Originally written by Ian Chainey
Lately, I’ve been daydreaming of a black-and-white photo getting the Ken Burns pan-and-scan treatment. On one side of the frame is a crusty punker. On the other, as soon as the PBS fundraising interruption ends, is a thrasher.
“They were brothers,” David McCullough says with “Ashokan Farewell” sawing away in the background, “until they weren’t.”
Sure, the lines are blurred again now, but I remember the schism when punks and ‘heads didn’t mix much, ignoring their shared ancestry so both could grimace at the simplicity and artifice of the other. Punk sucks because it’s easier to play. Metal sucks because JESUS CHRIST LOOK AT YOURSELF. Yet, the end goal was usually the same: Make a loud noise until catharsis is complete.
These new kids, though? This new generation of streamers and street teamers? They get it. We’re now cross-pollinating more than ever, preparing for the day when we find a missing link able to bridge staunch trad upholders of either genre to the world of possibilities on the other side.
Or, maybe, it’s already been discovered.
Not convinced? Well, traveler, welcome to Out of Step Dispatches, the place where we’ll swing the pick-axe in the hunt for shiny punk n’ core super-impacted pieces of carbon. Joining me as your spelunking guide is scene vet Michael Scott, offering up a ladle of the absolute cream of the underground. Fuck your Fucked Up and Fall Out Boy, this is stuff you need to light a torch to discover. Give all of it a whirl and rest assured as it has been approved by the finest leather-jacket-patch-sewers in the land.
So, without further ado:
CONDITION – DETERIORATING
This brief five-song 7” featuring members of DNF and Raw Nerves immediately grabbed my attention and held it for the entire duration. I admit I found that a little surprising because, like so many other bands saddled with the ‘d-beat’ descriptor, it initially reminded me of a Los Angeles version of Skitsystem. Such a brief summation isn’t really fair, though, because there’s a lot more happening here. Opener “Smoldering Wreckage” kicks in immediately, barely leaving time for a burst of feedback and a bellow before taking off at top speed. There’s no fucking about with momentum-interrupting sludge moments, no lamentably plodding “dark” intro, no forced My War homages – just feedback-laden d-beat played at breakneck speed in a style equally Japanese and Scandinavian. The hoarse, howling vocals remind me of Waco Fuck with an Anti-Cimex filter on, or maybe Drunkdriver if they’d ever played d-beat at Bastard speed instead of having an alleged rapist for a drummer. The production sounds absolutely huge, a perfect mix of raw and blown-out, feedback covering any dead air, lending this the urgency and fury it needs to have when you aren’t hearing it live and guaranteeing yourself some hearing problems later in life.
BEDSORES – 2013 DEMO
This is a pretty surprisingly high-quality demo for such a young band – Chicago’s Bedsores came together in late 2012 and released these four depressed, mostly midtempo ragers within four months of formation. Equal parts homage to Midwestern ’80s hardcore and nods to peers, the guitar tone is brittle and wouldn’t sound out of place on a Die Kreuzen record, thanks to recording by Niko of Raw Nerve and Lord Snow, and some of the more unhinged passages sound a lot like Mecht Mensch’s angriest bursts. The stark black and white artwork suggests a passing resemblance to contemporaries Raw Nerve and Society Nurse, which appears in the chaotic moments – the last forty-five pummeling seconds of “The Forge” are worth the listen alone, rising to a furious crescendo and then coming to a crashing halt just as quickly, sliding into the druggy, Cult Ritual-esque closer “Atonement.” The sludgy bassline and plodding drums running under “Blondie” call to mind equal parts noise rock from the early nineties and modern bands like Moutheater or Hoax before ramping up into a Tar Babies stomp. This is as close to perfect as the band could hope for – don’t pass it up.
SHAVED WOMEN – SHAVED WOMEN (2013)
St. Louis must be a serious shithole. Before taking offense, realize that I’m only basing this off of two things: terrible crime statistics and the incredibly frustrated self-titled 7” by Shaved Women. This self-released EP is short, bitter, and to the point – “Anxiety” sets the tone for the record with the opening line “So many hopes and dreams that / I will never achieve,” and the rest follows suit: three songs of spartan, misanthropic hardcore with dense guitar tone and clear production. It’s impossible not to think of No Trend, or, more recently, Wisconsin’s Self Interest, when listening to these songs, because not only are all three bands pissed off and repulsed by the shortcomings of modern life, but because Shaved Women have a similar ear for writing uncomfortably raw, steadily disgusted material. Other moments, like the nihilistic third track “Adulthood,” with its refrain of “no way out, you’re stuck like this again,” perfectly encapsulates their aesthetic, equal parts AmRep back catalog and nasty Black Flag-esque drive. If you’ve ever sat in your room and put “Black Coffee” on repeat because people are too fucking much to take, this is probably right up your alley.
GAS RAG – 2013 DEMO
“We like to get high and play fast punk and I think that it really shows in our sound.” Thus reads the description on the blog run by members of Gas Rag, anyway, and I absolutely agree, being a guy who likes to get high and listen to fast punk. Chicago is a hotbed of all kinds of excellent punk and hardcore of every sort lately, this being no exception. The whole six-song affair won’t even take five minutes of your time – or it won’t if you don’t immediately hit repeat, which is pretty hard, because these are six of the most jangly, catchy, blazingly fast tracks this side of “Pick Your King,” an EP this demo makes me think of pretty often. I don’t mean to dismissively label it a Poison Idea knockoff at all, though – “Progress” speeds along like a UK82- tinged incarnation of the Slobs, and the final track “In the Streets” is a dead ringer for Violent Arrest. Instrumentally and lyrically, with anti-nuclear and antiwar tracks, it could hide in a stack of early ’80s Dis45s, but the vocals are inescapably recent, an inebriated, gruff bellow closer to the Repos or the aforementioned Slobs than anything more dated. Get as high as these guys, turn this up to party volume and stress out your neighbors.
TRIGGER MEN – 2013 DEMO
I’d bet that I’m not alone in immediately losing some degree of interest when I learn that a modern hardcore band self-applies the ‘straightedge’ descriptor. Listening to straightedge-identifying punk become more and more riddled with the seemingly endless parade of disappointing gym shorts-clad xbandsx that started releasing unity-obsessed records six colors at a time in the mid-nineties has led me to expect Champion or Throwdown instead of DYS or The Faith. I was sold once the excellent opening riff in “Scum Abuse” kicked in, though, and even more so once I heard the over-the-top Charles Bronson film lyrics about curbstomping junkies. The four songs here bring to mind an angrier, younger The Hope Conspiracy writing shorter songs – save for the first track, none break the minute mark, and despite the band hailing from the Midwest, there’s a lot of Boston in the mix here. It’s hard to explain just why this is such compelling listening without resorting to terms like “stripped- down” or “no-frills,” because good hardcore like this that’s done right has a pretty simple formula. No mysterious guys, v-neck shirts, or eight minute psych jams here, just flawless anger.
STRANGERS – STRANGERS
Tina Fey once said, “Chicago is a real city,” to preface a tale regarding a homeless man having his nose bitten off. Off. Yeah, like his face resembled an opened pomegranate. So, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised the Windy City-natives in Strangers are as pissed off as they are, especially considering the band is something of an ex-member shelter for the sadly now-split Raw Nerve. But, keep your X-ed up water bottle at 90 degrees, because there’s no need to pour anything out for the passed. The new group somehow tops it predecessor, flinging six songs in six minutes over the plate like a PCP-snorting Samardzija. Owners of dusty copies of Flex Your Head or This is Boston, Not LA will surely flip when the band revs up to thrashcore speeds, sounding like modern faves Suicide File with a Charles Bronson-built turbo under the hood. The cassette, recorded in an apartment for the cost of the deposit, is appropriately DIY, but isn’t unlistenable like the recent rash of mystery-men bedroom cassettes dubbed after every trust fund payout. This is the real deal. Put it on and go break something you’ll regret later.
HOLY – THE AGE OF COLLAPSE
Milano’s Holy returns with chunky Cursed skull smashers, d-beat punch-ups, and power-violence blasts for flavor. No slump here, as the first notch in the belt gave ’em something to better, allowing the outfit to find the sweet spot for fans of Infest and ruthless metalcore. On closer inspection, one hears how dynamic The Age of Collapse can be as songs stop on a dime to either gut you with grooves or peel out and leave your dome balder than the before pictures for Hairclub for Men. Like Strangers, their smartest twist is leaving the killers for the second-half, making the album’s flow feel like an organic progression towards total emotional release through never-ending aggression rather than a herky-jerky collection of odds and sods. Unlike Strangers, the production pummels with plenty of low-end. Apologies to your poor in-door car speakers in advance.
D-CLONE – CREATION AND DESTROY
The cheekily named D-Clone is anything but. This Japanese band is more interested in distortion than Discharge, generating a squall sounding like an orgy performed with trashcan lid chastity belts. Even the speedy thump of the kick drums can’t cut through the treble-heavy guitars, completely bricking the waveform. Seriously, picture a particularly pissed Lärm forced to use G.I.S.M.‘s gear. Or, if Fuck on the Beach traded in their guitars for industrial woodchippers. Either way, songs such as “History of Error” are exhilaratingly loud, poking your fight-or-flight response with a taser. Even the groovier “-” is unrelenting, rendering Integrity’s “Vocal Test” mere dentist chair smooth-move jazz. Like the best grindcore, it’s an audio Red Bull, amping you up with exhilarating speed. Like the worst grindcore, you probably won’t remember a damn thing about it after seventeen minutes. I’m okay with that. I’M…I SAID I’M OKAY. O-KAY. NEVERMIND. I CAN’T HEAR YOU EITHER.
Available through http://www.agipunk.com/
SECTARIAN VIOLENCE – UPWARD HOSTILITY
Lest you think all newer hardcore bands bow before Black Flag or flop around the gutter to Flipper, Sectarian Violence reminds you the edge is still sharp. Something of an intercontinental super youth crew–members have done time with Coke Bust, Stay Hungry, and Never Again—SV gives lushes a licking in the ol’ Youth of Today or Bold way. Just, you know, faster. Fueled by lettuce and Infest, Upward Hostility does not fuck around with preaching, preferring to dent your forehead with the fists of Slapshot. Tracks like “Disposable” gallop through change-pick-ups, classic breaks, and power chords aplenty. And, did I mention the brevity, ensuring this never gets old? Ten songs, fifteen minutes, four complete spins through a very angry happy hour.
CARAVELS – LACUNA
Here’s my wildcard and where I might lose you. Even during their relatively short time on the music map, Nevada’s Caravels have seen plenty of seismic shakeups to the tween-eschewing, O.G. version of screamo. Plopped out in the middle period between the scene’s Witching Hour obsession and Pianos Become the Teeth‘s takeover as the new sonic template, it would’ve been easy to ride the tide to either port. However, Caravels decided to look back further than most and clawed through enough mud to find math rock roots. Similar to Kidcrash or Animal Faces, there’s a hell of a lot more Faraquet or Drill for Absentee on display than Orchid or Portraits of Past. Guitars sting like lemon juice in a paper cut while the bass rattles out poorly implanted fillings. And the deceptively difficult timekeeping is a perfect counterpoint to the every-man hollers. Lines like “I feel just like my dad when I stand like this,” look clumsy on an iPad screen, but resonate fully with every scream. Give it a shot since I think it’s a mere hop from post-rock-biting black metal; the only difference in the Life Magazine Picture Puzzle being the unvarnished vocals and earnest lyrics lacking the grad-school sheen.
Alright! If you enjoyed this feature, we’ll be back in about a month or two. If not, GOOD BECAUSE WE’VE BEEN SENT FROM DIMENSIONS YOU CANNOT COMPREHEND TO FEED UPON YOUR MISERY. And, there’s my entire writing career as a walnut. Have a good one.
