Saturday, July 19, 2014
What would be the matter with the kind of person who couldn't get going to this record? Like, what would allow that level of stubbornness and unpleasantness in a guy (I'm going to give the ladies a pass on this one...I'm not real certain that a woman should find much joy in Saint Vitus...nor am I sure I could trust a female like that)?
Three songs; one being a Black Flag cover (obviously [and it's a perfectly crafted version, naturally]), one being a mournful Sabbath-y ode to the proverbial "end", and the other being my personal favorite Saint Vitus jammer of all jammers, "Look Behind You". It's also worth noting, this is the Wino fronted version of the band which, I'm sure some would disagree (but they'd be stupid, fucking idiot assholes for doing so), is THEE quintessential version. Plus, also worth noting that Dave Chandler on the cover has combined "metal chic" (bullet belt and bandanna) with "hardcore aesthetic" (Germs t-shirt and Chuck Taylors) a full two decades before the look caught on. Next level shit.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Mother of mercy! Survival Knife deliver the goods with extreme prejudice! The live version of "Gold Widow" is a killer.
Cannot get enough of this band, they are scratching a very specific musical itch that not many others are even qualified to do. If you don't have their album yet, you'd be wise to save up you lawnmowing money and get cracking on it.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Label: Self Released
Your mother cut your Tang with Drano, didn't she? That is, when she bothered to feed you at all.
Your childhood was a stifling dog crate lined in scratchy, flea-infested wool. Your friends were the swords of sunlight that managed to break through the wire mesh and cut the darkness into suffocating shafts of escape. Your favorite song was, and always will be, the sound of the car pulling out of the driveway.
Love thy neighbor...
Damn near anti-everything, this builds on the rhythmical disrespect of a Venetian Snares glitch, crossed with the abrasive hate of "Fucked On A Pile Of Corpses" era Skullflower, played with the bad attitude of a Harry Pussy...but with the loving grace of a band saw. It's the atonal scree of Wolf Eyes as deciphered and recoded by Masami Akita's 808, and narrated by an agitated drifter screaming at you on the street below through the fan blades of your window unit.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Label: Self Released
Maximum hardcore overdrive that serves up 5 songs in about 7 minutes. So, 7 minutes later you're done with your smoke break and your back on the factory floor aimlessly driving a forklift from one vat of glue to another, but now you have the resolve to deal with Glen. That piece of shit Glen...your asshole boss...G-L-E-N.
Fuck that guy. He wouldn't even know what to DO with a His Hero Is Gone / Cursed hybrid like this. Glen wouldn't even be able to identify the sample at the end of the recording! That dumb shit.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Label: Riot Season / SuperFi / Swarm Of Nails
Hey bro, let's blog.
Let's play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, ok? But in this version of the game we put a heavy cotton sack over your head and start swinging on you with cricket bat. Then we spin you around to get you all good and discombobulated, and watch you try and find the donkey...across the room...that's littered with broken glass shards, cactus plants, and the odd king cobra. Want to?
Or not. Whatever.
You could just listen to this instead, I guess. This sorta Ken Mode meets Kowloon Walled City meets Keelhaul meets The Great Sabatini meets Hey Colossus type of noise/sludge/metal/hate crime.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Label: Self Released
Late to the Elephant Rifle party (first reported here), but making up for lost time. As should you. Unless you were "there, man", in which case, I apologize for "blowin' up your spot".
I like this a lot, it tickles my fancy in a few different ways. In a noise rock way. In a post hardcore way. And in a hardcore, hardcore way. If you too have any of these fancies, then prepare to have them tickled in kind. Hell, they even have the decency to cover the ONE good Rush song...the one that sounds like total Sabbath worship, "Working Man"!
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Label: Death By Blowjob
Oh, that long and esteemed lineage of bands who's t-shirts you can't wear around your parents. A proud and noble tradition that for me personally, began with a Circle Jerks shirt that wasn't very popular around the house circa 1986, and a G.B.H. shirt my father took particular umbrage with due to some "anti-authoritarian" imagery, especially a cracked open skull which he (my father) somehow wrote the back story narrative on which involved riot police, disrespect, and corporal punishment...it was a very thorough analysis of an otherwise innocuous mall-punk shirt. The irony of it all, is that now I have to think about my children's reaction when I don a "classic" shirt to work around the house and have to explain why there is a hand coming up out of a festering grave on my Entombed "Left Hand Path" live 1990 shirt. Sucks man.
So, the second hardest part about liking Strangulated Beatoffs, once you get up the moxie to rock their merch in public, is to actually LIKE the Strangulated Beatoffs. It's not easy. It's not supposed to be easy, that's not the way the music is structured...if you want to call it music. With all it's droning, looping, repetition, it's as much endurance test as it is music. Maybe it's the supposed subliminal messages contained within each track (one of them is centered around the "Pied Piper" flute hypnosis played by Martin Mull in a particularly brutal episode of the Wonder Woman television series), but something makes this album listenable. Something.
One half of the this two man champagne jam is Stan Seitrich from Drunks With Guns, which neither explains nor justifies the band, but for a noise rock focused blog, it's important to note.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Label: Die Slaughterhaus
Three cheers for loud and caustic rock music.
Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!
Sorry about your eardrums, and your neighbor's stupid Vizsla puppy who "needs his rest", and your daughter's 8 year friend that is over at the house giving you the stink-eye (in your OWN fucking house no less), but the two songs contained herein are only to be played at top volume. Loud and proud and all that.
It's the wiry tension of a post punk Killing Joke assault, draped over by the over driven noise worship of A Place To Bury Strangers. Which, oddly enough, sorta gets this Atlanta band close to another (oft overlooked) Atlanta band, All The Saints...but more shouty. More of a hardcore trip on a Loop meets The Birthday Party key party.
Recorded by Andrew Wiggins of Hawks and Wymyns Prysyn....I almost said "fame".
Essential at this point in your life.
Sorry for the "bad blogging" of late, but....I don't know.
Anyway. Those who know me (none of you), know that I'm on a constant search for the elusive indie rock band that is catchy but not pussy. That is clever but not fey. Noisy and brash, with a healthy appetite for self deprecation and penchant for revenge fantasies.
Basically, I'm always looking for a band to fill that Archers Of Loaf shaped hole in my heart. My cold, black, dead, Archers Of Loaf -missing heart.
So, here we find Places To Hide (catch that one?), who while not quite bitter enough to get the full Archers of Loaf (who, by the way, are the measuring stick for all indie rock bands now, then, and forever) bump, they do manage a very convincing Pavement by way of Superchunk steez that I'm certainly not going to sneeze at. Except when my allergies flare up, at which point I'm sneezing at all kinds of shit. I like that they understand the value of "being sloppy". Perfection is stupid. Messy and frayed around the edges is where it's all.
This Atlanta band has a ton going for them, and even though I'm really liking this record, I bet their next one is going to be a monster. Hopefully. A fun, noisy, monster.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Label: Learning Curve
Don't let the laconic warped Western album intro lull you into a false sense of serenity, be assured this record is coming for your head. And it's bringing with it a swinging hammer of sludgy noise rock capable of deafening an entire city block. Big, hulking, spiteful noise rock that backs you into a corner and reels off paranoid rant after paranoid rant. It accuses you of crimes you hadn't even thought to commit, nor did you wish to be privy to. It throws a thick, heavy blanket of diseased wool over your head to administer a methodical and ritualistic beating, humming the entire time. It does things that nice bands don't...or won't depending on your own personal politics.
So who's behind this parade of the horribles anyway? For starters, and mainly, you're dealing with Gus Engstrom of the defunct Grids (a killing spree of a band in their own right). He is augmented in his quest for audio upheaval by Creston Spiers of Harvey Milk on trumpet (of all things), John Neff of Drive By Truckers on pedal steel, Adam Marx of Seawhores on guitar, and Matt from Moonshine on drums. Together they mount one convincing assault on your ears, all pummel and thud, with that hint of nuanced psychosis...just the right amount of crazy.
If you have any Rusted Shut, Clockcleaner, Head Of David, King Snake Roost, Swans, Harvey Milk, or Flipper in your record collection, then I believe you've found a winner here.