulgar moniker? Tough luck, I guess: this is Shit & Shine.

Skeleten Mentalized LP (2MR / Astral People)
Respectable non-corporate pop music can be hard to find these days, so I’m offering you Sydney’s Skeleten. Mentalized is his second album, and its mix of well-labored studio details, heartfelt emotion and general-purpose pop enjoyability is an easy pleaser. If Phil Collins signed to Ghostly International, you’d probably get a similar result, electronic music that avoids pre-sets without seeking any sort of “experimental” tag either. I’m reminded of here-then-gone UK singer Jamie Woon, or a less star-powered Seal maybe… you know, well-dressed, strong-but-sensitive men who remain fully unknowable even if they end up on the Batman soundtrack. If these men are at all toxic, it’s mostly an inward toxicity, which might be the best we can hope for. Skeleten can trade tunes with the best of ’em, honestly – I did not think I’d ever want to hear any song called “Viagra”, let alone one where the chorus goes “violence is Viagra” over and over, but man, he did the unthinkable. I’m jamming it here, waving my hands over my head and stomping like I’m a background dancer in a stage production of Rent. Guitars appear but it’s not guitar-centric, dance beats permeate but it’s not a club record… like I said, sophisticated pop in direct opposition to the AI slop this genre of music is poised to become.

Spy Seen Enough 12″ (Closed Casket Activities)
Spy maintain their status as one of the top-tier three-letter hardcore bands of the post-Covid era, entering the scene with typical knife-and-chain flash-tattoo cover art and stompy, mosh-catering riffs. Their art has evolved – the smoky K-car headlights on Seen Enough‘s cover take me back to idle high-school parking-lot nights in a very cool way – while the music remains typical for Spy’s current time and place. Half-time breakdowns act as verses, and the metallic chug wields a crustier hardcore demeanor care of frothy, unintelligible vocals and a lack of melodic theatrics, or really much of any melody at all. I’ve yet to catch a Spy riff that wasn’t yoinked from the recycling bins of Gulch, Hoax or Trapped Under Ice, and while hardcore-punk has always succeeded at turning trash into treasure, none of these songs offer much in the way of novelty or thrill. That said, I’ve never seen Spy live, and I acknowledge that hardcore-punk is more of a living, breathing entity than say, pop-ambient or desert-psych. The art-form clicks when you’re in a sweaty room first-hand experiencing it, so perhaps by sitting at home listening to a record, I’m only getting a one-dimensional perspective of Spy’s whole deal. How many of my formative hardcore bands’ records would’ve held up if I had not seen the bands live? Imagine trying to explain the greatness of No Justice to someone by only sharing their lackluster seven-inch EP… it just wouldn’t work. And yet, while I concede these points, I can’t shake the thought that Seen Enough might simply be an unremarkable record no matter how you slice it.

Storm On Earth Storm On Earth 12″ (no label)
René Pawlowitz AKA Shed has deservedly earned significant respect as a German techno stalwart, mine included. One of his appealing peculiarities is the staggering number of aliases his wall-cracking techno is delivered under – let’s add Storm On Earth to that hefty stack of monikers. I’ve been spinning Storm On Earth’s debut EP a bunch since it came out, and while I am not an authorized historian of René Pawlowitz, I can’t quite figure what sets these four Storm On Earth tracks apart from Shed (or Wax, or The Traveler, or…). They all bear his hallmark of brash, pounding rhythms, mixed up-front and center, there’s no doubt about that. Two-syllable vocal samples, thunderous synth pads and ominous background melodies are all true to his typical form as well, recalling the harder end of ’90s club techno (ala Jeff Mills and Underground Resistance), raving as countercultural practice that made mass-marketing difficult (intentionally or otherwise). Storm On Earth is less adventurous in that regard – perhaps his lens here was more towards the past than the future – but Pawlowitz is an experienced master of his craft, Storm On Earth being the newest sonic toolset for nights where condensed sweat drips from cement warehouse ceilings.

Total Con Who Needs The Peace Corps 7″ (Static Shock / Unlawful Assembly)
Take a quick look at the cover of this record and tell me, does it look like TOTAL COW to you? I can’t be the only one seeing it! No offense to Total Con, but Total Cow would be a sicker name… makes me think of the Lärm / Stanx split, which I should probably think about more often. Total Con is the solo offering from British hardcore busybody Bobby Cole, who plays in The Annihilated and runs the Brainrotter Records label. Like many of these “hardcore guys doing a one-man hardcore band” records, Total Con goes fast and hard and one-directional, a smash n’ grab of Pick Your King, F.U.’s, Battalion Of Saints and Genetic Control, recorded with a roughed-up, home-studio sound befitting first-wave hardcore-punk. I’m going to assume this isn’t a case of Cole struggling to find Total Con bandmates so much as him having an abundance of hardcore song ideas slamming around in his skull and needing to expel them in their immediate and feral states. That said, the beauty of doing a solo project is that you can punkify “Riders On The Storm” by The Doors if you want and no one can stop you (it’s the last track here). It’s a little surprising how American this sounds, Cole’s vocals included, but let’s be honest, hardcore-punk is one of the few positive things America has bestowed upon the rest of the world, and Cole seems to be interested in getting it right here. If you are following that specific tradition, sounding like a teenager from Maumee or Orange County in 1982 is a feature, not a bug.

Yellowcake A Fragmented Truth 7″ (Not For The Weak / Total Peace)
Not for the weak, nor from the bakery, Yellowcake are Phoenix’s burliest crust unit, offering no unexpected sonic influences or half measures, simply six more tracks of noisy, hardcore crust-punk. The songwriting recalls Doom, whereas the recording style recalls Gloom, which is kind of funny if you think about it… you know, doom and gloom. D-beats are launched like drone missiles, not even a pumice-based soap could scrub the filthy guitar sound clean, and the vocals opt for a traditional, no-effects-needed throat scrape. I find myself raging under surveillance cameras to the noisy intro and slappy d-beat of “Vinyl Chloride Rain” (complete with sing-along chorus!) and wondering how many times the drummer played along to Framtid’s Under The Ashes in an unventilated basement practice space in order to pull off the rolls on “Maelstrom” and “Blood Soaked System”. Politically-oriented hardcore this raging always hits, but feels more pertinent than ever in this time of overwhelming global turbulence and cruelty. It’d be nice if the members of Yellowcake took things a step further and initiated their own violent uprise against the oppressors of their choice, but until then we can add this to their little stack of impressive seven-inch EPs.

YHWH Nailgun 45 Pounds LP (AD 93)
The music of Brooklyn’s YHWH Nailgun (short for You’re The Man Now Dog Nailgun) is a revelation. Rock music, or at least rock instrumentation, is extremely difficult to modernize in any meaningful fashion (and it’s usually best when rockers don’t bother trying), but YHWH Nailgun hit on something immediately distinctive and original with their debut, workshopping it over the past five years or so before actually putting out a record. Other bands take notice, this is a great way to do it: keep your demos private and blow us away when you’re fully formed! Their sound is driven by the stunningly propulsive drumming of Sam Pickard, who seems to own two cymbals and two dozen toms. His beats are comprised of Zach Hill fills, repeated over the blindingly-bright synth tones, alien-sounding guitar swells and the yearning sore-throat vocals of Zach Borzone. In my mind, this is what I wished Battles sounded like before I heard them, yet it’s also the first band to remind me of the excellent Carnivorous Bells, thanks to the tightly-wound rhythms that burst like toy snakes from a can over unorthodox melodies and a gruff singer impervious to the dazzling nature of his bandmates. They blaze through these ten tracks in like twenty minutes, as if they were a punk band, and maybe they are. Released on the always ahead-of-the-curve British electronic label AD 93, it’s a masterful coup for all involved. I would print this review in flashing red text to alert you to its must-hear status if I knew how, so instead I will just say: highest recommendation!