AngstLust Animal Shelter EP 12″ (Neubau)
Not letting any fresh Neubau pass me by at this point, so I picked up AngstLust’s debut without hesitation. It’s a new project from two seasoned producers, Kris Baha and Niklas Wandt, and they’re setting aside their more playful and world-influenced techno/house/dance intentions for this serpentine EBM beater. I mean, what else would you do for Neubau? It opens with the slow-motion pound of “Fraß”, sounding like a classic Nine Inch Nails groove that’s only lacking Trent Reznor’s emotional-tantrum vocals. Excellent start! “Gebrochene Gestalten” veers away from the classic Wax Trax / TVT sound with a fine-tuned percussion party that slowly grows in power… the body-painted adult-children at Burning Man would spin out some wild cartwheels to this one at 4:00 AM, no doubt. The title track finally arrives on the flip, and it bangs mightily as well, connecting NIN and DAF like a chain that goes from nose-ring to earring. It’s punchy but also inherently sexy, with an absolutely pounding synth riff over some heavy kicks, twinkly pads and brooding vocals which actually do refer to some sort of animal shelter. But is it like, we are the animals, and a nocturnal underground club is our shelter?? Sure seems to be. As if this music wasn’t already tightly clad in black leather, the mostly-German vocals seal the deal. Another triumphant dungeon experience from the Neubau hit factory!
Anz Loos In Twos (NRG) 12″ (Hessle Audio)
After taking 2019 off, Hessle Audio have come correct in 2020, bringing back some of the names that secured the label’s rep in its early days as well as some new ones, too. Manchester’s Anz is new to me, but her music fits right in with Hessle Audio’s current style. As opposed to trying to stretch and pull dubstep to its breaking points, the label and its roster now seems more interested in finding new ways to look at drum n’ bass and breakbeat techno, and while it’s not as immediately satisfying to my ears (gimme a 4/4 thonk over a “Funky Drummer” loop any day), there’s no denying the creative talent and sonic prowess at work here. “Loos In Twos (NRG)” is a restless tune, reliant upon a funky break but quick to shuffle the sonic deck that surrounds it. Acid squiggles, C+C Music Factory-esque pads, an occasional vocal hook and diced up rhythms ala label mate Laksa all shift in and out of focus. The 8-bit effervescence of b-side opener “Gary Mission” gives way to a tightly-snapped drum pattern reminiscent of Pearson Sound’s recent material or Shed under his Head High moniker. Very colorful music, like one of those squids that pulsates the full spectrum just for fun. “Stepper” rounds it out, a spacious drum workout with its own cheer squad, the sort of thing I expect to hear when Fact Mag posts one of those dance-battle videos on Instagram (they get me every time). A welcome addition to the Hessle family!
Bananagun The True Story Of Bananagun LP (Anti Fade)
Break out the polyester bell-bottoms, paisley-print button-ups and tie-dyed shawls, Bananagun’s debut album is here! This Melbourne group clearly aims to be the funkiest gang of hippies in town, and The True Story Of Bananagun ensures their rightful stature. Like their earlier singles, this is fun big-band pop music that gets people out of their chairs through dazzling long-form jams and sing-song hooks. I’m reminded of Beck, Stereolab, Cornelius, Stevie Wonder, a little Santana (but no Rob Thomas), all freak-flag wavers who enjoy kaleidoscopic melodies and perpetual groovy motion. The instrumentation is top notch – extended flute solo, anyone? – and clearly well-studied in the many masters who came before. From their look to their sound, it’s clear that Bananagun are a sunny nostalgia trip, but I’ve got no qualms with any group capable of infusing old ideas with this much proficiency and inclusive fun. Of course, when a track like “People Talk Too Much” arrives in such direction imitation of Fela Kuti, I have to wonder if we as a music-enjoying audience should be sourcing our Afrobeat from a group of young white Australian hipsters. In the context of the full album, which covers numerous varieties of ’60s and ’70s dance/pop music, it works, but I also wouldn’t be opposed to seeing Bananagun take their expertise in a direction that celebrates the past as well as creates something that could only be considered their own.
Blank Gloss January LP (Night Young)
Throwing on Blank Gloss’s debut album and knowing nothing of their musical intents, I found myself enjoying the soft push and pull of their electronic harmonies, and more than anything else, hoping that it wouldn’t kick in. These synthetic tones can easily give way to some sort of electronica indie-lite (from Chvrches to Animal Collective), but thankfully Blank Gloss are content to drift in vibrant suspension, with only the faintest signs of percussion, rhythms and hooks (all instrumental). Their tracks are lightweight and soothingly liminal, as if a vast expanse lies ahead but is nothing to be feared. Very much in line with ambient artists like Gigi Masin, Suzanne Kraft and Vito Ricci, artists who developed their subtle beauty with understated grace, releasing records that seemingly laid dormant from the mid ’80s until contemporary crate diggers discovered them in recent years (often reissuing them in the process). I’m one of those discovers myself (not so much from digging in bins so much as by benefiting from those who have and shared), and I appreciate that a new generation of these soft and comforting ambient tunes is out there, the dulcet tones of Blank Gloss included.
Brain Drugs Brain Drugs LP (Cannery)
Before you mistake a band called “Brain Drugs” as some party-animal garage-punk band outta Chicago on HoZac circa 2008 or something, please read further! They’re actually an instrumental duo out of Melbourne, and if you’ve been paying close attention to Melbourne’s underground rock scene, one of their names might be familiar: Michael Beach. (The other is Pete Warden of Onion Engine.) Beach plays guitar and keys, Warden plays the drums, and together they’ve put together some lovely music. I’m reminded of the spirit and sound of the early ’80s Innocent Records scene, hard-to-classify artists like Essendon Airport, David Chesworth and → ↑ →. Brain Drugs shares a similar sense of quaint experimentalism, pushing melodies and grooves to the front, seemingly as enamored by warped underground prog like Art Bears and Officer! as classic krautrock, all delivered with the homespun warmth of DIY post-punk. Some tracks groove propulsively (but never in any sort of frenzied state), others ignore rhythm altogether in favor of a woozy melodic iteration (“Moulds” is a prime example, perhaps the most soothing tune on the record). B-side opener “TG117” sounds like Soft Machine with one hand tied behind their back, another great auditory technique. Brain Drugs seem to approach their music with nothing to prove, and their lack of pretentiousness (and not-insignificant charm) make their self-titled debut a subtle winner.
Brandy The Gift Of Repetition LP (Total Punk)
For many bands, releasing an album in the show-less pandemic era would be a horrific blow to morale, a stressful situation with no positive alternative. NYC’s Brandy are probably having a big laugh about it, though, as that seems to be their standard MO. From their band name, to their album titles and song titles (though not really their artwork, at least not yet), Brandy envisions the potential joke in every situation. That’s not to give them the shameful “joke band” designation, though, as they are very much a real band, it’s just that they can’t take anything seriously for even a second. Luckily, they’re pretty damn hilarious, aiming their sarcastic wit at themselves first and everything else second, and as the general disposition behind these lunky, plodding post-punk tunes, it totally works. I’ve reviewed their other two records here previously, and the vibe remains the same: guided by laid-back tom-centric drumming, the riffs operate on one or two chord changes tops and the band members (I think all three?) sing at a register that’s only slightly more forceful than your standard indoor speaking voice. Fits in nicely with Life Stinks’s and Watery Love’s distinct oeuvres, although Brandy seem less bitter than the former and less drunk than the latter. Is this what happens when thirty-something punks get high on meme accounts instead of coke? Maybe that’s where the silliness kicks in, allowing a song that directly fantasizes about a Madball beatdown (“(Wish You Was) Madball Baby”) to bop around like a delirious child on TikTok. I wouldn’t want your friends to catch you having any fun, so you may want to verify your privacy before throwing on The Gift Of Repetition.
K. Campbell Every Little Thing 7″ (Poison Moon)
Still kinda blows me away the ease at which a record can be released these days. Not to get too old and windbaggy, but I remember when it felt like this near-impossible achievement, with unthinkable requirements like recording your music to DAT, money orders mailed in envelopes and luck on your side every step of the way. I’m all for the ease with which it can now be done, so that people like K. Campbell can go ahead and get 25 copies of their 7″ singles cut, a quantity verging on “friends and family only” but still available for a select few outside that orbit who might be interested. This is Campbell’s second single on his Poison Mon imprint, and the thick clear lathe-cut vinyl (or is it technically resin?) and hand-glued sleeve are an attractive pairing. That attraction extends to these tunes as well, as “Every Little Thing” is a polite strummer, finding that sweet spot between second-wave emo, first-wave power-pop and Teenage Fanclub. Traditional plainclothes indie-rock done on a DIY level, which I certainly appreciate. I think I might even prefer the b-side, “Taking Pictures”, as it’s got a touch of Lemonheads swagger, delivered humbly with Campbell’s hushed vocals nicely accompanying. Kinda funny to think that in 2020, traditional indie-rock records are released in minuscule amounts while abstract electronic squiggles with distorted vocals grab the marquee billing and big-indie interest. Not complaining, just observing!
Jon Collin & Demdike Stare Sketches Of Everything LP (DDS)
Jon Collin gets first billing on this new collaboration, but let’s be real, everyone is picking it up because it’s something new from Demdike Stare. That’s exactly why I did, as I’ve loved this continually-evolving electronic duo for over a decade now, always intrigued by their pursuit of new artistic connections and divergences. Like much of the material on their in-house DDS label, Sketches Of Everything reveals a previously-undiscovered side of Demdike Stare, this one in humble service to guitarist Jon Collin. Collin is clearly a talented guitarist, comfortably rippling out a style somewhere between jazz and improvisation, and the Demdike gents are content to provide a booming, semi-coherent backdrop for his melodic wanderings. The bass frequencies often resemble a nearby jet engine, extrapolated by dub properties and providing a sense of cavernous space, but not melody or even a hint of rhythm – I’m thinking of Fennesz’s recent album, the way the sound engulfs my ears. Collin’s playing reminds me of ECM guitarist Bill Connors, and in particular the work of Mike Cooper, whose mix of noisy ambient and tropical guitar seems to be a direct relative to Sketches Of Everything, although through decisions made either pre- or post-recording, sparseness is one of his performance’s defining qualities here. I heard that Sketches Of Everything was a bit of a let down for some of my fellow Demdike fanatics, but perhaps those lowered expectations helped me connect with this record immediately. I’m not going to agree that everything is truly sketched, but this album is full of desolate expanses, wind-swept valleys and unpopulated beaches, vast regions I’m happy to find myself lost within.
Daisies In The Studio With DJ Rap Class LP (Jokers Got A Posse)
Olympia’s Daisies seem intent on aggressively confusing anyone who might come across their album in the wild (does the wild still even exist?). The cover shows a guy that looks like a member of Mudvayne, a woman that might be in the band or might just be a Gucci runway shot from 1987, and another guy that looks like I dunno, Cairo Pythian’s cousin? The album is bafflingly titled (I don’t think DJ Rap Class makes any appearances here, if such a person exists), and the whole thing attacks the eyes like a Y2K culture nightmare. Once you dig into this new Daisies album, however, it’s a completely different vibe: breezy, windows-down trip-hop indie-pop that will have you forgetting your troubles in no time. The beats are effervescent and nostalgic for the ’90s, aided by tuneful guitars and synths and whatever else deploys sunshine-y melodies such as these. Vocalist Valérie Warren really turns Daisies into a band, as her beautiful and assured voice guides these jams into your heart. I’m reminded of Stereolab, US Girls and Hooverphonic if we wanna be cool, but also Len’s “Steal My Sunshine”, Girlsareshort, DJ Food and I Am The World Trade Center if we don’t care about being cool. Hell, “Underground Waiting” sounds like Spice Girls imitating TLC, and it might be my favorite tune here? There are numerous moments within In The Studio With DJ Rap Class that have me picturing Mark McGrath crowdsurfing out near the pool, but even weirder than that is the fact that Jokers Got A Posse is sending this record out for a single solitary US dollar on their Bandcamp page. The perfect sonic salve to combat our imminent SAD diagnoses, and easy on the budget!
Exotic Sin Customer’s Copy LP (Blank Forms Editions)
Blank Forms has quickly emerged as a leading voice for the NYC avant-garde underground, reissuing titans of yore alongside interesting upstarts. Exotic Sin fall into the latter category, a new duo on their first release, and it’s a pleasure from any reasonable distance. Featuring Naima Karlsson on pianos and synths (who you may be interested to know is the daughter of Neneh Cherry) and Kenichi Iwasa on trumpet and sax (with Robbie Lee on alto flute somewhere in there), they go deep and long into their free jazz, with a brooding energy and playfulness that really resonates with me. There are no free-for-all freakouts, but rather a conversational and compelling back-and-forth, unhurried and confident. “Dot 2 Dot” is twenty-two minutes long, mostly a spirited banter between the piano and horn, but around twelve minutes into it, someone is playing digitally-sampled drums (or maybe one of those electronic kits?) with hilarious abandon and it totally works as a disorienting and pleasurable divergence from the purely organic. I sometimes forget about the dramatic emotional range afforded to both the piano and the trumpet, and Karlsson and Iwasa really bring that to light. Electronics play a larger role elsewhere, although the entire record feels like something that could be experienced live, right in front of you, all at once. Unlike experimental music that sounds like the established and derivative genre of “Experimental Music”, Customer’s Copy feels like the work of people trying to establish their own musical designation who are also physically and mentally equipped enough to succeed in doing so.
Firoza In The Noon Of Ashura LP (Frustration Jazz)
Firoza is a new project from Hobart’s Steven Wright, who befuddled me a couple years ago with a record from his duo Bi-Hour (which I should really go listen to once again). That record was zany and unhinged, but Firoza, stemming from Wright’s 2017 trip to Iran, locates an entirely different end of the emotional spectrum. Starting with field-recordings taken on his cellphone, Wright then adds synths, keys and clarinet to the proceedings, resulting in these mournful and mysterious sonic postcards. I wonder how Iranians feel about first-world outsiders who utilize their homeland for auditory sadness-porn? Beyond the Sublime Frequencies gang, it seems as though most foreign artists who reflect upon the Middle East do so with a focus on its desolation and bleakness, which I am sure is profound to experience first-hand, but it does get to be the standard expectation, even as I recognize that Iranian culture surely runs the full range from atrocious misery to heart-bursting joy and outrageous silliness. Not judging, just ruminating. Maybe it’s simply more fun to make sad, mysterious music from a pessimist’s perspective, particularly in the avant-garde instrumental realm such as this? Regardless of the inspiration behind In The Noon Of Ashura, it’s certainly a murky and mystifying album, full of the grey noise of urban transportation and minor-key melodies, ready for your own personal interpretation.
The Generics Cost Cutter 7″ (Feel It)
The sole, sleeveless 7″ single by West Virginia’s The Generics was a relatively recent “obscure unknown KBD punk” discovery, but don’t let that fool you into thinking this is a pure barrel-scraping of punk basicness, notable only for its total lack of notoriety. Sure, it’s incredibly rudimentary punk rock played by outcast teenagers in a crummy town like so many others, but their charm is undeniable, and these tunes are highly replayable. Feel It went and reissued that 7″, now with the addition of cover art, liner notes and two additional songs not on the original, and it’s worth the price of admission. “The Bitt” and “Cost Cutter” are the tunes that originally made it to wax, and they’re the gems here. “The Bitt” has a grungy street-tough attitude akin to The Stooges and The Shitdogs in particular, but it comes with some sort of suburban storyline that leads to the most redneck-voiced member of the band insisting that another turn down the punk rock and “walk the dogs” – I’m telling you, the pronunciation of “walk the dogs” will be embedded in your memory permanently after one spin. “Cost Cutter” opens with another charming intro, seemingly inspired by copies of MAD magazine, before entering a proto-metal strut, with any sense of aggression worn down by the adorably childlike delivery (which makes sense, as The Generics were definitely children). Same goes for the puppydog stomp of “War Is A Waste”, which is nearly as entertaining. File next to the Peer Pressure 7″ in your “sleeveless punk singles played by children” box for easy routine access.
Haus Arafna Asche LP (Galakthorrö)
The first thing to fall out of Asche‘s sleeve upon cracking the shrinkwrap was a postcard featuring Mr. and Mrs. Arafna in the studio, the missus on guitar and the mister grasping a mic as though he were fronting a hardcore band. Could it be, that after six studio albums and 25 years, Haus Arafna finally want to rock? Turns out this was a sly diversion, as I certainly don’t hear any guitars within Asche, distorted or otherwise, but it’s a blistering listen that’s harder and more violent than any guitar-based music I’ve heard this month. Haus Arafna have toyed with power-electronics throughout the years (although always seeming a bit sharper and more aesthetically refined than the power-electronics masses), and this new album delves in deep. I’m talking tracks that seem to be borne of boiler-room explosions, frightened goats wildly trampling across tin roofs, lonely iron-workers at the end of the world, and that creepy lighthouse movie where Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe fart and masturbate themselves into madness. There’s still some morbid gothic allure – how could there not be – but any sense of grim harmony or bleak melodrama takes a backseat to the scalding-hot percussion, tortured screams and dense layers of noise. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. and Mrs. Arafna make sharp work of their cold-wave desires with their November Növelet project, so why not let Haus Arafna terrify and shock our ears with full abandon? They’ve been my favorite contemporary industrial group for almost two decades now, and even though I feel like I always say it, their newest might be their best.
Healer Resurgence 7″ (625 Productions / From The Head Of Zeus)
If you asked me in 1997 what I wanted to do with my life, I probably would’ve said “reviewing the newest records on 625 Productions”, so baby, look at me now! What’s crazy is that this new Healer 7″, their first outing since their 2017 demo (which made it to vinyl on a split EP with DJ Eons One), might very well rank in the top five 625 releases of all time… a solid top ten ranking, at least. This West Bay unit presents as a revitalized facelift of the West Bay power-violence sound, strongly indebted to No Less and Plutocracy while also carving its own notch on the subgenre’s mighty totem. This is a ten-song EP that runs about five minutes, so the math scholars among us will calculate an average track length of thirty seconds, but honestly these songs feel much shorter than that. They probably are, thanks to the multitude of between-song samples (in true West Bay fashion), and the breathless cuts between samples and songs ensure that Healer provide a true sonic whirlwind. Power-violence is all about the short contained bursts of incredible fury, like the power of a four-minute death metal track condensed into a twenty-second injection, and I can’t think of an act in the past twenty years more exemplary of this than Healer. I should also note that Ramon Salcido from Agents Of Satan is on bass, on the off chance you thought I was playing.
Hotspring Obit For Sunshade LP (Mood Hut)
Hotspring are the latest entity playing a modern form of electronically-altered ambient-jazz to enter my radar. From Lemon Quartet to Sam Gendel to Nicholas Malkin to Yu Su and so on, there is a real underground pull to stretch traditional jazz instruments to new and beautifully artificial forms, which is certainly what Hotspring are all about. Drums skitter and scatter, lush chords drape the proceedings in melodic warmth, wordless Autotuned vocals float somewhere in the sonic ectoplasm and songs are sidestepped in favor of mood. It feels like this could be the sonic evolution of jazzy emo kids, fans of Joan Of Arc and Aloha and such who found their parents’ Miles Davis and ECM collections and dug deeper into easy-listening Weather Channel muzak stylings, but I also wouldn’t be surprised if the person behind Hotspring is like 22 years old and ’90s emo is as foreign and outdated to him as Jefferson Airplane was to me at that age. Regardless, for the time being this style is hitting the spot, Obit For Sunshade most certainly included, but as the ranks continue to grow in number I wonder if and when I might hit my personal fill.
Idles Ultra Mono LP (Partisan)
Figured I’d be remiss to not check out the newest album from easily the most popular non-legacy underground post-punk band on the planet, England’s Idles. I saw them live once, pre-blow-up, and was impressed by the crowd’s unhinged response to their zany antics, although their stompy, shout-along tunes certainly made it look easy and natural. This is my first time hearing them recorded, and I’ve got some thoughts! First, let’s go to the music: Ultra Mono has essentially one trick, which is repeated over and over to basically the same level of success. Riffs are more-or-less non-existent here – the drums lead the way with simplistic-yet-energetic patterns, and the guitars and bass are used for sonic emphasis rather than any form of melody. Their riffs are one or two notes, often content to just bounce from a high octave to a low one; it’s the easiest, most obvious way in which anthemic post-punk can be written, but it hasn’t failed anyone yet (although in the case of this monochromatic album, ones’ ears will certainly grow weary). I was wondering why, in all the writing about Idles I’ve read, no one ever really talks about the actual music, and I think I now understand, as it seems to be completely secondary to the Idles’ distinction (the singer), a thumping backdrop that either stomps on a 4/4 or breaks into a staccato pattern when things really amp up. It’s the lyrics of vocalist Joe Talbot that continually get the largest word count, as Idles have been tagged “feminist punk” for better or worse. You can imagine my surprise, then, to find that his lyrics are cloyingly simple and grandiose. At times it seems like Talbot believes he’s the first person to realize homophobia and racism are wrong, and his basic proclamations delivered in Dr. Seuss-like rhymes often leave me groaning. “Clang clang, that’s the sound of the gun going bang bang”, he shouts on the opener “War”, and all I can think is “wait, isn’t ‘bang’ the sound of a gun going bang?” The anti-catcalling tune “Ne Touche Pas Moi”, while certainly noble in its intent, leaves me shrinking down in a second-hand embarrassment I haven’t felt since I last listened to that Hillary Clinton Le Tigre song. I’m being a little mean, so I should make it clear I think it’s fantastic that Idles are spreading their legitimately righteous message, as their audience of teenagers should be chanting along to these pro-woman / anti-racist songs instead of worshiping Warped Tour Burger Records bands who pretend they’re Nikki Sixx. I’m certainly glad that Idles exist, as they can push impressionable kids in the right direction, and I can simply go listen to something a little better suited for my own personal enrichment.
Maximum Ernst Hallmark Of A Crisis Period 12″ (Ever/Never)
Why settle for anything less than Maximum Ernst? I’ve seen the name around for a couple years now and have always been slightly curious, but this new 12″ EP featuring two side-long tracks care of Ever/Never is my first experience. I’m not sure I had any specific expectations – okay, I was expecting guitars – but Hallmark Of A Crisis Period is intriguing after multiple listens. The a-side “Un Menace Natural” moves through various noisy passages: the buzzing of a Dead C side-project gives way to manipulated analog noise reminiscent of Nautical Almanac, eventually finding its way into a cosmic terrorscape of synthetic screeches and a molten hum. I’m reminded of that period when Wolf Eyes were really into horror movies, although this track is far more Color Out Of Space than Day Of The Dead. “Hallmark Of A Crisis Period” is on the flip, and its another dank realm of junk noise, this time populated by multiple vocal tracks. This one has me thinking of early industrial outliers like Severed Heads in their formative state, or the more inflamed portions of Nocturnal Emissions’ early catalogue. This record resembles something I would’ve stumbled upon in a Fusetron distro email back in 2005 and flipped my lid over, and still sounds good right this very moment!
Metz Atlas Vending LP (Sub Pop)
My heart goes out to Metz, one of the true road-dog bands carrying on heavy noise-rock traditions, a path so many others have abandoned in favor of making electronic music or raising families or some other unacceptable excuse. They’d normally be on the road for the next ten months in support of Atlas Vending, but instead they’re sitting at home twiddling their thumbs like the rest of us, hoping that their new album doesn’t get immediately forgotten like every other new release in the year of Covid. It’s their fourth album, and they take a fairly understandable turn for more melodic pastures here, but not to the point that it could possibly alienate any long-term fans. The music remains heavy discordant post-hardcore with a bedrock of ’90s San Diego proto-screamo – groups like Angel Hair, Antioch Arrow and The VSS have clearly had a lasting effect on Metz’s sonic proclivities, and that remains the case here. Of course, it doesn’t sound like a poorly-recorded Gravity Records 7″ so much as a booming, fully-operational studio record, produced by heavy-rock guru Ben Greenberg of Uniform. The subtle differences between this and their previous records are in the more melodic vocal turns (though still from a strained throat), and they even open it on the pensive, non-explosive “Pulse”, which seems to warn of danger rather than bestow it. They end on the album’s longest track, “A Boat To Drown In”, a downer melodic rocker strongly reminiscent of Sonic Youth, the sort of track that has me wondering if they’re more likely to tour with Nothing than Daughters once touring becomes a thing again. I thought they’d always work best as a loud-part / louder-part festival-mosh band, but calmer, hazy moments such as this suit them too.
Mode In Gliany Kelc’h-Lizher 7″ (Galakthorrö)
It’s always intriguing when a non-Arafna group works with Galakthorrö – the label’s highly selective quality remains in effect no matter who is producing the music, and new artists on the roster are few and far between. I can think of a couple Galakthorrö artists I haven’t loved, but none that I haven’t liked, and they all fit the overtly morbid, vaguely sexual, distinctly European Galakthorrö aesthetic to a tee. Mode In Gliany hail from Rennes, France, and unlike many Galakthorrö signees they have a pretty thick discography preceding them, but their sound is a perfect match. This is downtempo, brooding synth-wave, more indebted to a sinister Nordic-noir feeling than black roses, lace and satin. I’m reminded of Tin Man’s vocal tracks on Vienna Blue and the recent Prutser single, two records that also manage to splash their impending sense of doom with romance. The vocals on the first three songs seem to exhale smoke with every breath, whereas the sole instrumental carries enough pathos to negate the need for vocals, even incorporating brief flashes of guitar in some sort of alternate history where trip-hop evolved from minimal-synth. If you’ve ever hunted for the killer of your mistress, only to discover through a series of painful psychological flashbacks that she was merely a figment of your distraught imagination in the first place, you will surely connect to the music of Mode In Gliany even more than I am right now.
Mumia Mumia LP (Lugar Alto)
Wow, archival release of the year contender here! If the liner notes are to be believed (and they’re incredible enough, when taken with the music, to have my doubts), Mumia was a duo that existed in 1988 in a rural mountainous part of São Paulo, who “wrapped themselves with bandages similar in style to the remarkable Egyptian mummies” before sitting down to record. That’s right, the group’s name refers to mummies, and they use a collection of synths, samplers and electronic percussive devices to create these bizarre and fantastic songs. Truly, it sounds like a new collaboration between Beau Wanzer and Delroy Edwards, the way spooky sound effects (both silly-spooky and scary-spooky) mix with syrupy synths, raw-as-hell beats, beyond-the-grave vocals and a general sense of manic paranoia, like racing through an actually-haunted house on a sugar rush. What could the members of Mumia possibly have been listening to to create this? I suppose Esplendor Geometrico, SPK, Throbbing Gristle and Velodrome share sonic similarities, but Mumia seems to truly exist outside of the traditional industrial-to-techno continuum – there’s a track on the b-side that’s as fast and punishing as any Regis tune, yet delivered to an audience of no-one some ten years prior. I’m trusting the folks at Lugar Alto (a label whose sole aim seems to be releasing / reissuing Brazilian obscurities) to be telling the truth on this truly unorthodox and stunning artist, but if they’re not, please don’t tell me – this is the perfect sound for the season and I truly want to believe.
Portray Heads Portray Heads 2xLP (Bitter Lake Recordings / Minimal Wave)
Might’ve been an unproductive year for some, but not Bitter Lake – they keep churning out high-quality underground Japanese reissues at what seems to be a nearly monthly rate. They teamed up with Minimal Wave on this exhaustive retrospective of Shikoku Island’s Portray Heads, which makes sense as soon as the opening arpeggio of “Elaborate Dummy” hits, as this is very much Minimal Wave music. Portray Heads only released two short 7″ EPs in their day, both of which are collected here alongside their two unreleased demo recordings. It immediately made sense to me why Portray Heads’ records are in the triple-figure collectorsphere, as these songs are forceful and active synth-wave, full of unusual sequencing, familiar vintage synth sounds and an alluring distance between the people that made this music and us who sit here and listen to it today. Although live drums aren’t credited, they seem to appear on “舞ã„上ãŒã‚Œ” – maybe in sampled form? – and they add a neurotic, bug-in-the-system feel that contrasts nicely with the melodic vocals. And they’ve got hooks, like the repeated title of “Generation Storm” which continues to echo in my skull. It’s worth noting that, as Portray Heads’ existence was fairly brief, they didn’t record a whole lot, which means that four of the twelve songs here appear twice. The Stooges they ain’t – I’m not sure who among us is eager to compare and contrast the differences in fidelity and composition between the two separate takes of “Industrial Eye”, for example, and wouldn’t simply be satisfied with a single LP of both EPs and the unreleased demo tunes, but maybe that’s just me. Bitter Lake is nothing if not dedicated to presenting definitive and handsome documentation of overlooked avant-garde Japanese music, and I thank them for their service.
Repo Fam Whipped Cream 7″ (Gentle Reminder)
Following a few years playing keys for DC punk band Foul Swoops, Baltimore’s Michelle Peña is out on her own as Repo Fam. That’s her on the cover, looking as though she had a string of wealthy husbands who all died under mysterious circumstances, and I can hear that same tough-as-leather attitude in these four schematic indie-punk tunes. “King Of Marvin Gardens” is discordant and chugging like a Kim Gordon-sung Sonic Youth song, whereas “Psycho Bombs” moves in a poppier direction, recalling the sloppy DIY pop of The Petticoats. The title track has more of a Dum Dum Girls circa-Captured Tracks garage edge (sans all the reverb), whereas “Here We Come” kinda brings it all together, the noisy Sonic Youth-isms with ’60s biker-gang garage-rock overtones. This sorta sound hit big in the late ’00s, was oversaturated by the mid ’10s, and by now, I suppose it’s free to simply exist as fun indie garage-punk music, without any concern for trends past or present? I’m sure I’m putting more concern into it than Repo Fam would ever care to, as these songs seem to bypass any trivialities in favor of their primitive and trashy indie-rock style.
Ana Roxanne Because Of A Flower LP (Kranky)
This has gotta be one of the hottest burgeoning underground scenes these days. What should we call it… wellness-ambient? Gentrification-boutique new-age? Ana Roxanne’s Because Of A Flower is as sparse, daringly minimalist, holistic and high-minded as one of those fancy shops that is painted all white and sells one lumpy vase and three incense holders and that’s it. Any American city’s got at least one of those stores, and the soft and meditative works Ana Roxanne offers here strike me as an exact aesthetic match. She’s living in Los Angeles, which is ground zero for those kinda shops, so it kinda makes sense, and if you’re at all partial to this lifestyle, her new album won’t let you down. Roxanne’s songs utilize electronic waves, polished keys, tender guitar, film snippets and even the pitter-patter of a drum machine, unfurling like Lauren Manoogian’s hand-loomed knitwear across a Hem table (and just as soft and comforting). With her occasional singing (and poetry recitation), the record often feels like the light yang to Grouper’s dark and foreboding yin, a wellness meditation that doesn’t leave you feeling cheated. While varied in tonal vocabulary, these tracks are united in the way they patiently reverberate like ripples on a lake, or the flame of a $70 artisanally-blended candle.
Skinned Teen Skinned Teen 7″ (Vague Absolutes)
Very cool archival release from Warthog Speaks’ reissue sub-label, Vague Absolutes. If I say “British ’90s Riot Grrrl” your brain probably pulled up Huggy Bear first, and hopefully Skinned Teen second, as they created an infectious racket during their brief time together. This somehow led to them hanging out with Sonic Youth and the Beastie Boys, partying or something like that. The ’90s! These four tracks come from a John Peel session, which captures the group in all their raw and primitive glory, though not quite as raw and primitive as Extreme Noise Terror’s Peel session. They’re unschooled and impenetrably confident here, scruffy indie-punk that recalls The Shaggs and Television Personalities more than The Frumpies and Bratmobile, but all those sounds are in there swapping spit with each other – I’m even reminded of Black Time in the unhinged swagger of “Pillowcase Kisser”. In the liner notes, John Peel describes a Skinned Teen show in London as though he’d “walked into somebody else’s sleepover”, which seems to capture the atmosphere of these songs perfectly, the sound of four young people having wild fun without caring who is or isn’t noticing, even if it’s the better half of the first Lollapalooza roster.
Stoploss Wander. Defy. Relent. Decay. LP (Constant Disappointment)
Gotta love a hardcore record that opens immediately on a mosh breakdown – why do so many bands insist on delaying that gratification? Lowell, MA’s Stoploss know that we don’t need an extended feedback fade-in, drum roll or movie sample, and they get right to it on their debut album. I have difficulty reading lists of verbal commands without thinking of Eat Pray Love or Brock Lesnar’s “Eat Sleep Conquer Repeat” shirt (or the millions of other marketing strategies that employ this formula), but I get the impression that Stoploss are not interested in kidding around with Wander. Defy. Relent. Decay. Their particular strain of hardcore is mostly fast and clean, stuff that would go over well as the “old school hardcore” band at one of those tough-guy hardcore fests. Reminds me of an even split between Left For Dead and Ensign, certainly as reminiscent of Y2K-era tough-guy youth-crew as much as the dirtier stuff that was happening around that same time (I’m thinking of labels like Gloom and Dead Alive). Stoploss seem to take the basic political stance of “pissed off”, although I can’t say with total certainty, as the lyric sheet is impossible to follow and written in a tagger style that ensures no one but the vocalist will ever really know what he’s saying. Based on these aggressive, bloodshot songs, I’m going to assume all is not peachy in Stoploss’s worldview.
Te/DIS Transparent Subsistence LP (Galakthorrö)
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t own three albums by German dark-waver Te/DIS, but he’s consistently released by Galakthorrö, whose sinister allure I simply cannot resist. This new album is more of the same, filled with creepy-yet-confusing lyrics and titles (what does “Transparent Subsistence” even mean – is he referring to Jell-O?) and grim, unhurried beats that recall the clicks and pulses of hospital life-support machines. Morbid stuff, and Te/DIS’s Frankenstein-styled vocals really bring it home, mostly up-front and dry but occasionally distorted and distant. I prefer the tracks that are little more than a repetitive zap from some sort of antiquated sonic hardware to the ones that replicate a bleary-eyed, Gary Numan-esque synth-pop, although I suppose the mix of tempos and levels of agitation make Transparent Subsistence a better overall listen. An album that certainly scratches one’s goth-wave itch, if not a mandatory event (like Haus Arafna’s records continue to be). Te/DIS strikes me as one of the least enigmatic artists on Galakthorrö, but what am I gonna do, not buy it?
Teste Graphic Depictions 2xLP (L.I.E.S.)
It’s easy to feel exhausted by the sheer quantity of industrial-techno that’s dropped over the past ten years. I’m personally feeling that fatigue, but even so, an album like Teste’s Graphic Depictions hits and it’s my favorite thing all over again. Apparently these tracks were originally cut in the ’90s, and only recently reworked and edited into their final form here, and it’s kind of startling to think that Teste was delivering such relentless and menacing techno cuts so very long ago. If this record were merely a collection of archival beats, it’d be cool, but Teste infuses these cuts with the sights and sounds of a pre-Giuliani Times Square, alive with the sounds of X-rated theaters, rat-infested storefronts and slimy alleyways. The filth is the point, as Teste utilizes various movie samples (and is that Venom’s between-song banter on “Demoni”?) to enhance these grimy techno blasts with the thrilling sleaze of a grindhouse double-feature. Imagine Surgeon DJing a 2:00 AM showing of Driller Killer while a Manhattan taxi drives past with its hood on fire and you’re in the general vicinity of this thrilling and squalid techno album.
Xylitol I’m Pretty Sure I Would Know If Reality Were Fundamentally Different Than I Perceived It To Be 7″ (Thrilling Living)
Wow, here’s the perfect contrast to that new Idles album – Xylitol’s sophomore 7″ EP! Their debut was great, but this one is an absolute mastery of the genre “political hardcore-punk”, transcending both traditional politics and traditional punk into something smarter, leaner and more wicked than that which has come before. The riffs are chunky and sleazy, played too fast for comfort on a bed of tom-centric hardcore drumming, and vocalist Lord Goat (at least that’s how they’re amusingly credited here) truly sounds like a troll from hell, the sort of thing you’ve accidentally awoken while messing around in some old cabin in the woods and by which you are now completely doomed. Contrast any of Idles’ cliche-centric lyrics to Xylitol’s blistering “I Want A Refund” and you’ll see the difference between a college freshman and their tenured professor. “I Want A Refund” is easily chant-alongable, but these lyrics are almost too real to bear, a scathing indictment of a life for which we’re all somehow accountable and helplessly imprisoned. And don’t get me started on “(There’s Something In Your) Void”, which beats influencer-culture minimalism like a dusty rug, all on a steamrolling riff that recalls Negative Approach’s debut EP. If there’s better hardcore than this EP in 2020, I’ll be truly ecstatic, as this is currently the very best.
The Zits Back On Blackhead LP (Feel It)
Feel It continues to rack up the obscure punk retrospectives with this collection from Virginia’s The Zits, who released but one 7″ EP in their day. Back In Blackhead collects that single (duh) and fills it out with some surprisingly crisp live recordings (from a May 1981 performance at where else but Oakton High School). They certainly hold their own with other goofball-youngster KBD punk acts, calling to mind the playfulness of The Gizmos, Vom, Child Molesters and Meaty Buys… the lighter side of obscure one-off first-wave punk. The two tracks from their sole 7″ are great, but I’m also impressed by the sound and style of the seven live tracks that follow – not only do they sound great, this band has true on-stage chemistry, reminding me of the non-stop loony banter of a Weston show. This feels like punk music made by fresh-faced boys who went on to college after high-school, not social dropouts who had no choice but to steal their next meal. They were fairly talented players (although appropriately sloppy on the ironic blues jam “No Dough Blues”), and fancied the fraternal misogyny that allows a young man to write the song “Bertha Was A Slut” without a second thought, common for their time and maturity level. I’m guessing they were probably smarter and more creative than the rest of their classmates, so why not start a silly and inappropriate punk band instead of pursuing a more mundane hobby?
Electronic artists sure have been obsessed with the intersection of pop stardom and plastic artifice over the past few years, often leading to the creation of mysterious mononymous guises, almost always female. You’ve got Poppy, you’ve got Sophie (who I guess has been confirmed as a living person at this point), and among others, now you’ve got Cindy, too. It’s the work of Kai Hugo (aka Palmbomen) and vocalist Blue LoLãn, who is amazingly credited as a “filmmaker, actress, model and health expert” on Instagram, a chunky stew of influencer talents. They did a song together called “Cindy Savalas” on a Palmbomen album, and Cindy (the “group” I guess?) is an extension of that, creating this fairly immersive world of a lonely heartbroken teenage girl’s pale-pink bedroom circa 1986. The music is aerosol-based synth-pop, a very light and dreamy form of electronic pop balladry and occasional dance grooves. Sounds like Maria Minerva on Adderall, or one of those recent Chromatics lineups in a narcoleptic haze. To be honest, it was the packaging that lured me into buying this one: the LP comes with two posters, a booklet, and a tissue signed, lipstick-kissed and tear-stained by “Cindy Savalas”, complete with certificate of authenticity (would hate to have purchased a bootleg by mistake). Sheesh, not even Prurient puts this much maniacal detail into his limited-edition releases! Cindy made videos for some of these songs too, which feature great weirdo spoken-word intros, as if Cindy was a newly-discovered best friend of Sarah Palmer who also died under mysterious circumstances. Much to my disappointment, those voice-overs aren’t on the actual record, which really pushed it to a new dimension of dedicated immersion in their fictional world. Maybe you could get by just fine watching the videos on YouTube, but I dunno, this tear-stained napkin might come in handy someday.
I love that flexis have been back in action for a while now, after kind of dipping out somewhere in the early ’00s, but can I share a quick gripe? Why must they all be square… doesn’t the technology still exist to cut them into the shape of an actual record? Am I the only one bothered by this? Yes? Okay, I won’t mention it again. Anyway, you gotta love Feel It, and this new one-sided, three-track EP from Cleveland’s The Cowboy is a cool punk curio. These songs move in and out pretty quickly, more of the noisy apathetic garage-punk we’ve come to expect from The Cowboy (singular). These songs in particular, while enjoyably choppy, almost veer closer to indie-rock, as if they’re slowly inching away from Homostupids and towards Times New Viking (but still have quite a long way to go). Honestly, this is probably my least favorite of all the various bands these guys have going, and not because The Cowboy is bad but because the others (like Pleasure Leftists and Vanilla Poppers for example) are really quite exceptional. None of their songs have ever really grabbed me, but they seem to have a low-energy / low-effort vibe that might be the whole point. If it’s good enough for Feel It, though, then I suppose it should be good enough for me too.
Following two great 7″ singles, Olympia’s Gen Pop still somehow feel like a well-kept secret. I’m thinking it could be because they’re not easily filed in any particular sub-genre, but that’s what makes them so great! Listening through the first side of this full-length debut, I’m reminded of artists as cool and wide-ranging as The UV Race, Cockney Rejects, Richard Hell, Swell Maps, Rogers Sisters and The Vibrators. Whew! There’s so much cool punk out there to sound like, and Gen Pop cover more than their fair share of its rich and fertile territory. It’s great, but I think I prefer the b-side’s velocity, with tracks like “Personal Fantasy” that zig and zag in a manner similar to The Middle Class, Rhino 39 or some other early punk band that verged on hardcore’s speed. “Easy” rips like classic RF7, too! I realize I’ve listed like a hundred bands already, which isn’t necessarily helpful, but Gen Pop really tilt my brain on its axis. I can’t help but marvel at the various sonic similarities they conjure, a veritable highlight reel of early punk / proto-hardcore music, sung with inexplicably non-American accents (although I certainly can’t blame anyone in this day and age for covering up whatever Americanness they can). It’d be a great record if it came in a plain white DJ sleeve with no information, but the outer bag is silkscreened, and the insert features both lyrics and an elegant preamble on Gen Pop’s intentions and reflections, perhaps the finest piece of writing I’ve read in a punk record’s liner notes maybe ever. If you haven’t noticed Gen Pop before, now seems like an appropriate time!
Seems like every hip zoomer is dressing like a ’90s sitcom parody these days, which is my snap-judgment of Gooch on the cover of his Caught Up In You EP (presuming that’s him pictured and not Oliver Tree’s cousin or something). I suppose I understand it and don’t understand it, but one thing I do understand is soft-rock-infused modern dance music, which Gooch deploys here with comfort and grace. Think Phoenix being produced by Caribou, M83 visiting Ibiza for the summer, or John Mayer laying down some sweet licks on a Prins Thomas track. The live instrumentation pushes these songs to a more palatable and believable dimension, particularly as all the players are tight (the bassist runs the neck with ease) and the songs snap into motion, allowing Gooch to repeat mindless lyrics like “I like this groove / you like this groove” and me to not mind in the slightest. I picked this up because Yu Su has a remix on here, which takes “This Groove” into a choppy, dubby direction, reconfiguring that smooth jam into a trippy abstraction. Is it weird that I’d rather just hear Gooch’s smooth Balaeric pop-rock originals instead? He makes vanilla taste so good.
This is exactly where pop-punk has gone over the past decade, right? Taken over by burly dudes with beards and Chris Farley’s demeanor, dirty flannels over band t-shirts, bedsheets perpetually unlaundered? It’s not that this is a brand new genre of dude, the friendly party-animal-but-a-kid-at-heart punk guy, it’s that they’ve pretty much taken over. I had to look up pictures of Knock Over City after listening to this new 7″ EP, and I’ll be damned if they don’t precisely look the part. Guys who look like this certainly like to play music like this, a style that borrows from thick n’ heavy ’90s alternative slacker-rock (bands like Weezer, Wax and Nada Surf) and dips into semi-screamy No Idea style pop-punk emo, strongly reliant on the big chorus or sing-along hook. I’m thinking of White Reaper, Jeff Rosenstock and Diarrhea Planet, bands who seem to go from self-releasing a 7″ in the beginning of the year to playing on Conan by the end. Before you mistake my reading of this scene for jealousy or dismissal, I want to clarify that I totally get why this stuff is popular – if the hooks are there, the kids will love “whoa-ah-oh” pop-punk songs ’til the end of time – and big silly hairy slacker guys not afraid to take off their shirts and belly-flop into the pool will always offer some spark of joy, even in our otherwise depressing world. Every college town deserves at least one band halfway decent at this sort of thing, and Lowell, MA’s Knock Over City certainly make the grade.
I sit here in a mix of befuddlement and admiration when it comes to Swedish garage-rockers. Why do they love it so much? Did The Hives resound so strongly as to affect every young Swedish music fan in the two decades that followed? Seems like I get a new Swedish garage submission at least once a month, this one coming from Stockholm’s Martin Savage Gang. They might be the most generic of the recent bunch, strongly adhering to the Mummies / Rolling Stones / Johnny Thunders school of thought. That classic organ warbles over driving and familiar garage-rock progressions, with a guitarist-vocalist (presumably Martin Savage himself) who jumps and shouts. One song is even called “NYC”, with lyrics that seem to be Meet Me In The Bathroom fan-fiction. Other song titles include “Hot In The City”, “Dead And Gone” and “Back To The Nite”, which encapsulate this band’s derivative feel-good party attitude better than my limited English ever could. If this is your thing, Martin Savage Gang will make you happy, but it really has to be precisely your thing, and probably your only thing. 
The new Mosquitoes EP has finally arrived from Ever/Never, Covid-based delays be damned. Since their very first 7″ EP, I’ve been enjoying this English group’s curious experiments, loosely structured around the holy trinity of guitar/bass/drums, and my enthusiasm has only strengthened over time. This new one, a nine-“song” EP, skitters and scatters with the best of ’em. The general description of the group hasn’t changed – think a jazzy Sightings spending a week in This Heat’s Cold Storage studio with exclusively low-volume amplifiers – but the various crevasses and crannies from which their sounds creep are as fascinating and palatable as ever. Through much of Minus Objects, the guitar takes up negative space, like a faint odor of burning wires in a clandestine laboratory. The percussion is directionless and propulsive for the most part, exhibiting agitation and energy without ever moving from point A to point B. Last but not least, I’d say the bass-guitar is most responsible for Mosquitoes’ signature sound, as it usually sounds suspiciously like a normal bass, one that finds slippery runs up and down the neck, buried deep in the haunted gap between Charles Mingus and Rancid’s Matt Freeman. In this time of miserable fear and uncertainty, there’s an eerie calm to Minus Objects, like a yoga session in a scrapyard under the dark orange skies of San Francisco. “Minus Object Four” is a deep meditative chant, but you can still smell the poisonous dust on their breath.
If you’re a fan of either of these gents, and I’m sure many of you are, how could you not be excited for this one? It’s one of those rare situations where you’re awaiting a new record that you know is gonna be good, but you also have no idea what it’ll actually sound like. Those were my expectations, at least, and The Dishwashers has certainly exceeded them, a full-length that’s at once sweetly charming and confoundingly inscrutable. Recorded in London, The Dishwashers carries more of Lambkin’s environmental distortions than Nace’s electric guitar noise, but seeing as Lambkin’s aesthetic carries a stronger gravitational pull, sucking everything else into it, I’m not surprised. This leads to meticulously edited incidental sounds (the local birds and automobiles of London) as well as extended cymbal drones(?), bowed strings(??), a friendly Om chanting (two takes, in fact), unintelligible mutterings and acoustic guitar actually played in the manner one would normally play an acoustic guitar. Though there’s no electric guitar noise at all, at least from what I can deduce, Nace seems perfectly at home, picking tasteful acoustic chords around Lambkin’s various rustlings and improper microphone placements. “Egg Shell Moon” might encapsulate their dual approach best, as it features a long and tender guitar improvisation, which is then heard in what seems to be an immediate playback off one of their iPhones, allowing the listener to be joined by Nace and Lambkin, not as active participants but eager listeners as well. Paradoxically, it’s a record that’s all dull moments, but never a dull moment. Recommended!
Next time you go to your mom’s house, you can unpack your oversized grunge t-shirts from high school and throw them on eBay for a few hundred bucks, but you might be more tempted to start wearing them again if Narrow Head’s 12th House Rock hits you the way it hit me. The Texan group basically replicates Siamese Dream with stunning accuracy, filling it out with pitch-perfect guitar grooves borrowed directly from Hum, Foo Fighters and Sunny Day Real Estate. It’s like an alternate world almost, one where Smashing Pumpkins immediately followed Siamese Dream with another album that sounded just like it, free from the overblown grandeur of Mellon Collie. It’s a pretty brazen move, this level of blatant stylistic allegiance, but I love the hell out of Siamese Dream, and it’s been a total pleasure to hear this relatively new band replicate its compelling sound, right down to those high-wire guitar solos that streak across the sky. Of course, it’s not purely a Pumpkins’ affair – compare the intro of “Stuttering Stanley” to Jimmy Eat World’s “Clarity” for example – and there are moments when I’m almost certain Dave Grohl is chanting “the best!” in the vocal booth next door, but perhaps that collaboration is still pending. The perfect soundtrack for attempting skateboard flip-tricks in empty parking lots with your friends, pre-driving age, pre-discovery of underground punk, although I’m surely projecting a little bit (okay, a lot). It’s such an odd feeling when something new immediately transports you back.
On the first inner sleeve to be pulled out of this double-LP gatefold, Obnox’s twenty releases are pictured, dating back to 2011. That’s eleven albums and nine singles, and quite an achievement, all from the tirelessly-working Lamont Thomas who must’ve written, what, almost 200 songs across all of them? I’ve identified at least eight of these records that I’ve heard, all of which present a wide range of sounds, from blown-out molten garage to loop-based hip-hop, all of which feels distinctively “Obnox”. This new collection, Savage Raygun, presents more of the same, which is good news for anyone who doesn’t have enough Obnox in their lives already. There’s still plenty of blown-out garage-punk, but I’d say that takes somewhat of a backseat (or perhaps “rides shotgun” is more appropriate) to the beats, of which no fewer than five producers are credited. It goes from dusty jazz-looped boom-bap to aggro rap-rock territory and back again, with moments that have me imagining Moodymann running through the streets with his three-piece suit on fire. Racism is the main target in the accompanying artwork and notes, as well as the songs, although with any Obnox recording, an emphasis on his love of weed as well as copious amounts of braggadocio (and rightfully so) pad it out. If you or I were to attempt the equation of “garage-punk + hip-hop”, it’d surely fall apart in a foolish mess, but Obnox weaves common threads through all of his varied approaches (mostly via his recognizable voice and rippling sonic hiss), as if his methodology for making noisy, swagger-y music was the only way to do it. 
One thing that I love about old British HC guys is their willingness to be silly. There’s a very particular strain of that in English punks over fifty, guys who were in legendary and respected groups in the ’80s who are now content to go by names like Dr. Shitewanker and wear a monocle as a gag, and there’s something to that eternal taking of the piss that I find endearing. Pi$$er is a pretty good example, just check this resume: ex-members of Doom, Anti-Cimex, Sore Throat and a dozen other (and lesser) groups across the past three-or-more decades. And now, they’re doing this band, which is heavy anthemic d-beat… with a twist. The twist being that a saxophone is played nearly continuously, either mimicking the guitar riff or adding an additional harmony to the tried-and-true d-beat hardcore sound. It can’t help but slightly resemble Voodoo Glow Skulls to me, what with the moderately-fast tempo and heavy guitars and honking horn, but I guess it’s not particularly a bad thing? If you’re anti-horn, just forget about Crushed Down To Paste right now, but if you’ve got a decent tolerance (or maybe perhaps even enjoy horns in hardcore?) Pi$$er are pretty fun, particularly on a song like “Problem”, which sounds like classic Doom thrust into a wild three-ring circus. It almost seems unfair to the guys in Chaos UK that none of them were invited to join Pi$$er, but they’re probably working on their own trombone-centric hardcore side-project as I speak.
Usually, 2010 doesn’t seem that long ago, but then I’ll hear a band like Ray Gun and remember that bash n’ crash lo-fi garage-noise hasn’t been in the spotlight for quite a while now. I realize the cycle of nostalgia is ever shortening, but I’m in the mood for any band that isn’t more god-forsaken gothic dream-pop, and this three-song single from Nashville’s Ray Gun is hitting me nicely. “Lunkhead” sounds like Homostupids at the wrong speed, care of the deep bass, relaxed (yet thrashy) tempo and general noisy escapades, certainly befitting the title. “Seance” feels more like a classic Mayyors-style race to the bottom, not as powerful as Mayyors were (no one is) but a fun romp nonetheless. “I Am The Rat” gets the b-side to itself, and it’s their finest moment, sounding like a Dangerhouse 45 skipping in place before lurching into a closing-time sweep of the floor, pushing the crushed cans and cigarette butts into a pile. Guitarist Wes Salton even finds time to shred out a solo, as if to demonstrate that playing the guitar isn’t simply an aggressive release, it can also be fun. Based on their Nashville residence, I’m betting that Jack White either absolutely loves or hates Ray Gun – there simply isn’t room for anything in-between.
Without a doubt, the allure of writing and performing disaffected post-hardcore music has reached all corners of the first-world. That certainly includes Dublin, Ireland, the home of Shifting, who deliver their menacing, occasionally-mathy / occasionally-noisy rock music as though it were bad news. The bass provides a morse-code pulse, the drums lock into unsettling formations, the guitar scrapes and cuts in and out, and whoever’s doing the vocals (I can’t find credits anywhere – could be more than one member?) speaks, screams or grunts. I like it best on the songs that are subdued and quieter, like b-side opener “Big Bottle” – the rhythm recalls the off-kilter swing of US Maple, and the spoken vocals are so deadpan that I can’t determine if they’re serious or seriously kidding. It certainly fits in line with playfully antagonistic groups like My Disco and Harvey Milk, whereas much of the rest of the record can feel like a diet Metz, or something in the more traditional Fugazi / Shellac orbit – good if not particularly noteworthy. It’s not a style that is lacking in records to choose from, after all, so while It Was Good was good, I am hopeful their next release will be great.
Albany’s Sky Furrows are a newish band of oldish people playing an underrated form of music: talking post-punk. You know the style, where the band just kinda cycles through the same looping chord changes with nary a chorus or bridge, and the singer rants their miseries and recites their poetry over top. My two personal faves are Moss Icon and No Trend (in the form of “Teen Love”), and lucky for me, both of those specific styles are emulated here. “Ensenada” is in Moss Icon mode, with a mournful bass groove and spindly guitar squeaks leading vocalist Karen Schoemer to delve deep into her third eye as she inventories a dusty fever dream. “Foreign Cities” is the upbeat rocker befitting “Teen Love”, or maybe even Saccharine Trust’s most artful moments on Paganicons. Or maybe I’m only reminded of Saccharine Trust because of “On Alyosha”, its lyrics mentioning SST Records and Raymond Pettibon by name. For this sorta thing to work, the lyrics have to be powerful enough and the music has to support them, and I’d say Sky Furrows succeed on both counts, although I prefer Schoemer’s more esoteric musings to her conversational banter, though it all works. Come to think of it, my favorite talking-punk tune is probably “Murdering The Brady Bunch” by Deathrage, have you heard that one? Sky Furrows, if you’re reading this, and ever needed a song to cover…
If underground punk had a hotly-anticipated album this summer, it’s gotta be Special Interest’s sophomore debut, care of Thrilling Living (and Night School across the pond). I’ve heard nothing but good things about this New Orleans group, but had yet to actually hear them until The Passion Of arrived. Apparently their live show is unbeatable (and there’s nary a more photogenic punk band around these days), so whenever that becomes a thing we can do again, they’re first on my list. After spinning The Passion Of a few times, it becomes clear how they could be the rare group to outshine both Limp Wrist and Boy Harsher in respective opening slots. Theirs is a demented, misshapen techno-punk that surely propagates sweaty dancing like mold on month-old fruit. My favorite cuts are the ones that hit the hardest, like “Homogenized Milk” and “Don’t Kiss Me In Public”. The programmed drums, choppy guitars and churning bass of “Don’t Kiss Me In Public” strongly recall Men’s Recovery Project’s later material – hold up MRP’s “Frank And Judy” or “Vote Fraud On The Moon Base” and it’s practically a mirror image some twenty years apart. Not all the tracks carry that same energy, however, and there are times where I find myself drifting, surely due to the vinyl’s quiet (or at least not-loud) mastering and the tendency of the lower frequencies to blend together. (And while I’m at it, the vocals could’ve benefited from a boost in the mix, but please, someone pull me out of the producer’s chair already.) “Street Pulse Beat” is another standout, spacious and tuneful and sounding like it could’ve been a Yeah Yeah Yeahs stadium hit, of all things. Of course, Special Interest will be blasting it in basements instead, and I hope to find myself in one of those eventually, sporting my black PVC catsuit with my back pressed firmly against the wall.
Just when weird-punk outsiders The Coltranes started to get cooking, it seems they’ve broken up, or at least taken some time out to exist as Spyroids instead. Like much of the SPHC roster, this EP is immature and un-trendy music made by punks who will never headline a fly-in destination fest (assuming those someday return). Save for the snarling, cartoon-villain vocalist, Spyroids are completely synthetic, utilizing synths and drum machines for the entirety of their productions. They’re still writing punk songs though, just bleeped out via keyboards programmed to Euro-trance settings. Sounds like Digital Octopus covering FNU Ronnies, or Gag given an Atom & His Package makeover (how does Gag & His Package sound?). Music made by weird angry punk nerds who are somehow both annoying wimps and a little scary and intimidating, depending on the time of day. If it goes on much longer where we can’t see each other or do things together, I can see more and more punk bands turning inward like this, becoming as synthetic and disturbed as Spyroids.
Can’t help but get the impression that Ontario-based punk rockers Tommy & The Commies chose their name based on its irreverent rhyme scheme, not because they have any sort of actual Communist affiliation. It’s funny, because I feel like most of the modern-day punk bands I enjoy are far more likely to actually espouse Marxist beliefs than shoot for a goofy pun (although the truly exceptional ones manage to do both). Whatever the case, Tommy & The Commies insist on having a good time, which is possibly more prevalent in Canada than anywhere else in North America at the moment. Their songs certainly help matters, as this trio offers a tightly-wound, speedy power-pop sound that gets as close to classic Buzzcocks as anyone can without directly covering “Orgasm Addict”. It’s a clear homage, but they are such technical experts (and Tommy Commy has the perfect sour-sweet sneer) that tapping one’s toe (or ramping up into a pogo) seems downright inevitable. I know there’s a market for this, the well-beyond-teenage crowd that still wears leopard-print creepers and skinny ties to shows and host college-radio shows called Modern Kicks and Shake Some Action (who Tommy & The Commies will dutifully re-tweet when documented in one of their playlists). If those folks get wind of Tommy & The Commies, capitalism won’t stand a chance.
Totally Cracked is the result of “seven dudes in São José Dos Campos taking twenty-four hours out of their wild BBQ party weekend to spontaneously jam out some hardcore”, which sounds like a dream come true in our extended period of isolation. I get the impression that the personnel involved play in other bands, both Brazilian and American, as Bala Boi Biblia takes aim at both Bolsonaro and Trump, two sides of the same turd. While these are definitely rudimentary hardcore-punk tunes that could be written, rehearsed and recorded in a span of a few hours, the drummer clearly knows their way around traditional fast-core drumming, the guitarist stabs in and out with glee, and the bassist could be playing the same messy bass-line for every song, the tone is so muddy and raw. Which, in this instance, is of course a net positive. I’m reminded of bands like Mellakka, Kaaos and Rupture (sonically, not lyrically, speaking), which is interesting as the promo writeup references traditional American acts like Minor Threat and Circle Jerks as inspiration – neither of those groups ever got as dirty and panicky as Totally Cracked does here. I certainly love hardcore-punk as a thoughtfully-considered form of raging energy, but I also love it as a social pastime among friends, which is clearly Totally Cracked’s lane. Let’s hope their contributions here help de-crack the world by some small margin.
Syncro System was responsible for those radiant Strange Passage records, so being unfamiliar with The Umbrellas I trusted some sort of sweet indie-pop bliss to come wafting out of my speakers like a friend’s warm greeting. Turns out my assumptions are occasionally correct, as these four tunes are picture-perfect indie-pop tunes, exactly how we’d want them. The drums are bright and grooving, the guitars chime like wedding bells, and the vocals are tender and close. Two Umbrellas share vocal duties, “Matt F” and “Morgan S”, and they compliment each other nicely, presumably Morgan with a hushed tunefulness redolent of Rose Melberg and Matt with more of a restrained murmur, coffee on his breath but smelling pretty good, actually. While this style of music can often feel sorry for itself (and I admit, I love it when it does), these songs are fairly optimistic and uplifting, falling somewhere between Go Sailor and Another Sunny Day if I had to aim for a target. Vocals aside, “Visions” recalls the moodier b-side of the first Clap Your Hands Say Yeah album, a record that I think I’ll go put on right now, actually. Why? Because The Umbrellas put me in a good mood, that’s why!
What do you get if it’s dream-pop without the pop? Vestals’ Holy Origin is as good of an answer I can think of, a barely-there spritz of shoegaze perfume, both intoxicating and vaporous. It’s the solo project of a woman named Lisa McGee, and these songs take a deep dip into dubbed-out shoegaze effects, with McGee’s resonant vocals used as both melodic leads and percussive additives (check the slippery “Pale Lips”, which sounds like Hooverphonic in Augustus Pablo’s studio). Strong Grouper vibes too, although in an entirely different outfit – swap Grouper’s rustic, self-enforced solitude for a new-age 4AD cosmetic sheen. Maybe if Grouper moved to LA and joined a macrobiotic cult, her music would come closer to that of Holy Origin. It’s easy for this record to fade into the background, by virtue of its incessant sparseness, but if you can find the means to focus on it (which I have, albeit not every time), Vestals’ timid beauty reveals itself. I’d try listening to it while taking a long mineral bath, but I’d permanently prune up before ever thinking about getting out.
No shortage of cool punk happening in Melbourne and surrounding estates, particularly not on Anti Fade’s watch. This is Vintage Crop’s third album, and it feels very much in sync with a small handful of like-minded punk bands operating today. I don’t think there’s a name for this particular style (closer to egg than chain, but truly neither) – it features taut post-punk guitar lines, simplistic drum patterns and a vocalist who purposely sounds like some hapless television announcer, insinuating that we’re all in on the joke together because of how phony their pleasant disposition is. Uranium Club are probably the progenitors of the style (although roots can surely be traced back to DEVO and Flipper), but Cleveland groups like Knowso and Perverts Again share similar traits, as do San Francisco’s Toyota. The strongest common thread seems to be a lyrical focus on banal domesticity: songs about walking your dog, watching Netflix, going grocery shopping, paying the cell phone bill and the like, all presented with a defeated cheerfulness that’s a by-product of our sad late-stage capitalist society. Whew! I’d say I’m generally a supporter of this aesthetic (at least until it becomes too watered-down by the eventual copycats), and Vintage Crop do it well, bopping across their charming and well-choreographed post-punk songs, sounding like a pop-punk Crucifucks on “Streetview” and reminding me of Henge Beat-era Total Control when the synths show up on the title track (a title referencing a local supermarket named Piedimonte’s trademark slogan, which brings us back to the theme of domestic inspiration). If only Vintage Crop had written “Smoko” instead, they’d be moving out of their suburban bungalows and into big-city high-rise condos, but few of us are so lucky.
San Fran’s Violent Change are at it again, this time with a new four-song EP. If you’re not already familiar, they sound like the exact opposite of what you might presume a band reviewed in these pages called Violent Change to sound like – this is lo-fi, brittle, disorienting indie-pop that offers no help to any listener trying to sort things out. I’d probably hurt myself worse moshing to Violent Change than Side By Side, in fact. Anyway, “Squandered” kicks it off with an easy groove, recalling a garbled tape copy of Ariel Pink’s Before Today, and it’s followed by the pastoral “Production Life”, which sounds like Eat Skull covering Flying Burrito Brothers under the instruction of Jandek. Appropriate title, as the production is what makes Violent Change so consistently distinct. You can hear everything, but only if you squint hard enough, a sort of sonic Magic Eye painting that can easily recede into white noise without the proper focus. Those a-side tunes were in stereo, and the b-side duo are in mono, what surely must’ve been a considered choice and not a last resort. “Open Space” and “Dreary Example” are two other cute pop tunes decimated by their lo-fi qualities. On “Open Space”, the drums are more of a feeling than a sound, or maybe they really only played a kick-drum on this one? “Dreary Example” offers a bit more clarity, even though the vocals are smeared beyond recognition. If it’s too obliterated-sounding for you to enjoy, feel free to listen to literally any other band, as Violent Change continue to wear their obliteration with pride.
Seems to me like it’d be cooler if the band was called Mindless Dolls and the album was called Wild City, but it’s not my call now is it? This Melbourne group went the DIY route on their debut album, so they can do whatever they want. And rightfully so, as Mindless Dolls is quite good! It’s a classically-informed take on smoky punk rock, and for as by-the-books as it might be, they get a lot of mileage out of the equation. I’m hearing almost equal parts of The Saints, Redd Kross, The Scientists and Wipers here, and seeing as Wild City secured a lively and raw (but not lo-fi) recording, and know how to write their own songs, I’d say it’s a winner. There are moments that remind me that this group must surely be fans of Eddy Current, but mostly it’s more traditional and dare-I-say darker than anything Eddy Current ever offered. “It’s For Your Own Good” stands out too, recalling The Gun Club’s swampy punk-noir, the sort of thing that necessitates wearing opaque sunglasses indoors. I’d imagine that if Wild City remain without a label to call their own much longer, it will be strictly by their own choosing.
Nice to know that even in this time of widespread information sharing, some European punk bands still sound decidedly like European punk bands. That’s the case with Groningen’s Youth Deprivation, a fairly new group whose self-applied Bandcamp tags are “anarcho punk”, “deathrock”, “hardcore” and “noise punk”. They thank Rudimentary Peni for inspiration, a group who never seem to have been more popular than right now, as well as Pleasant Valley Children, a British anarcho-hardcore group the world seems to have all but forgotten. Of the two, I hear more of Pleasant Valley Children in the music of Youth Deprivation, care of the brittle and flanger-effected riffing, gruff vocals and vaguely-metallic late ’80s sound. The lyrical themes are certainly of our time, with an emphasis on anti-fascism, anti-bigotry and pro-mental health, but the music sounds as though it were plucked from 1987 or so, those lean years when hardcore fell apart in service to thrash-metal and those sticking with the style were making their historically-worst albums. Behind The Lids ventures into different tempos and rhythms, from full-speed hardcore-punk to discordant post-hardcore, crusty pop-punk and proto-Amp Rep atonal noise-rock, but they never seem to find a firm footing in any of these sounds, or perhaps they’re still finding it. 
Hadn’t heard of Zeel before this 12″ EP collecting two of their cassettes (cassingles, really) arrived at my door, but based on Tall Texan’s track record I was certainly curious! The colorful cartoon art adds intrigue, but a few songs in, it’s clear what Zeel’s deal is – rootsy indie-rock with an emphasis on rock. It surely goes back to Dinosaur Jr. and Meat Puppets for these guys, but I’m hearing Purling Hiss’s later-period full-band material on opener “A Star Will Shine”, and “Hard Rock On Easy Street” is pure Neil Young by-way-of Milk Music. I’m also reminded of Milk Music’s boldness (read: absolute fearlessness in the face of blatant corniness) when “Revolution” kicks in with a direct rip of the first half of the eternal “Ziggy Stardust” riff. It’s funny, I can remember a time when ripping off someone else’s idea, or even the possible consideration of borrowing a few similar notes, was career-suicidal for bands both underground and mainstream, but now no one really cares anymore – everyone is ripping off everyone else on some level at least, and I can’t even personally remember if I care, or ever cared, about it. That’s not to say that Zeel are egregious rip-offs – they most certainly aren’t, they just have a clear set of canon influences and pay homage to them in a respectable (and enjoyable to listen to) way. Seems like a good percentage of my friends who still like rock music mostly want to recline in their easy-chairs and throw on something like Zeel to ease their weary minds at the end of the day, music that is more likely to rep The Grateful Dead than Black Flag, and much as I’d like to explain why they’re absolutely wrong in doing so, I find myself struggling to make a compelling case.
What’s next for Tall Texan, records by Zoinks and Zyklome A? Zzzwalk is pronounced “sleepwalk”, although in my experience it’s much more fun to actually say “zzzwalk”, sounding like an unreleased Sleep Chamber song or something. Anyway, from what I gather they’re Brooklyn-based, featuring members of The Men and Psychic Ills backing up Jon “Catfish” DeLorme on a musical excursion that sounds very much like the album cover, an old-time glitzy neon cowboy sign flickering in the night. These songs are honky-tonk indie-country, fairly traditional in execution as well as delivery, although there’s probably a better chance your average War On Drugs fan might add something from Holy Royal Casino to their Spotify playlist as opposed to George Jones or Ernest Tubb. Tall Texan references Beachwood Sparks in Zzzwalk’s sound, which I can certainly hear, although this focus is more on classic-country storytelling than field-of-flowers psychedelia (though there’s some of that in there too). I dunno, so much of this style, particularly when played by any sort of contemporary artist, sounds like a polished take on the Beverly Hillbillies theme song to me, but then again someone who primarily loves this stuff might say that all punk music sounds like that “punky Chips Ahoy” commercial, which is probably an equally inaccurate sentiment. Highly appropriate tuneage for a label that calls itself Tall Texan, no doubt.
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