Alien Nosejob Stained Glass LP (Anti Fade / Total Punk)
Fifth full-length in as many years here from Melton, Australia’s Alien Nosejob (the enduring solo affair of one Jake Robertson). If you’ve followed his work, you know that Alien Nosejob can veer from sneering, distorted punk rock to synth-based disco-pop, sometimes in the same breath. With the Total Punk stamp of approval on Stained Glass, I expected no funny business, and I was correct – this record is non-stop party punk the way Mother Nature intended. Guitars are front and center, hip-shaking and peacocking in the vein of the first-wave punk that descended from The Rolling Stones, Alice Cooper and Mott The Hoople. Of all the Alien Nosejob records I’ve heard (and I’ve heard quite a few), Stained Glass wears the tightest pants for sure. The consistent swagger and pub-rock grooving reminds me of Vanity before they went full Oasis mode, as well as beloved natives like AC/DC and Rose Tattoo (though you can tell these songs are played by a devoted record nerd, not a ballroom bully). “Shuffling Like Coins” follows “Shuffle Boogie” and it might be the most AC/DC-ish tune here, yet somehow distinctly different from other hard-rock worshipping Aussie punks like The Chats and Amyl & The Sniffers (whose global domination seems to remain on the rise). Might be too late for Robertson to give himself an ironic mullet, but tunes this fun and tough don’t need a silly haircut to get by.
Arbor Labor Union Yonder LP (Sophomore Lounge)
Arbor Labor Union fit check: on the inner band photo, we’ve got two out of four wearing floppy farmer hats and three out of four in button-up flannels. Long hair is abundant, too. Seems perfectly appropriate for a band playing this sort of sun-dazed indie-rock, as I want this kinda music to be made by folks who politely avoid the straight world, those too obsessed with their guitars or insistent upon sleeping ’til noon to push papers around for money. There’s no hiding Arbor Labor Union’s southern roots in these frisky guitar songs (they’re from Atlanta), though their most direct sonic resemblance comes from the west – the Meat Puppets vibe here is too strong for any head (sober or toasted) to ignore. It’s kind of impossible to rip off the Meat Puppets though, and Arbor Labor Union don’t try, they simply arrive at similarly acid-country-fried conclusions, handling these playful ditties with a soft firmness no matter how fast the drummer is playing. Plus, you really need some high-caliber chops to be compared to Meat Puppets, and Arbor Labor Union have got the stuff, doling out double-helix guitar lines with ease and comfort, even if I’m sweating just listening to these dazzling, curvy melodies. Classic rock ignited by punk and smoothed out by indie, Yonder is a pleasant trip for all living generations, from our parents to our kids and us in the middle.
Michael Beach EP 12″ (Goner / Poison City)
There’s no shortage of loudmouths in the world of underground rock – it’s pretty much the perfect place for such personalities – so I gotta hand it to Melbourne’s Michael Beach, who strikes me as the exact opposite type of guy. The benefit of being a quiet and considered person is that when you actually do bother to speak, people listen, which is what I’ve been doing with this great new EP of his, co-released by Goner and Poison City. Understated to the core, Beach’s vibe exists solely on the strength of his songs, a risky move if you want to be famous but a solid move if you’ve legitimately got the goods. Hell, the cover art here looks like basically nothing at all, but those clued in to Michael Beach will surely savor EP like I am. Beach has always been kind of the king of basement-rock balladry, and it’s directly apparent here, pairing brash rockers like “Out In A Burning Alley” with the low-lit swirl of “Have You Ever”. I’m reminded a bit of fellow kindhearted Michael-named rocker Mike Polizze, though Polizze’s warm and appealing style is more Dinosaur Jr-minded whereas Beach dips far deeper into the influence of Neil Young. Beach even wraps the EP with sit-down piano ballad “Only A Memory”, a gorgeously sad closer that reminds me of what it was like to listen to Red House Painters alone on a rainy day before we all knew what a disgusting POS Mark Kozelek is. I’d say that I hope Michael Beach stays good, but I have complete faith that he will.
Ervin Berlin Junior’s Got Brain Damage 7″ (Total Punk Archives)
Your move, Ryebread: the Total Punk posse just pulled an ace out of who knows where, reissuing this hitherto unknown sleeveless punk chestnut. Hailing from somewhere in central Florida circa 1980, Ervin Berlin is apparently the work of an acid burnout in his late 20s (an elderly status for anyone playing punk rock in 1980) and a couple of neighborhood troublemakers, and it’s crazy that a single this delightfully amateur and undeniably punk laid untouched for this long. “Junior’s Got Brain Damage” is like the high school bully equivalent of The Generics’ “The Bitt”; imagine if Jacky Shark met up with Randy & The Goats in a Kroger parking lot and you’ll get even closer to the Ervin Berlin sound. B-sides to singles like these are often a toss-up – cheesy instrumentals or novelty tunes are not uncommon – but Ervin Berlin shakes even more action with “Last Time”, recalling Dust loading out at CBGBs as The Dead Boys load in. If Ervin Berlin ever laid down any other tracks, I sure hope the Total Punk archivist has access to those, as these two cuts are too kick-ass to not explore further. I wonder if the underground archivists of the 2040s will find a way to unearth the unheard gems of our time. What will they have to do, locate dead SoundCloud links and Bandcamp downloads?
Carnivorous Bells Room Above All LP (Human Headstone Presents)
“Post-hardcore” is such an ugly term, practically a pejorative at this point, and yet Philadelphia’s Carnivorous Bells are filling it with sparkling new life, managing to point beyond hardcore without losing any of its imperative qualities (harshness, fury, disgust, disbelief). Their first album was a cool way to enter the room, a buttoned-up take on the scalding styles of The Jesus Lizard and Saccharine Trust, and Room Above All moves well beyond that into some new category the rest of us have to catch up with. I’ve loved guitarist David Vassalotti’s playing since his Merchandise days, and he pushes himself further than ever before here. When he noodles, it’s captivating, when he rips through his jagged chords it’s invigorating, and when he shoots for the stars I’m reminded of Sir Richard Bishop or Magma, untouchable giants of underground rock. The group shifts from simmering, jazzy tension to fast-paced ‘core with the dexterity of a Russian gymnast, and when they do play fast it’s never the sort of thing you can predict – tracks like “The Master’s Plate” and “A Frigid Mass” are unlike any hardcore I’ve heard (maaaaybe Spike In Vain?) but I’d feel wrong categorizing them anywhere else. As is the case with their debut, these sharply-angled songs don’t lend themselves to easy vocal patterns, but vocalist Matthew Adis sounds completely at home here, squelching his larynx or softly singing as he deems appropriate (like on the acoustic-grunge-turned-math-rock “Perfectly Still”). This group always had potential to be something completely unique and great, and by jove they’ve done it here!
Center Over The Stations LP (Bruit Direct Disques)
New one here from the ever-restless Stefan Christensen and crew (Ian McColm and Dave Shapiro aka Alexander) under the plain-jane moniker of Center. Ironic then that the music of Center is the furthest out-there that these guys get, miles beyond traditional song-form toward realms of barely-there improv and beleaguered frequencies. These tracks utilize guitars alongside a host of junk-store instrumentation, bent and fractured pieces like you might expect from the Open Mouth label. They’re likely to let a single tone evaporate over the sound of recycled air or see what happens when you leave a guitar plugged in for over 24 hours… if anything comes close to a major chord, Center take lengths to disguise it. I suppose it helps to understand the rulebook if you’re going to throw it out a moving window, and as these three are more than capable of crafting orthodox guitar songs, it’s fun to hear them dissect and rearrange things so fully. If standard rock n’ roll is mozzarella string cheese, then Center are the wispy tendrils pulled from it, misshapen strands as wide as a thumbnail and thin as a horsehair. Equally delicious, really.
CIA Debutante The Punch / The Garden 7″ (Digital Regress)
Much like the real CIA, CIA Debutante tried to quietly slip this past us at the end of last year, but I’m on high alert for warped post-punk electronics such as theirs. These two new songs are welcome transmissions from fans of the duo, and if you’re not already hip to CIA Debutante, why not start now? It comes to us from Digital Regress after all, one of the few American distribution lifelines for much of the post-noise European underground. “The Punch” drips and drops some sort of disconcerting story, a beacon between the darkened shores of Cabaret Voltaire and the tiny Call Back The Giants ship out floating on the cloudy sea. The vocals are discernible yet tweaked, like they’re coming from a TV you thought you turned off. “The Garden” is motionless in comparison, a faded transmission across AM frequencies whose synthetic pulse lulls us unconscious… this is probably what it sounded like when SPK went to sleep back in 1979. No resolution or tidy conclusion, just some light electronic clanging as digestif, perfectly suited for the seven-inch single format.
The Cool Greenhouse Sod’s Toastie LP (Melodic)
Trying to imagine the type of person who would hate on The Cool Greenhouse, and while I struggle to draft their exact personality profile, I know for sure I wouldn’t want to spend any time with them! This British group (guy?) is an absolute hoot, and their minimalist poppy post-punk is at the height of its powers on Sod’s Toastie. Their songs are generally repetitive and groovy by design, with stripped-down drums (often of a pre-programmed synthetic nature), easy rock guitars and a splash of electronics/keys as needed. The vocals of Tom Greenhouse are the signature twist, as his softly-spoken short stories flow elegantly and hilariously over these cyclical grooves, only on occasion offering up any sort of repeated chorus line if warranted. The Fall are an obvious and significant comparison, though there isn’t even a hint of bile or fury within The Cool Greenhouse – you could play these songs for a room full of elementary school children and they’d happily bop about, the sly adult references zooming innocently over their heads. I don’t know what Greenhouse means when he says “It’s like Windows 98 in here”, but at the same time I know exactly what he means, as he communicates modern life in such a casual, breezy and spot-on way through these songs. After all, this is the only band I’m aware of that’s written a song about Amazon’s Alexa, one of the more insidious inhabitants of our world, and their style is keenly refined throughout Sod’s Toastie.
Discreet This Is Mine LP (Convulse)
Intriguing new hardcore unit outta Austin, TX here, featuring a few Total Abuse fellas, a Nosferatu guy and a Philly ex-pat who used to be in Creepoid. Discreet certainly lean closest to the Total Abuse aesthetic of the three groups mentioned, what with Hospital Productions-style design and a provocative aesthetic that has me thinking at least one member of Discreet can quote Peter Sotos from memory. If that sounds kind of tired, allow me to assure you that the music of Discreet is in fact quite invigorating and fresh… sure, it’s noisy hardcore-punk with metallic riffing at its core, but it’s delivered with an intensity and commitment that goes beyond your average pastiche of influences. I can’t help but think of all the bands that took influence from Brainbombs in the ’10s and went nowhere with it, and how Discreet actually imbue their songs with menace, misery and drain-swirling riffage. Certainly no Brainbombs worship here, but it feels like Discreet thoughtfully bare some similarities. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the singer’s voice is a 99% match for a young Hank Rollins… I can practically hear the Einstürzende tattoo materializing on his bicep as these tracks plow through. It’s an uncanny similarity, the sort of throat you’re born with or not, and he enunciates with that same weary Get In The Van bitterness, like he’s slept on a pile of cardboard in a friend’s attic for the past month and is singing at an audience he hates. Just check “A Bug In A Jar” if you want to see what I mean: it’s the sort of Rollins-fronting-Brainbombs brutalizer that’ll knock even the sturdiest Chat Pile fan on their butt.
Empty People Empty People LP (Carnalismo)
Just as I was starting to recover from the danked-out haze of Frank Marchi’s solo album, this Empty People album on his Carnalismo imprint is here to ensure the whites of my eyes remain bloodshot. Empty People are a bass / drums / vocals trio featuring Frank Marchi on bass, Tombs’s Andrew Hernandez on drums and none other than Oxbow’s Eugene Robinson on vocals! Perhaps unsurprisingly, Marchi’s musical history seems to have the strongest presence here, resulting in a manic riot of grind, dirge-core and power-violence, very much in the Deep Six / 625 Productions school of thought. Marchi runs up and down his bass like ’90s Eric Wood, absolutely dominating the field while Robinson barks and growls across two vocal tracks. Along with the liberally-applied squealing electronics that pepper these tunes, what else could you need? Few people could sing songs called “Street Beef Stroganoff” and “Drug Burn” with legitimate ownership, but Robinson is one of them, the perfect foil to the unhinged squall that forms Hernandez and Marchi’s rhythms. Had Empty People shown up in 1998, they’d surely have been one of the hottest Slap A Ham acts, doing split EPs with No Less or No Comply, but instead they’re somehow here with us now, decades after hardcore’s power-violence evolution, reminding us of the unmatched brutality this form of hardcore can provide.
Equipment Pointed Ankh From Inside The House LP (Bruit Direct Disques)
The first couple Equipment Pointed Ankh records I checked out passed through here happily and somewhat uneventfully… I knew I dug this loose-limbed musical collective of Midwestern weirdos, but none of their material (besides the unforgettable cover image of their live LP) really stuck around in my headspace for too long. That changes with From Inside The House! It’s an absolutely fantastic album that lured me in from the throbbing boing of “Rubber Slacks” that opens it. I feel like this is what I always wished Animal Collective sounded like: joyous and warped music made by a band with a rich appreciation for the more colorful corners of classic krautrock (lotta Can similarities) enriched by its own particularly American weirdness. The grooves here are immense, and they perfectly support bold forays into horns, bongos, banjos, probably a couple unusual synths or maybe just some usual synths made to sound unique. The b-side even features the spoken-word of newly inducted EPA member Jenny Rose, who beats Dry Cleaning at their own game without trying (or even acknowledging a game to begin with). So often, this sort of lunatic DIY post-prog indie stuff can fall apart under its own hodge-podginess, but From Inside The House is full of endlessly-replayable tracks, an exceptional work from a very cool group. Big recommendation!
Feeble Little Horse Hayday LP (Saddle Creek / Unstable Collective)
Been a minute since I got excited for a Saddle Creek release… The Faint’s Danse Macabre? Bright Eyes’ Fevers & Mirrors? There’s probably like five generations of emo that passed me by in there, but whatever it is that Pittsburgh’s Feeble Little Horse are playing, I really love it. They are a young band with a young point of view, which is to say more stressed-out and cynical than the generations that preceded them, and rightfully so! That perspective is deep within Hayday, an album of psychedelic slow-core, buzzing lo-fi indie-rock and DIY shoegaze. Reminds me a bit of Empath, as both groups plant beautifully soft melodies within a beehive of fuzz and distortion; they’re also close to No Age, Pavement and Duster when they were all young and restless. Feeble Little Horse’s secret weapon are the emo-y pop-punk hooks within these tracks – if you cleaned up songs like “Drama Queen”, “Chores” and “Termites”, Charly Bliss or Bully could masquerade them as their own hit singles, but it’s more fun hearing what Feeble Little Horse do with them anyway, what with their weird grainy edits, conspicuous overdubbing and vocal tracking. Hope I didn’t scare you with the word “emo”, you geriatrics who don’t need to buy Codeine and Bedhead reissues because you still own the originals will dig on Hayday too!
Flea Collar Flea Collar LP (Feel It)
Cleveland happily skips well into the 2020s as a continued source of demented and immature hardcore-punk. I’m still having fun with those Woodstock ’99 records, for example, and now here’s the debut from Flea Collar, who share at least one member of Woodstock ’99 (as well as their general sensibility and emotional demeanor). Which is to say, this self-titled album has songs called “Jacken It” and “Buttcrack Man”, and the group is happy to end a song with slide whistle. Their music follows the rowdy ‘core style of Woodstock ’99 alongside bands like Brown Sugar and Bad Noids (who also share personnel with Flea Collar), fast and full of personality, where nothing stands in the way of a good (ie. tasteless) joke. Not sure who the singer is (the band members all have pseudonymous, uh, dog names) but they’re doing their best Doc Dart throughout, albeit a Doc Dart who occasionally has to scream along to wild hardcore-punk. Why not emulate one of the most gloriously annoying punk vocalists of all-time if you know someone who can? So often in hardcore, the more self-serious the scene the more notoriety it receives, so it’s nice to know there’s a thriving antidote to that in Cleveland. I get the sense that if I moved there and tried to start a band called The Booger Pickers, I wouldn’t only be welcomed, I’d have multiple punks offering to play kazoo.
Franciska Tryghed LP (Discreet Music)
The hard thing about establishing an aesthetic and mining it so thoroughly and thoughtfully is, where do you go from there? This new album from Jonas Torstensson aka Franciska certainly fits the Discreet Music MO – minimalist homespun instrumentation with incidental sounds – and while Tryghed might have hit me like a brisk breath of fresh air if it existed back in 2015 or so, I’m experiencing far less excitement encountering it now. Through two unhurried and untitled sides, Franciska offers open-air piano rehearsals with occasional tape disruption, field recordings, pastoral synth drones and melancholic improvisation roughened by the crude tape it was recorded on and the hands that held it. It’s certainly not Franciska’s fault that everyone else is trying it right now, this melding of brusque New Zealand-style home-taping and soft instrumental ambience from a place of isolation, but as a fan of creative underground music the deluge of records that sound like this are dampening my enthusiasm for the micro-genre as a whole (especially in a landscape where I have to plunk down thirty-five bucks or more for a basic retail LP). The relative “anyone could do this”-ness of the style doesn’t help either, as it can be difficult to separate the inspired artists from the trend-hopping pretenders when all the (non-)music sounds remarkably alike. I hold some of these records very dearly, while at the same time wonder if I don’t need to hear another new record like this for at least a little while.
Giant Swan Fantasy Food 12″ (Keck)
Make sure you’re properly stretched, here’s a new Giant Swan EP! This Bristol duo have always taken their techno in a playfully physical direction, and while I need to spend more time with their 2019 full-length, Future Food is an immediately satisfying riot. There’s something about Giant Swan’s music that sounds more human than most British post-dubstep producers; while it’s clear they recorded in a studio, it sounds like their shirtless bodies were pressed up against the glass, writhing and kicking along to their speedy jams. That’s very much the case here, as multiple tracks utilize vocal sounds (or maybe “mouth sounds” is more accurate) throughout, from the exhaust of a gut-punched stomach to the licking of chops. Tracks like opener “Sugar And Air” remind me of the aggressive potency of Powell before he went off the avant-garde deep-end, whereas “Abacuses” has big-room potential, a sort of hairy crowd-teaser one might discover in a Nina Kraviz or Marcel Dettmann set. Giant Swan always balanced their sonic abstraction with a penchant for fist-pumping grooves, and they play those opposite ends nicely against each other throughout Fantasy Food, throwing a sweaty kick under bolts of synthetic shrapnel as if there wasn’t any other way to do it. I’d say that I hope they come to the States so I can see ’em live, but I’m not sure an American audience would know how to react to techno as fun and brutal as this.
Hot Tubs Time Machine Double Tubble LP (Spoilsport)
If you’re brave enough to read this review and not immediately skip to the next based on this band calling themselves “Hot Tubs Time Machine”, you’re a better person than I! If they hadn’t kindly sent me a copy of Double Tubble I’d have immediately erased any memory of having encountered this band’s name, but here I am, spending my personal free time listening to and thinking about them. Turns out, it could be far worse: this Melbourne duo plays a fairly cheerful form of simplistic, dance-y post-punk indie, as if LCD Soundsystem stayed in the bedroom, writing cute little inside-joke songs solely for the amusement of the band and their close friends. Drums are programmed, synths are used in a swirly electro-pop manner on some songs and a stabby post-punk technique on others, guitars generally operate outside of the spotlight and the vocals are confidently spoken. To my credit, the vocalist reminded me of the humble and disarmingly conversational style of The UV Race, and what do you know, vocalist Marcus Rechsteiner (of The UV Race) is none other than Hot Tubs Time Machine’s vocalist! It’s all starting to make sense now. He’s a real-deal weirdo through and through (I sat next to him at a bar once before realizing who he was – my personal experience confirms this), and it makes sense that he’d move from a large garage-pop ensemble to this portable duo. Rechsteiner always had a Swell Maps kind of energy about him, and it’s still evident in the synthetic oddball-pop of Double Tubble.
Lore City Under Way 7″ (Lore City Music)
I know that as a music reviewer, I’m supposed to distance myself from the word “ethereal”, but whoever made those rules must’ve never heard Lore City. How else can you describe the music of this married Portland duo? The Pure Moods drumming, cloudy hum and vaporous vocals would guide any seance into spelling out E T H E R E A L on a Ouija board immediately. Their music reminds me of Tamaryn sans designer photoshoots, or perhaps Grouper if she crafted her music to be played inside one of those hipster “provisions” shops that sells $36 olive oil, and while that may seem like a slight, I find it perfectly peaceful. Both tracks on this self-released single arrive on dark cushions of ambient tone, the second of which hovers in place for its full duration, like that one alien movie where spaceships appear in random spots all over the globe, do nothing, and everyone is wondering why. That track is called “Very Body” but they could’ve just as easily called it “Very Body (Vape Break)” and attracted an entirely new audience. Of all the things a married couple can do to spend their time together, there is far far worse than starting a dark n’ stormy 4AD indie-drone thing, and I’m glad Lore City are at it.
Melchior & Pronsato Nijinski Picnic Part Two 12″ (Foom)
Comforting minimal techno familiarity here from frequent collaborators Thomas Melchior and Bruno Pronsato. They’ve got a wealth of productions under their belts, and I sincerely appreciate that while the electronic music scene reinvents itself on a weekly basis, what with micro-genres popping up and dying with increased frequency, these guys are still doing what they’ve always done. “Candidate” is the opener, and it’s amazing that two people contributed to the mix, as it’s so streamlined and stark. A confused vocal is chopped and released over a snappy digital hi-hat, with errant synth chords forming a queasy melody. Feels very in line with Villalobos’ Sei Es Drum, which is fine by me. The same general production technique is at play with “Cumulus Ruckus (Back Version)”, a different cut-up vocal over simple rusty percussion. I dunno, this sorta thing just really works for me, to the point where such a fairly simple track bears repeated playback in my household. “Nijinski Picnic (Bells Version)” is the poppiest of the three (by comparison), though still oddly roomy and stripped-down, like the corpse of a ’90s house track reanimated barely enough for party functionality. Why cater to the trends when you can keep making music like this?
Bill Nace Through A Room LP (Drag City)
Back in the cursed year of 2020 Bill Nace released what might be considered his first “statement” solo record, Both, which was also his first for Drag City. That record rules, and Through A Room is even better! If you want to hear Nace in full-on harsh squall formation, there are lots of recordings and live documents to enjoy, but Through A Room displays him at his most considered and melodic, very much solo and lurking in the colorful maze that is his mind (possibly depicted through Dan Higgs’s cover painting). Of course, “melodic” means something different when talking about Bill Nace’s music; these songs all utilize patterns of notes and tones, but nothing remotely close to a chorus or hook is pursued. Fine by me! His guitar (and small assortment of other sound-making devices) throbs, pulses, tickles and wheezes throughout. Some songs (or should I call them “pieces”?) slowly assemble a solid form through multiple loops, whereas others shift through a single motif, wringing out every possible sound from that particular setup of gear. Through A Room occasionally calls to mind the syrupy blurt of Mark Morgan’s guitar playing on some of the later Sightings records, the motor-driven compositions of Remko Scha or the impossible-to-place preparations of Keith Rowe, though I’d imagine any dutiful reader of this website who fancies those three already picked up Through A Room and could probably tell me a thing or two about it. I’m listening!
Portable Dogs Ads In Bed / Sleeping In The Vacuum 7″ (Maternal Voice)
In contrast with immobile dogs, I suppose? It’s a fitting name for this weirder-than-weird duo (featuring a member of Dick Diver and released by the appealing Swedish label Maternal Voices), whose playful and hands-on post-punk electronics exist freely on their own. “Ads In Bed” has an inorganic rhythm that falls over itself a bit, as lively as Kraus but bearing the otherworldly keel of Idea Fire Company. It’s a song more than it is a “piece” or a “work”, but only barely. “Sleeping In The Vacuum” is a bit less stable, conjuring images of electronic boats lapping against a dock as a neon-orange sun sets in the opposite direction. It’s kinda close to Ulla’s newest album if she had a sly sense of humor about it, and not as studiously polished. Put these two tracks together and it feels like a shaky bridge over the gap between the modern post-ambient scene and the post-Kye non-musical zone of question marks… or, let’s say, the dawn of industrial tape-trading home projects upgraded with today’s modern gear. Cool that they did a seven-inch single (with art by the ever-busy James Vinciguerra no less), but I’m eager to hear what the Portable Dogs can get up to if given a full twelve inches to sprawl out upon.
The Revelons 77-82 LP (HoZac)
For each underground NYC rock band from the late ’70s that I’ve heard of, it seems there are a dozen I’ve yet to discover, a testament to the insane level of musical activity from that scene (and perhaps less flatteringly, my limited knowledge of cool bands). Take The Revelons for example, who check a lot of appealing boxes for me – primitive rock n’ roll with outlandish sassiness, proto-punk attitude and even a touch of no-wave antagonism – yet I’d never even heard of them until this archival collection from HoZac came through! They almost seem like a fictional band to me in that regard, as if I’d expect them to only exist within the world of The Deuce or some New York Dolls-inspired CBGB movie rather than the actual real New York The Revelons inhabited, so familiar are their moves (right down to the lipstick-painted band logo). Through this comprehensive collection, they offer up some Television-esque moments of contemplation alongside glittery stomps redolent of Milk & Cookies and whatever “Red Hot Woman” is – Ramones under the tutelage of Glenn Branca, perhaps? Sure, they only released a seven-inch single (on the legendary Ork!) in their day, but I feel a little foolish for not being aware of “The Way (You Touch My Hand)” before, as it hits a remarkable level of coolness, like The Rapture covering Richard Hell or something. Time to go ask Lydia Lunch if she remembers these guys – if she hasn’t knocked out or knocked up at least one of them, maybe they never were real after all.
Smirk Material LP (Feel It)
Third twelve-inch record from Smirk since 2021, the one-man song factory whose parents named him Nick Vicario. From the start, Smirk was all about stripped-down punk, tuneful strum played with a hardcore mindset and the compact, precise drumming that generally accompanies any good solo punk studio project. I’m not sure two years is really enough time to “mature” or whatever, but nevertheless Material is less rough around the edges than previous affairs – once you’ve done this a few times, you can’t help but show some signs of technical improvement, I suppose. Thankfully, Smirk is still mostly the same as it ever was; with the exception of some guest vocals, there are no dramatic shifts in the Smirk sound. Which is to say, it sounds like a tuneful update of Institute’s downer jangle, not dissimilar to Crisis, Mission Of Burma, Shoes This High and that great Hand Grenades Demo To London EP. Pretty cool sound, though even after repeated listens individual songs aren’t jumping out at me the way they did on previous records. This could be a me problem, though, as one of my close trusted confidants put Material high on his “best of 2022” list and I know he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t mean it. I’d give it some dedicated time over the next few months to see if it’ll fully click with me, but there’ll probably be a new Smirk record out by then anyway, knowing how this guy works!
Strange Attractor Good Boy Bad Boy LP (Celluloid Lunch / Discos De Muerte / Drunken Sailor)
For a while there in my neck of the internet, the term “BBQ sauce” was used pejoratively towards garage-rockers who veered in an uncool sort of -abilly direction, and now here’s Strange Attractor flaunting his love of buffalo wings on the cover, his sloppy dinner’s remnants assembled into jewelry! It helps to take a firm stance as a punk, even if it’s a doomed or idiotic one, and Jeff Houle (who appears to be the sole stockholder of Strange Attractor) plants his flag with Good Boy Bad Boy, his fourth vinyl full-length. That’s plenty of time for any punk to get a grasp on what they want to do, and in the case of Strange Attractor it’s a raucous, personality-driven punk bop, led by aggressive jangle and frustrated vocals. He seems to be having quite a bit of fun here, stomping out garage-inspired punk that reminds me of Chain Gang and Black Time with the gleefully obnoxious party attitude I’d associate with collectible classics like Freestone and Child Molesters. Kinda weird if this is simply Houle’s solo project, as these songs really do sound like they’re coming from a well-rehearsed band of garishly dressed punk weirdos rather than one guy in a room by himself. Maybe they will be someday, or there’s some sort of live formation that already exists? Who knows, technology is crazy!
Stray Bullet Factory EP 7″ (Not For The Weak)
Anyone else still having trouble accepting that British hardcore is… good? I grew up with it being a given that there was Voorhees and basically no one else, and yet I acknowledge that in the past decade or more, some of my favorite hardcore-punk and hardcore-punk-adjacent records have come from England. Virginia hardcore label Not For The Weak, on the other hand, has no problem flying the Union Jack with the second EP from Sheffield’s Stray Bullet. They share a member or two with Rat Cage, and opt for more of an American-inspired style here, a burly and energetic sound that can be traced as far back as Poison Idea, The FU’s and The Fix but sounds more like the last couple generations’ take on that “old-school” style. Which is to say, Factory wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Gloom Records in 2003 or Deranged in 2010. These songs are too complex and rich in parts to truly adhere to the first-wave sound, which of course is fine, as they do a fine job of jumping on your back and crawling between your legs in the same forty-second song. Hardcore is alive and well, even in bloody England!
Wreckage Our Time 12″ (Scheme)
When I first got into hardcore, it was likely that I’d check out a band because I loved the zine done by someone in the band or their label. Now I find myself checking out CT’s Wreckage because I love the Scheme email newsletter! It’s kind of the best case scenario of “guys being dudes”-style hardcore writing; their youthful enthusiasm is contagious. You can tell the Scheme guys truly believe in their bands, and it’s informing my enjoyment of Our Time. This is NYHC-inspired hardcore, reminiscent of Burn, Killing Time, Breakdown and Beyond without specifically aping any single group. Not a bad way to approach hardcore! These songs are energetic, metallic around the edges, aggro without being macho and avoid formulaic tendencies for the most part. The fast part in the title track comes as a pleasant surprise, and with various mosh parts in the mix (though never gratuitous), I give Our Time a firm thumbs up. I spend the majority of my hardcore listening time with bands that wear boots, and while Wreckage are clearly of a cross-training sneaker persuasion, I cannot deny what they’ve got going on here. If it doesn’t hit for you on first listen, go read the Scheme newsletter where they talk about how excited they all were to get together for Our Time‘s New Year’s Day release and see if you don’t feel the hardcore spirit bubbling up inside of you.
Big, Big Wave compilation LP (Feral Kid)
Downright impossible to find fault with this, a deeply loving compilation LP of punk bands from Hattiesburg, MS. The Feral Kid crew drove from Buffalo to Hattiesburg (phew!) and recorded eleven Hattiesburg bands in one day at a makeshift studio, documenting the strange and lively activity happening in this humble Southern burg. Sure, the limitations of this DIY approach are going to be evident, but that makes it all the more charming, especially in this day and age of flattened culture and depleted local flavors. If Big, Big Wave is to be taken as an official scene document, it seems that Hattiesburg aligns in favor of rudimentary and oddball punk with plenty of room for goofin’, simple one-two one-two songs favored over precision and flamboyance. Alongside personal faves like Pleather and Judy & The Jerks, there are a number of new-to-me artists contributing here, like the snotty punkers Bigg Band and the Man’s Ruin-styled stoner grooves of Stellatone. Stellatone’s “Golden Zeppelin” leads right into the frantic yap of Judy & The Jerks’s “Dog”, and within that transition I can start to visualize the shape of their scene, united by shared resources, an outcast sensibility and thoroughly unpretentious attitudes.
The “noise not music” school of hardcore-punk is an approach that thrills upon initial encounters and lessens with repeated impact, yet here I am moshing into my potted plants as I spin Balta’s debut EP. They’re not the first punk band in recent times to opt for wild flapping distortion over coherent melody, yet there’s something about their particular approach that I find irresistible. Perhaps it’s that many blown-out ‘core units stick to a sort of d-beat-based, Japanese-inspired (or authentically Japanese) crust style, whereas native Hungarians Balta sound more like Lärm trapped in the eyewall of a hurricane (that’s the worst part of the hurricane for any non-meteorologist readers). Or maybe something closer to the Crapscrapers seven-inch with Framtid’s Shin Takayama on drums… a mix of filthy fidelity and extraordinary human conviction. The songs on Rendszerszintű Agybaszás all bleed into each other, giving it the feel of one intense take, all the power of a live performance without a cluster of cider-drenched dreadlocks whipping you in the face. Maybe it’s because I was listening to the first Raw Power album earlier today, but Balta deliver an almost Italian sense of chaos here, as if the songs are being pushed beyond their natural limits (a distinctly different form of hardcore chaos than a screamo floor-roll or Cleveland fireworks-in-the-pit moment). The cover guarantees “100% punk, 0% csend”, though only a fool would doubt them for a second.
It seems like every traditional old-skinhead-punk-guy-who-hasn’t-listened-to-a-new-band-since-1997’s favorite punk band is The Chisel these days, and I for one don’t question why. They deliver the most authentic and righteous British Oi sound, concentrated for extra strength and packed with shout-along hooks. No jokes or silliness, no terrible puns or sketchy behavior… as with their proven track record, The Chisel deliver their immaculate style on these two tracks here. “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” is the sing-along pub blaster, but both tracks provide further proof of this group’s modern dominance. Mess hail from Guadalajara, and while there’s absolutely zero reason to accuse this Mexican group of being white supremacists in even the slightest of ways, I have to wonder what would compel any modern skinhead band to write a song called “I Don’t Like You”. It’s kind of already notoriously taken, you know? It’s like starting a hardcore band and writing a song called “Filler”, although even that would be kinda okay because Minor Threat didn’t turn out to be such terrible people. It’s a minor misgiving though, as Mess are clearly a ripe match for The Chisel, performing a strikingly similar form of classic mid-paced Oi with coarsely tuneful vocals. Not as much personality immediately evident with these Mess songs, though, as they come across as a bit more of a traditional exercise (though at least they’ve chosen a style where it’s perfectly reasonable to write typical songs). This just makes The Chisel’s existence all the more staggering, writing songs as fresh as they are traditionally-inspired.
Total Punk released Curleys’ debut single back in 2019, a contagious jolt of garage snot that may have been overshadowed by some of their Total Punk cohorts at the time (the lineup has always been strong!). Now they’re back with their first twelve-inch platter, and I’m reminded of why I held onto their single. I really appreciate the repeated imagery of these wavy-skull replicants on their record covers, as hairless as Anthony Carrigan and looking for trouble. Can’t help but imagine those humanoids are responsible for playing this music, which is extremely stompy garage-punk, distorted not from guitar pedals so much as their irresponsibly loud volume. Vocalist Tim Chandler gobbles and squawks like a defiant turkey being brought to slaughter, and the riffs ping pong in stressful patterns, knocking the sweet spots of “frantic” and “primitive” back and forth like a pinball. The last few moments of “James” is so manically repetitive that I’m reminded of Japanese noise-crusters Zyanose; though drastically different in sound, the same uncomfortable staring-contest sensation is achieved. Curleys is thrillingly too-much, like guzzling the flavored syrup that’s supposed to be mixed with carbonated water to make soda. What a great way to get sick to your stomach! 
Hard not to get a little misty-eyed at the concept behind Tristan Dahn’s Housekeeping album: after Dahn’s mother died in May 2020, he spent the summer living at her house, going through her (and his) old stuff. In tribute, he made an album out of his time there, using the old instruments he found around the house and mixing in some field-recordings of the grounds for texture. You’ll recognize acoustic guitars, squeaky organ keys and makeshift percussion, which generally fall into their own cyclical, loosely-improvised patterns between the hum of washer/dryers and the distant chirps of nature. (A buzzing mosquito gets its own solo performance towards the end of the first side.) Reminds me a bit of the “New Weird America” sound of the mid ’00s, like Sunburned Hand Of The Man or No Neck Blues Band in the way that typical folk instrumentation is warped in a noisy DIY form, though this is the work of one person layered on top of itself (unless he somehow played both percussion and keys in real-time). A tasteful tribute to the loss of a loved one, not an elegy for the departed so much as an appreciation of the life that’s still here.
Not sure if Kate Ferencz’s metal band Evil Sword is still kicking, but it appears she’s been focusing on her own thing lately, culminating in her first full-length record, You Will Love Again. It’s a pretty DIY affair with all the trappings that such a tag entails: an artistic single-mindedness, a budget that allows for home-recording and not much else, and a will to make it all happen. These songs sound like they were recorded in a small room on a cheap mic, which adds to the scrappy personal touch, for better or worse. Big-stage pop songs these ain’t! The lyrics aim for a sort of confessional / devotional / inspirational angle, and Ferencz’s sincerity and commitment make it work. Usually driven by a bass guitar (or reasonable facsimile thereof), these songs bounce around like basement demo freakouts that don’t necessarily aspire to sound like Fiona Apple, US Girls and Mica Levi but remind me of all three nonetheless. I’m also reminded of that great Just The Right Height album from 2018, though Ferencz’s music is more traditionally structured (if equally enthusiastic). Some people just can’t contain their art, it’s like a gas bubble that has to escape one way or another, and Ferencz is likely one of ’em, making songs and videos and pictures because the alternative (not making songs, videos and pictures) is simply not an option. 
Just last month I was goofin’ about the existence of an exhaustive Sluggo retrospective and now we’ve got one from an equally obscure smaller-city hardcore-punk group from the early ’80s, Richmond’s Graven Image. They only really made it to a split tape and a seven-inch EP back in their day, and Studio Sessions: 82-83 consists of both alongside some extra unreleased cuts and comp tracks. The cover design and title is a near duplicate of Void’s 2011 retrospective, and while the music of Graven Image clearly isn’t going to be Void-level (what is?), I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. Their form of hardcore was abrupt, spastic and unhinged, very much in the DRI / Corrosion Of Conformity camp with a touch of early Dischord / early Touch & Go, too. They actually made it to the seminal We Got Power compilation in their time, and they fit right in with the frantic teenage sound produced by contemporaries like White Cross, Ill Repute and No Labels (the latter of whom has yet to receive a carefully-considered retrospective collection – maybe they’re next on the list?). I enjoy all of it, though a track like “Vote For Me” sounds like a competent Chemotherapy, which might be the greatest form hardcore-punk could assume. The accompanying booklet (there’s always a booklet) is irresistible too, as the lyrics for “Social Shitz” ensure that I’ll be able to sing along accurately and with a single tear in my eye, as they’re as poignant now as the day they were written: “everyone stares at me / they think I’m really strange / why can’t they see / that I don’t wanna change”.
I appreciate any record that confounds me, for better or worse… it gets boring listening to music with a familiar context, songs where you can tell what’s going to happen next without having heard it before, that sorta thing. God bless Brisbane’s Guppy then, because from the sound of the awkwardly-named 777antasy they don’t have the slightest idea what they’re doing and I’m here for it. The artwork has a Gen Z hyper-pop aesthetic, but the band plays these oddly deconstructed grunge(?) alt-rock(??) songs, if you want to call them songs. Often, it sounds like each member is playing a different song at the same time, and even weirder than that, they opted out of guitars entirely. The vocalist reminds me of Goat Girl (at least when she isn’t screaming), the bass vacillates between stoner, alt-funk and nonsense riffs, and oh yeah, there’s a saxophone going pretty much non-stop, filling the remaining space with wild scattered flights. Told you it’s unusual! I’m reminded a bit of Royal Trux in the way that Guppy refuse to let a lack of professionalism get in the way of a good time, though I wouldn’t say there are any oddball hits in the mix here, not even any real attempts at memorable choruses or hooks from what I can tell. Still haven’t decided if it’s good or bad (or neither), but I applaud any band who consciously or unconsciously discards the rock n’ roll rulebook. It appears Guppy has torn their copy to shreds. 
There was a time in the mid ’00s when I didn’t think industrial acid-house could get any rawer than Helena Hauff. Her early singles display a mastery in corrosive and blistering techno moves, an in-the-red production style that never compromises on power, and it felt like time to check in with her again care of this new EP on Fabric London’s new in-house label. I suppose it’s not a big surprise when considering the nature of her live sets, but the tracks on Living With Ladybirds aren’t noisy at all; rather, they’re fairly basic instrumental EBM grooves, mid-paced and analog and somewhat typical for the style. The ping-ponging melodic lead on “Jonas” is cool, but the three chords of “Your Turn To Fly” are entry-level (though the synth lead is active and fun). The rest of the EP plays out like this, more of a basic take on electro/techno with updated reflections on ’90s motifs, and certainly not the scalding techno of Hauff’s previous productions. Not bad, just nothing particularly flavorful or exciting. If anything, Living With Ladybirds reminded me how sick earlier singles like Shatter Cone and Return To Disorder were; think I’ll go fire those up right now and see if my aging speakers can still handle them. 
C’mere, youngin… some day, once you’re a little older, you’ll grow up from the Evoker tape you are now into a big strong Evoker vinyl record. Apparently these seven songs accompanied a limited number of GG King’s Remain Intact album, but rather than let them languish in near-total obscurity, it’s now pressed up on vinyl for a slightly less obscure existence. I’ve written about GG King’s records many times in these pages, so I’d hope you’re familiar with this Atlanta punker’s many musical faces, as he busts out a bunch of them here. On the first side alone, you get a noisy, kinda almost psychedelic collage, some dub effects, then ripping black metal into morose punk rock that ends on a country Western riff (complete with exaggerated “wahoo!”s in cartoon cowboy fashion). Whew! Even these days where everyone likes everything, I can’t think of another artist reaching into so many different musical bags and throwing it together like this. Fucked Up, maybe? But GG King always feels raw and underground, no matter the style. There’s even a Television Personalities cover on the second side! Evoker Tape is like an uncontrollably fast drive down a winding road: the driver’s having a blast while some passengers get sick and others soak up the thrills. Hitch a ride wisely!
When you think of a regional strain of indie-pop, “Slovenia” might not be the first place to come to mind. I can see that changing, though, with bands like Lelee and Rush To Relax (reviewed below!) putting together such charming and confident records. Though Lelee appear to be somewhat new, Čuka Bije Pumpa comes out the gate fully formed, redolent of the more stately sounds of ’90s indie royalty like Spoon, Built To Spill and The Hold Steady. Sometimes the guitars chime in a manner that reminds me of Imperial Teen and Vampire Weekend, and the vocals (which are shared by at least a couple members) shift and soothe like Flasher. If this is starting to sound like a “Now That’s What I Call Indie!” compilation CD, that’s because Lelee’s music is deeply bound to that tradition, even if they’re oceans away from classic American clubs like Maxwell’s in Hoboken and Bottom Of The Hill in San Francisco. With such a typical sound comes a lack of standing out – Lelee’s Slovenian lyrics are their biggest deviation from a fairly standard American style, which they play competently and true to form. There should be a band exchange program, just how there are exchange students in high school – I’m sure Lelee would marvel at Philadelphia’s trash-filled streets and insane driving, and I’d develop killer calves from riding a bike around Ljubljana during my daily shift as flower delivery person. Let’s do this!
It’s rare that I can resist any new Giegling offering, but a candy-cane-themed EP around the holidays? Sign me up immediately! Leipzig’s Map.ache has been with the label for a few years now, and his wistful, romantic techno is a perfect fit. This EP excites me more than his previous albums I’ve heard, as is often the case with techno EPs versus full-lengths, and it’s a perfect way to ring in the new year. These five tracks offer a range of dance motifs, from the Melchior Productions-esque minimal tech-house of “Tabac” to the break-beat / field-recording melange of “4kon” and the nimbly melodic house of “Love (S.O.S.)”, which dances in step with the overly emotional techno of occasional labelmate DJ Healer/Traumprinz. I love that sweet, sentimental techno style, surely under the sweeping influence of Burial but allowing streaks of sunlight to penetrate the cloudy skies under which Map.ache operates. “Leftovers” wraps things with twinkling bells and a brief German voice memo before wispy filters announce a teary-eyed trance meltdown, like a rosy-cheeked Christkindl tucking you into sleep. Only two Giegling releases in 2022, but they made ’em count!
If you include this one-sided flexidisc, Mononegatives released four seven-inches in 2022! They need to hold a TED talk on how that’s possible in this day and age, what with vinyl plants being perpetually backed up and in permanent servitude to Record Store Day. Anyway, I’m open to appreciating a one-sided one-song flexi, particularly if it comes from a feisty synth-punk act such as Mononegatives. “Kill Mono” stutters forward with the grace of farm machinery, a richly echoed synthetic snare keeping pace among one keyboard with keys mashed and another bleeping out a three-note melody easily playable by a single finger. The lyrics are in the A Frames school of scientific opacity, either pushing for progression or the very end of their own band. Cool! Their side of last year’s split with Mystery Girls was a touch more plainly punk than this unfriendly robotic transmission, the latter of which is more to my personal preference. Wonder how much wax (or plastic) we can expect from them in the coming year!
My love for Buck Biloxi solidified back when he put out that record with a football being delated by a knife on the cover, and after a brief intermission, he’s back with a new band as New Buck Biloxi. The name change cracks me up (though the Nervous Breakdown cover homage feels a bit beneath him), and the style (though a bit less lo-fi raw than previous outings) more or less remains the same: rudimentary three-chord punk outta the garage with an unwavering bad attitude streak. The riffs can easily be played with two fingers or less, and Biloxi’s band makes the very most of it, thanks in part to my new favorite band member name on one of the guitars, Non-Biological Beyonce. Very simple but very effective, as was the case with (old) Buck Biloxi. There’s an amusing break between sides care of some extremely amateurish film dialogue, the perfect little nip twist before New Buck Biloxi kicks into the catchy misanthropy of “My Hole”, kicking garbage around the room with the rest of these tracks. Biloxi’s coming up on ten years of doing the same sorta thing, and I applaud his lack of maturity or progression – there’s a lesson to be learned from starting punk and staying punk, even if it’s increasingly harder to get out of bed than it used to be.
Following Objekt’s 2018 album Cocoon Crush, things had gone quiet from Berlin’s Objekt. He always had an alternative point of view on both the post-dubstep scene from which he came up and Pan’s artsy experimental techno enclave from where he last left us, and this new two-track EP goes to a separate new third place entirely. Dare I say it’s far and away my favorite thing he’s ever done! “Bad Apples” comes first and is an absolute monster cut, the sorta beast that’ll test your room’s structural integrity. Described as a “slow banger” on his Bandcamp, that feels coyly accurate, although there’s an outrageous evilness to this track, from the nu-metal bass-guitar that pins it to the otherworldly sonic interference that constantly agitates throughout. Imagine the best possible outcome of the phrase “black-metal Reggaeton”, and allow me to confirm that it’s actually even better than that. Play it loud enough and you’ll start sensing parts of your skull you never knew you had! Extremely hard cut to follow, but “Ballast” continues the Satanic dancehall feel with aplomb. Replete with bludgeoning body-blows reminiscent of my favorite Skream tracks, the violent ragga of Vessel and a rich atmosphere of menace, it’s one of the few productions that could lead Blawan’s most recent material to a bloody draw. Highly recommended!
Woah, first time two unrelated Hungarian artists are reviewed here in the same month? Things are clearly happening there, and while the scalding noise-core of Balta is directly up my alley, this gloomy, hardcore-derived post-punk from Padkarosda is fine as well. With big boomy drumming and stinging, chorused-to-hell guitars, Padkarosda follow the modern genre guidelines to a tee, but there’s a sense of urgency and aggression to their songs that interests my ears more than your average American third-tier goth-wave festival band (of which there seem to be at least a few hundred currently operational). Somewhere in the very back, there’s a darkened alley that acts as a pathway between melodic-punk and gothic crust, and Padkarosda seem to have spent some time hanging out back there, learning how to slip between the two zones without getting caught in either. Philadelphia’s World Gone Mad has done a solid job releasing far-off (from Philadelphia) international punk records, and while some of them I appreciate more in theory than practice (every village, no matter how big or small, deserves its own contingent of rabble-rousing punks), Sötét Végek holds up well against goth-punk from anywhere else on the planet. Even Transylvania.
Rider/Horse dropped their debut in 2021 and their inspiration clearly hasn’t waned in the ensuing months, as they quickly follow it up with Feed ‘Em Salt. The duo of (Spray Paint’s) Cory Plump and (Les Savy Fav’s) Chris Turco could easily settle into their prior forms, a comfortable sort of garage-y / dance-y post-punk, and while that’s not entirely inaccurate with regard to Rider/Horse there’s something about their music here that transcends an easy genre exercise. Maybe it’s the songs themselves, which find new pathways to express disgust and monotony, two themes I appreciate when conveyed musically. For example, a groove like “Great Innings” has me wondering what LCD Soundsystem would’ve sounded like if absolutely no one cared and James Murphy retreated into his hole, this recording unearthed years after his passing. The guitars do interesting things without being obnoxious or ardently anti-guitarlike; I’d place some of their guitar styles alongside Low or US Maple, not in sonic similarity but in a shared adventurousness towards the form. I heard it on their debut, and I’m hearing a bit of Trans Am here as well; extended and imposing musical grids from some sort of bleak alter-reality. I appreciate that Rider/Horse seem completely uninterested in holding anyone’s hand: either you’re down for their cause, occasionally frustrating as it may be, or you get out of their way. 
It’s gotta be an Eddy Current reference, right? Maybe it’s a common phrase elsewhere (perhaps Eddy Current’s Melbourne, or Rush To Relax’s native Slovenia?), but I get the feeling this charming group of young men were inspired by the casual-cool of Eddy Current Suppression Ring without necessarily copying it. These songs are quite soft and sweet actually, no real semblance of garage or punk to be found here. Rush To Relax keep the guitars lightly chiming, the rhythms upbeat without overexerting, vocals hushed yet bright (and sung in their native Slovenian). As I listen to Misli, I don’t really detect any specific personality quirks or distinctions to their sound, so much as an extremely competent indie-pop band staying well within genre lines. Seeing as cordial indie-pop isn’t really the sound I’m generally seeking out on a personal level, I probably won’t be throwing Misli on all that often, but if I ever found myself wandering the streets of Ljubljana and heard Rush To Relax were playing that night, I’d be rushing to relax to their pleasant music for sure. International indie-pop genre enthusiasts, take note!
Here in the States, there’s a thirteen month back-up if you wanna press a seven-inch and hope to sell it for no less than ten bucks to break even, but over there in Europe punk bands are still doing that thing where they spread a recording session across two separate seven-inch single releases simply because they can. The Euro might have dropped in value but their greater quality of life has never been clearer. Anyway, Sklitakling are a volatile melodic punk band outta Oslo and just released two singles under the shared title of Vi Har Hørt Det Før (translated in English to “we’ve heard it before”), this being the first part. “Naturlig” is a moody ripper, somewhere in the Wipers school of punk with a darkness I’d associate with Nog Watt and a sheen I’d compare to Masshysteri, though there’s no real sense of hardcore happening here. The guitars sound cool, like Sklitakling pushed The Strokes’ amps down a flight of stairs and then plugged them in. “Søster” is a little more anonymous, headed to the same sorta garage sound as The Saints and riding in circles for a while, causing minor trouble. They probably could’ve fit all four of the songs onto one of these seven-inch records, but that’s just my austere American brain talking. Wearing leather jackets in the snow, living in Norway and pressing up one record for every two songs you’ve got sounds like a pretty sweet existence.
Is the problem with fun, or graphic design? For such a snarky and entertaining album, Sorry Eric went extremely bleak and basic for their album cover (and matching massive newsprint poster insert). It looks like a funeral announcement designed in Microsoft Word, but don’t judge The Problem With Fun by its cover (like I just did) – this Ohioan trio offer a worthy take on the tried n’ true indie-rock style. I’m hearing something close to Quasi with a touch of Paul Banks in bandleader Eric Dietrich’s voice, scrappy American indie-rock that could slip between Superchunk and Modest Mouse in your CD tower without arousing suspicion. Their songs are inherently poppy but skewed – the opening title track provides a good example, as they manage to turn the phrase “you stupid fuck” into a sing-along refrain. Reminds me a bit of ’00s Philly indie-rockers The Trouble With Sweeney, as the names of both groups reference the names of their sardonic singer-songwriter leads and both groups tweak their pop melodies with tinges of lyrical darkness, though The Trouble With Sweeney leans in more of a Wilco direction (another one of indie-rock’s magnetic poles). Sorry Eric are at their best on a track like “May His Bones Be Crushed”, with a swaying, catchy melody and lyrics befitting a Relapse doom-metal outfit, almost in winking defiance of the mischievous rock they’re playing. It can be a messy puzzle but Sorry Eric put it together nicely.
I don’t think Spiral Wave Nomads would take offense to this comment (and certainly none is intended), but I’ll be damned if this isn’t my favorite laundry-folding album form 2022. I sit down with a big pile of clean clothes, throw on Magnetic Sky and the next thing I know, it’s all folded and ready to go! Albany’s Spiral Wave Nomads have a way of playing with time, so cushy and weightless are their psych-rock improvisational grooves, that their music is the perfect semi-focused distraction for mundane household chores. Of course, you can focus on Magnetic Sky as well – there’s plenty happening in opener “Dissolving Into Shape”, for example – but I prefer ambiently listening. As this is their third full-length outing, they try out a few new things beyond the standard guitar/bass/drums formation of their past. I enjoy their galaxy-minded synths, often sounding like Klaus Schulze recording for a Man’s Ruin release (ie. those trippy instrumental Nebula tracks), but I still prefer the ‘Nomads when they’re planted firmly in the rock zone, however muted and warm they may be… just like my folded cotton whites.
Sad men have been singing while playing guitar for what, over a hundred years now? There’s a good chance your great-great grandparents heard someone do it in their day, and I can only see it continuing into our uncertain future, so alluring is the instrument. Wes Tirey is one such man, and he does a nice job of sounding both traditionally authentic and honest… No Winners In The Blues doesn’t feel retro, nor does it feel like a dramatic modern reinvention of the form. I guess that’s a long way of saying it sounds sincere? Accompanied by the fluttering tones of Shane Parish’s electric guitar, Tirey fingerpicks his somber, mournful and occasionally funny songs, a leisurely and expansive outing of glistening folk-song. His lyrics are of a conversationally-poetic nature, and his voice is firm and proud, somewhere in the Townes Van Zandt register albeit a little croakier. When he extends certain vowels, Tirey’s voice takes on the sonic properties of a goat’s friendly bleat, which seems fitting for the rocky rural musical styling. Seems like there are lots of fingerpicking assassins out there on acoustic guitars these days, so it’s nice that Tirey doesn’t compete for technical victories so much as craft modern folk songs ready to soundtrack the next Cormac McCarthy film adaptation or at least a productive fireside whittling session. 
You might know Jensen Tjhung from Deaf Wish or Exhaustion, and Tom Lyngcoln’s put in time with Harmony and Down Under, but Escapist Blues is fully devoid of rocking out (or even rocking in). This album sounds depleted, worn down by the days and unable to sleep through the nights, and it seems to revel in that artistically-intentional mire. Tjhung reads his poetry through crackly tape interference and Lyngcoln provides the morbid soundscapes, usually in the form of a repeating guitar motif alongside sloppy chunks of grayscale analog noise. Feels like it could’ve been a part of the extended Godspeed You! Black Emperor universe – a solitary man ranting incoherently at the precipice of oblivion – though there are no grand crescendos or emotional string-pulling here. Maybe it’s closer to Alan Bishop’s Uncle Jim character, though Escapist Blues takes place on some lonely Australian plain full of wrecked vehicles, not in the back of Uncle Jim’s dilapidated jazz lounge. Guest players sparingly provide saxophone, drums and flute as well, all in full service of the troubling mood Lyngcoln conjures alongside Tjhung’s withdrawn delivery. After putting in the time to create this dreary, fitful drift, it’ll take a shot of something strong to get them back in a rocking mood.
I feel bad for any noise outfits gearing up for release on the Gilgongo label, as from this point onward your work will be held in comparison to Wastleland Jazz Ensemble. This septet seems to be centered in Ohio (and based around the Wasteland Jazz Unit duo of Jon Lorenz and John Rich), though I probably need to pull up Google maps and look for a mile-wide crater in the Buckeye state to determine the exact location of where this went down. With guitars, reeds, electronics and percussion, they absolutely wail without respite for four satisfying sides, the throttle either pushed to the floor or broken off entirely. Really taken aback at how righteously brutal of a long-player they dropped! I’ll concede that anyone can make a racket, but Wasteland Jazz Ensemble push it so hard here that it goes far beyond the realm of “anyone can do this”. Sure, most able-bodied people can go for a jog too, but what Wasteland Jazz Ensemble do here is run a marathon barefoot while puffing a mouthful of Tatuaje cigars. I love me some Hijokaidan and Borbetomagus, and much of Wasteland Jazz Ensemble sounds like Hijokaidan playing alongside Borbetomagus in a tangle of sweat and fury. The musical equivalent of mixing every flavor soda at the fountain, sure to disgust the majority of the population and deeply satisfy the few of us freaks.
You’d think a band called Whippets on the Goodbye Boozy label would be felonious garage-punk of the rudest order, something on par with The Candy Snatchers or Grabbies or something, and yet you’d be wrong! This new trio, featuring Bobby Hussy on guitar and vocals (and who I’m somewhat sheepish to admit I recognized on face alone – kind of a young J Mascis, really) play a restrained form of punk, leaning more towards the prefix “post” than “garage”. Their Discogs bio describes them as “grungegaze”, and I’m assuming they wrote that there because who else would? I don’t necessarily hear either of those conjoined styles, though I guess I get where they’re coming from – in spite of what might’ve been their intention, these four songs feel more like Jay Reatard playing the catalog of like, Gas Huffer or Seaweed or something a little slower and grumpier like that. So maybe that is kinda grungy after all? Certainly less raucous than the Goodbye Boozy sound I’ve come to expect, although it’s understandable that after over twenty-five(!) years in the biz, they can’t just keep releasing the same exact garage-punk single over and over. This might not be Goodbye Boozy’s Love Buzz b/w Big Cheese, but there’s a chance it’ll end up its Daisy b/w Ritual Device.
Canadian troubadour Whitney K hitched his horse to the fence and came in for a drink or three, fingering his Stetson plaintively as he hands us Hard To Be A God with a wink. His new five-song EP does a nice job of fusing a few unrelated-yet-compatible strains of American folk-song, ripe for the urban desperado turned organic homesteader in your life (or on your Instagram feed). Vocally, I’m reminded of the sing-speak of John Prine alongside the speak-sing of Lou Reed, and the music often vacillates between the metropolitan strum of The Velvet Underground and something a little more relaxed and Grateful, like Steve Gunn perhaps. If John Mayer had any interest in attracting some underground appeal these days, he’d probably try to make a record that sounds like this (and let’s be honest, he’d probably beat most of these underground fellas at their own game). Tender while asserting a traditionally masculine presence, Whitney K is comfortable and confident enough in his own shoes, which makes this sorta thing come to life instead of wilt away. Maybe not a surpassing of his collective influences, but a fine arrangement nonetheless.
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