Originally written by Ian Chainey
Though many hate to admit it, punk has always been pop’s remora. When mainstream tastemakers turn sour, more often than not, punk will devour the leftovers, digest the remains, and re-release it as a gritty re-imagining until the time is right for the food chain owners to chow down once again on chummed waters.
I’m not sure why this happens. Maybe it’s the always-in-opposition reactionary streak safety-pinned into our DNA. “You won’t touch this anymore? Sounds like finger-free pies to me.” Maybe it’s because the discarded sounds were the easiest to replicate when the kids picked up stringed weapons. Whatever the case, rest assured, whenever “it” stops charting, the boomerang will be tossed, returning to the thrower’s hand with a snarl a few years later. The interesting abrasions, splinters, and wounds in the wood caused by the freedom of open-air flight will be sanded down for mass appeal until the next owner is ready to return it to the sky.
Similar analogies. Rinse, repeat. Rise above, rise against.
Lately, the two big swells growing in gallons are new-new-new-new-wave doleful ditties similar to those brought back into relevance (and out again) by Interpol and fret-singeing solo heroics of Dino Jr Jrs.
I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn, coinciding with the timing of this feature, two bands stand up and offer great summer records as examples of each revival.
Freaks first: Bootblacks‘ Narrowed EP stalks the dark hours, providing a fine one-two for midnight runs. But, don’t mistake them for brooding malcontents monkeying around with the reaper-like moves of Death in June or Christian Death. Narrowed disintegrates into an early Cure obsessed with the angular spiders of Athens, Georgia. That might not read like quite a sight. I realize my spotter’s guide is worn, so Method Actors and Pylons may not elevate heart rates. Fine. Newer: Given the delayed guitar and rumbling bass, one could easily recommend this to older astronauts who flew with North Carolina’s Codeseven in addition to the likes of Merchandise and Cold Cave. Really though, lazy compartmentalization tendencies aside, the reason this functions so well is because Bootblacks understand musical importance hinges on a killer chorus rather than an I’M SO SERIOUS: A JOURNAL worldview. Hit up sad sacks for cloves, hang out with the hook-heavy, clad-in-Docs boys for a good time.
Plug up your peepers, cross over to consciousness’s purgatory, and groove:
Wake up. As soon as the sun rises and the coffee press releases the aroma of Dio’s miracle bean, we can transition to the t-rex with a telecaster. California X ably fills in the rock n’ fuckin’ roll hole left when Milk Music and The Men found The Band and began to twang. These X men share the spot with a few others–Kicking Spit and Roomrunner to name two–but they may be the most ready to earn you a speeding ticket. “Pond Rot” is full of those pause button fake-outs, when a note floats out into the ether until its brought back to the ground with a Mascis-like bend. Elsewhere, guitar strums stir up the same giddiness as the first time you heard a blue Weezer stomp on a distortion box. If you’ve been meaning to send a love note to an amplifier, here’s the premade card that’ll do it instead.
So, there you go. A twofer for the dog days.
Fin?
Oh, my friend, we’re not done! Michael Scott joins me again for another round of our monthly picks. No need for your wallet, because your eyeballs are all you need to
KREMLIN – DRUNK IN THE GULAG
This is a hard record to describe without accidentally selling it short. It’s strongly rooted in the early Eighties – even the name of the Toronto three-piece evokes Cold War imagery – but it isn’t a gimmicky retread or a tired, studded-vest-laden Discharge photocopy. The drums, even better here than on 2012’s stellar Will You Feed Me?, bounce around mostly American reference points (“Doomed Youth” makes me think of the drumwork in “Out Of Step” every time I hear it), but the rest of the record goes to great lengths not to sound like a Gang Green redux. The guitars are brittle and Scandinavian until building into a dissonant Japanese squall. And, vocally, there’s a touch of Negative Approach happening, but early Killing Joke is a more accurate point of reference. Gulag could fit into the Thatcher/Reagan-era scene lyrically (“Tomorrow’s gone, no hope for you!”), but if we’re being honest, this is probably because 2013 is a particularly bleak time to be young, much as 1983 was. The four-track recording is raw and austere, its coldness achieving an elusive aesthetic most Eighties-influenced bands fail to capture without appearing contrived. Can’t recommend this strongly enough.
REPOS – DEMO (“POISON HEAD”)
Prolific bands are both intimidating and exciting upon first approach – if you like them, it’s great, because there’s a lot of material to go through, but it’s difficult to know where to start; if there even is a right place to start. The Repos were a Chicago hardcore band that released several records on Youth Attack in the mid-2000s, split up in ‘08, and then reappeared after a three-year hiatus as a similar (albeit slightly more experimental) unit named The Ropes. Legal action soon forced a return to The Repos moniker, and with it came a slough of new releases. This “demo,” the remnants of an inexplicably scrapped full-length, is arguably the best material the band’s released under any name since 2006’s Hearts and Heads Explode, and it’s similarly brief with the twelve tracks taking up just over nine minutes of your time. Production is solid, edging just over the line into blown-out. This is fitting for a band tearing through tracks that roar like Infest trying their hand at Poison Idea’s Pick Your King from memory, with an occasional trashy cock-rock solo thrown in once in a while for good measure. As is often the case with bands of relative obscurity, this release is pretty hard to track down physically, but well worth the trouble.
Available here: http://repos.bigcartel.com/
CREEM – CURATOR
Comprised of members of NYC vets Nomos and Natural Law, and boasting more Boston influences than most Boston bands ever had (“a bastard cross of Slapshot and Blitz,” according to one member), this is probably the hardest 7” you’re going to hear all year. Nothing here is a surprise if you’re a fan of past releases – short, gruff songs bringing to mind SSD, DYS, or Negative FX, solos laughably brief and simple, and the harshest vocal performance this side of an 86 Mentality release. You can practically hear the vocalist’s teeth grinding as he bellows the refrain to “Rat Race,” “All you get is what they say / What they say!” Prior releases have more of an oi sound, but the four tracks here are closer to Negative Approach or YDI than anything from the UK, and the recording quality does not disappoint – all of the anger comes through clear as day without a hint of reproduction. This is a great starting point for a band that loves Eighties hardcore even more than you do – don’t skip it.
SVART STÄDHJÄLP – GATUVAPEN
I may be (rightfully) accused of too frequently worshipping at the throne of Things Past, but there’s such a wealth of people doing it right lately. Gatuvapen (meaning street weapons) is a jangly 7” slab of catchy hardcore by the difficult-to-pronounce Svart Städhjälp, the third from these Midwest-obsessed Swedes in two years. Six garage-rock-tuned tracks go by in as many minutes, culminating in a fantastic, pounding Negative Approach cover. Guitars and drums are reminiscent of the late Social Circkle, but the hoarse, forceful vocal delivery brings to mind Italy’s (admittedly more poppy) Smart Cops. There are hooks aplenty to be had here, but it certainly isn’t a pop-punk record by any stretch – this is as pissed as it is listenable. If Dischord had a Malmö contingent thirty years ago, it’s easy to imagine this band being their first signing. Snag this before it disappears, if only to hear an exceptional cover of “Nothing” sung in a Swedish accent. Or, just wait until it pops up on Sorry State Records, because it’s that good.
HATRED SURGE – HUMAN OVERDOSE
It could be argued the current three-person incarnation of Hatred Surge, having abandoned their resemblance to Despise You (and their female vocalist) in favor of metal trappings, a penchant for Godflesh covers, and sludgy crawls through early Nineties death metal territory, is a bit too “metal” to be covered for a punk column. However, we’ve all tolerated Nails for years now, so this is fair game. In the interest of full disclosure, I went into this hoping to love it, but it’s a mixed bag – the admittedly competent death metal bits drag down the much speedier moments. The record starts with a forgettable ambient intro, then slides into the longest track, the chugging, four minute long “Inhalation Of Dimethyltryptamine,” a hardcore-tinged nod to Nineties Napalm Death (a prominent and welcome influence). After that, though, are seven blasting tracks that don’t crack the two-minute mark, mixing equal parts grind, modern Swedish d-beat and Floridian death metal (only a bit – no eternal blastbeats). The crushing “Suicide Mission,” a highlight, seems to nod hard in later Nasum’s direction, and album closer, “Jacob’s Ladder,” is a skillful blend of the disparate elements that sometimes awkwardly collide in other tracks. Production is massive and dense, and the drums are absolutely thunderous. Like the members’ numerous other projects, Hatred Surge is a continually evolving band, and this is no exception. Don’t miss this.
IMPULSE CV – CHULA VIOLENCE
Similar to bands like Lack of Interest that ratcheted up tough guy hardcore to match the sprinting gait of power violence, Impulse sticks a Necros – Conquest for Death LP into CERN’s LHC. It’s a neat trick, taking absolutely classic riffs and song structures and making it sound shinny because of the speed. But, I don’t want it to seem like Impulse didn’t put in any work. The whole reason Chula Violence demands replays is how good Impulse is at being Impulse. The level of confidence and competence it takes to turn frantic blasts of choppy breakdowns and gang shouts into fifteen seconds of memorable mania can’t be understated. Sure, the rush of adrenaline from watching this stock car race around the track is worth the price of admission. However, the reason the vehicle is moving is thanks to the geniuses in the pit rather than the make and model of the ride.
NO FAITH – NO FAITH (2012)
Will Killingsworth works so much, I wouldn’t be surprise if he was also responsible for the bajillion other No Faiths. Having spent a few seasons in the screamo big leagues (HOFers Orchid and Ampere, as well as the underrated Bucket Full of Teeth), Will now devotes his energies towards a label and studio both pumping out a nuclear power plant amount of juice. We gotta give him daps there, as his business is becoming something of a rite of passage for young, noisy punkers in much the same way God City was a spirit walk for metalcore. But, he still finds time to show up as MA’s punk Gump, ensuring at least 50% of all printed liner notes feature his name in some capacity. No Faith pulls Will back up to the mic, reconfiguring the Vaccine lineup to generate the maximum wattage of distorted aggression. And, fuck, is it loud, packing the same sonic wallop as an Iron Lung album played by industrial blenders. Or, maybe it’s bite-sized nuggets of an unhinged Steve Austin‘s brain hooked up to a tornado warning siren. Either way, it’s destined to make you extremely irritating in your senior years when you labor through the “SUPER SALAD?!” specials during your 4AM brunch. In the present, though, it’s a great intro to the vast land of Killingsworth. Spend a few days in it, since, well, you can literally spend a few days in it.
Available here: http://www.painkillerrecords.com/store.html
RAD – LOUD & FAST
To transfer over a golf proverb, albums for show, live band for dough. Nice when a band can do both, but the classic problem still presents a pain point: How does one generate the same energy when one is not in charge of the volume knob? By being loud. And fast. Duh. RAD tells no lie, that’s for sure, mixing in the humor of Spazz with the speed and stentorian roar of Rainbow Death. Easily identifiable subjects ensure you’ll quickly be yelling along, leading commuter karaoke sessions regarding bullshit jobs and bullshit people. Still, none of this would land if the songs were a straight blur. Along the way, RAD folds in glistening power pop pads of weed butter. If the gags don’t get you, the hooks will.
Available here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Masked-Raccoon-Distro/573506522665408
NECKLACING – I
Push the last three bands into the sausage maker and out plops Necklacing. Rendering the oft-relied upon descriptor “furious” utterly flaccid, these fastcore demolition drivers barrel down a hill without breaks, tires, or parts free of fire. Maybe if you train a high speed camera at the first three cuts, you’ll be able to snap ’em doing anything except thrashing. Unlikely though. Making sure every inch of their power infests your being, highlight “Moira” slows down to a chug, savoring the sweet distortion in between strums. Their world, their way. Buckle the fuck up.
SEVEN SISTERS OF SLEEP – OPIUM MORALS
It’s my intention to always throw you a curve with my final pitch. Maybe I can get you to bite on pop-punk or sneak in something danceable. Whatever. This is where I’ll shake off the catcher and pull the trigger on a faux-heater that falls off the table. The septuplets of snoozing, however, are like lobbing a beach ball over the plate. Let me put it like this: What if Eyehategod did all of the heroin, nodded off, and their consciousness melded with the minds of Converge? I hope you’re swinging. And, yeah, one could say this is passé and would’ve fared better around the hour we kissed dead guys goodbye. But, Opium Morals is so good, it doesn’t matter. “The Flock” contains a riff so nasty, they might’ve nicked it from Autopsy. Then, the band wallops the sequel to back-to-back jacks with “Grindstone,” a song containing everything bands forget to include when trying to replicate the Cursed formula. In fact, it’s almost like Seven Sisters were able to channel all of the unused potential of metalcore coulda-beens. Think The Blinding Light and Swarm of the Lotus would get all wistful and shit hearing this pop off the glove? Uh, you bet. So, get the goddamn bat off your shoulder. This ain’t no Eddie Harris junker. Take a hack and Jobu will take care of the rest.
Alright, that’s it for us. If you know some punks deserving some shine, drop us a line at @flahfbl or @themichaelscott.
Before we go, if you had any doubt about which version of Black FLAG is worth seeing this summer, wonder no longer:
Catch you next month.
