Robyn Writes

Review: Wet Nuns – s/t

Having wetted appetites earlier in the year by dangling debut E.P Broken Teeth in front of a palpably voracious press and listener contingent, the nine track full length will surely induce a rabid foaming at the mouth of those whose satisfaction can only be abetted by rock of the most deprived and alcohol fuelled order. Entitled simply Wet Nuns– a somewhat sensible decisions considering potential titles included the likes of “Happy Girthday”, the record is pure unbridled man-rock encapsulating everyone’s favourite bleary-eyed stonerisms delivered with rage fuelled by an almost permanent state of inebriation.

Yet on first listen it appears Wet Nuns are emphatically more multi-dimensional than you would expect from a two-piece carrying an intent to end every gig in a state of physical tumult, every pore emitting sweat, body and instrument united in an exhausted heap. Subtlety and dynamism has found its way into the picture, resulting in such trudging brilliance as ‘Only Sometimes’, the intro of which saunters in measured and affecting introspection.  It’s the closest Wet Nuns may ever come to penning anything resembling a ballad, yet it maintains their penchant for debauchery, although in this instance it is delivered through a melancholy haze of melodic slide guitar that could provide the soundtrack to a more downbeat moment from a Robert Rodriguez Mexican back-alley shoot-em’-up. Whilst ‘Only Sometimes’ provides a sort of morning after tale of regret and hindsight realisations, the remaining tracks exist very much in the moment of hedonistic excesses.  Carried over from their eponymous E.P, ‘Broken Teeth’ is a full on slab of amphetamine induced stoner rock- the opening lyrical salvo of “I live my life with a taste of blood in my mouth” says more about the band’s outlook than any overwrought description could hope to convey.

Riffs addicts will find plenty to latch onto here, Josh Homme’s gnarly Kyuss grooves rekindled and laid down with substantially more vigour than the QOTSA man could ever hope to muster whilst the sloth-paced doom of Sleep is tangible in moments such as the closing death throes of ‘Hanging’.  Meanwhile, drums exude a cymbal smashing glory, the kit treated as disposable after being submitted to continued hammer blows.

‘Heavens Below’ sees vocals at their most grizzly, the Arizona via Sheffield drawl peppered with the gravel-throated ravings that speak of countless Marlboro Reds and extended whiskey sessions leaving a suitably rough-hewn texture to every vocal delivery that makes poor old Rod Stewart’s characteristic voice seem angelic in comparison.

As the extended blues jam ‘No Money Blues’ meanders its way through the most sultry of bluesy dirges its pretty clear, even through the omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke, that Wet Nuns have done a bloody good job.  Wet Nuns could quite easily have been a record of titillation, nine tracks of red-eyed and adrenaline fuelled rawk, a quick yet ultimately unfulfilling fix.  Yet by broadening their palette towards explorations in dynamics, no easy task for a guitar & drum two-piece, Wet Nuns resonates with deeper emotion than base level tales of drug-addled excess over no-holds-barred riffage. It’s scuzzy blues rock at its finest, rabid and well-rounded.  Delicious stuff.

4.5 out of 5 high fives!

Review: Tyler Daniel Bean – Everything You Do Scares Me [7″]

Huzzah! Tyler Daniel Bean returns with a two track 7” of his tender and introspective emo stylings. Hot on the heels of 2012’s stunning LP Longing, a record that no doubt swooned so many fragile hearts, Everything You Do Scares Me continues Tyler’s commentary on his inner turmoil, where sorrow is clearly engrained in every trembling vocal line and overtly minor key chord progression.

Subject matter of death and the shockwaves it sends through the psyches of loves ones may seem foreboding and somewhat morbid, but Tyler’s sublimely striking musicianship and narratives endowed with plain-speaking humility proves alluring to the ear. His incredibly personal lyrics, detailing his inability to cry after the death of a friend, suggest shame – his incapacity to react and convey his grief through means deemed as customary obviously tearing at his soul. He turns to self-deprecation- mocking himself as an “asshole” for his apparent emotional shortcomings. Such world-weary maturity fits the ‘old head on young shoulders’ archetype down to a tee, Tyler’s sensitive and acute observations on the process of grief and sadness belying his relative youth.

Side A, ‘Year Of The Snake’, is held together by sulkily strummed minor chords and a chiming lead guitar reminiscent of American Football’s melancholic and mellow emo digressions. Allusions to Brand New are cemented through a sublime dynamism, Tyler masterfully taking the song to an exultant crescendo where he frees himself of much of the measured restraint, his vocal delivery growing in intensity until it begins to break and fragment. A painfully simple four-note riff brings the track to a dignified and sullen conclusion.

‘I Was Wrong’ employs a more driving rhythmic urgency yet sacrifices none of the subtly invoked gloom that lurks over both of these tracks, inflicting every melody and vocal nuance with a forlorn bleakness and the feeling of omnipresent grey skies . The weaker of the two songs, the track is no less affecting in its conveyance of emotion but remains less aurally intriguing than the A-side.

Everything You Do Scares Me is a beautiful continuation of Tyler’s growing body of work, his playing branching out and becoming more refined. Anyone with a love for American Football’s seminal self-titled album or indeed the sombre emo of the 90’s will surely fall for Tyler’s inviting croon and sumptuous instrumental arrangements. A perfect soundtrack to accentuate bouts of melancholy.

4 out of 5 high fives!

Review: Pariso – Consanguinity

Holy shit! Where did this record come from? Consanguinity emerges with no hype, no prior announcement or any of those irritating “teaser” videos that are now standard industry exponents – in doing so casting a refreshing air of mysticism over the release instead of a formulaic and monotonous build-up. Consanguinity sees Pariso shed much of their penchant for brevity and insistence on getting to the point in the most intense possible way whilst maintaining the ridiculous levels of beats-per-minute to which they apply their terrifying hardcore fare.

Comprised of Pariso’s trademark pulverising grind, the soundtrack to many a violent and sweaty pit, Consanguinity exudes a more spacious quality than much of their previous claustrophobic hellfire yet compromises absolutely none of their impossible heaviness. A decidedly amped up production courtesy of Ranch Studios- the go-to studio for the UK underground heavy contingent, aides the bands newfound eye for expanse. It ensures moments of pure brutality arrive like a bludgeon to the face whereas sparse moments of relative introspection convey affecting atmospherics.

Instances of blurred intensity are decidedly more sporadic than their earlier output, the guitarists are now discovering the mischievous glee of penning riffs that crush and pulverise. Whilst sections such as the opening grind of opener ‘The Separation’ and the unstoppable driving force of ‘Pigs’ exude familiar levels of devastations: guitar and drums united in chaotic flurry, the sonic palette they eschew is capacious. Influences emerge from the murkier corners of the heavy rock diaspora, spreading their tendrils towards the unorthodox and toying with some ideas that exist decidedly outside of the box. There is even a occurrence of *gasp* sung vocals, somewhat of a faux-pas for many bands in Pariso’s field and a device seemingly at odds with the band’s feral and brutal disposition. Yet, in the context of ‘Tower of Genus’, a track modelled on a post-hardcore mould engrained with melodic inflictions that nod toward Deftones heavy/lush juxtaposition, the ‘clean’ vocals soar, contrasting the caustic grain of Mario’s defiantly English-accented screams.

The tired cliché of “heavy yet more melodic” can be applied here with upmost validity, the band awakening to the impact that a wider dynamic field can yield. This is a band who surely have yet to reach their creative peak, a myriad of potential pathways lay before the group. For Pariso, brutality knows no bounds, they are evidently still intent on penning the most uncompromisingly intense music their bodies and psyches can withstand. Thankfully, their curiosity to toy with moments of oddity and the unexpected leaves Pariso as an ever-evolving entity whose artistry can surely only proliferate.

4.5 out of 5 high fives!

Review: The Masquerade – Home Is Where You Make It

Eugh. The Masquerade: four quintessentially American adolescents who have grabbed the wrong end of the stick and refuse to refute their grip. If you can hold back the overwhelming natural instinct to turn off their debut E.P Home Is Where You Make It and hurriedly delete every trace of it from your computer then I take my hat off to you. It’s such an unrewarding listen it’s almost offensive. In fact it is rather saddening that the lifeless, saccharine and nasal drivel that The Masquerade purveys even constitutes as pop-punk. C’mon guys, sure pop-punk is supposed to exist within a certain comfort zone, but Home Is Where You Make It remains devoid of any charm, soul or value. Milo Goes To College is obviously lost on these guys.

For starters, the E.P boasts a production so sanitised the producer may as well have thrown a bucket of bleach over the entire mix and scrubbed until his hands were raw. A radio-primed sheen is overbearing, hyper-editing having flattened the sonic plain into a bland miasma of triggered drums and a perpetual nasal-bleating from the vocalist that makes Tom Delonge sound downright gruff in comparison. Their apparent ambition: a sanitised amalgamation of generic pop/punk riddled with an astounding array of clichés, delivered thick and fast until the tracks border on boorish parody.

Even after some frantic searching, any originality or notion of idiosyncratic micro-nuance remains defiantly absent. It seems The Masquerade are intent on toeing a generic line, condemning themselves to the grand honour of acting as support band to others who peddle the exact same cliché-core piffle, yet manage to execute with aeons more style and substance than these four Nickelodeon-styled lads. Pithy major key breakdowns are scattered across the arrangements, watered-down and lifeless; carrying all the punch of a Steven Hawking right hook, despite the staggering array of plug-ins and effects that no doubt have been thrown on the mix.

Opening track ‘The Weekend’ could easily soundtrack the closing credits to a direct-to-video American Pie spin off, its chorus hook of “Let’s make this last forever” acting as a not so subtle nod/rip-off/pastiche of Blink 182’s ‘First Date’, albeit minus the any ounce of humour. It’s mall rat pop-punk, where the entire ‘punk’ label is applied with the upmost nominalism, manifesting solely in a selection of ill-advised tattoos and facial piercings. Even the hooks fail to reel in interest with even the slightest degree of catchiness. Quite simply, this is lame pop music masquerading as punk – even a token pinch-squeal or “mosh” part fails to lift Home Is Where You Make It from being a horrid and tepid excuse for a record with a lyrical array that extends no further than variations on having a really fun weekend.

The Masquerade, aka My First Pop-Punk Band. Gloriously awful stuff.

1 out of 5 high fives!

Circle Takes The Square – Camden Underworld, 31/7/13

Hot on the heels of surprise release Consanguinity, Pariso’s set is rammed with storming new tracks plus a few of their older and deftly speedier material.  Despite their best efforts and plenty of perspiration from frontman Mario, the local band are met with a stoically static crowd that refuse to budge despite a torrent of riffs that should indeed lay waste to the room but are instead responded to with warm applause.

Full Of Hell are an altogether darker prospect.  Desolate and putrid, their version of hardcore takes the genre into some of the deepest depths of aural depravity.  A two minute blast of furious breakneck punk is followed by coruscating feedback: like sandpaper to the ears.  Vocals flit between dry-retching and wicked gurgles, the possessed frontman’s intense and disconcerting glare slowly surveying the room with nothing less than abhorrence for everyone within its stale confines.  Those down at the front are eager to react with that oh-so-familiar violent physicality, repeatedly denied by a band who seems to take much pleasure in descending into extended bouts of white noise.  A My Bloody Valentine style noise holocaust ends the decrepit proceedings, glitches from tortured circuitry adding to a pulsating bout of terrifying sound.  It’s decidedly unhinging- sending everyone in the room into a state of trance, feedback tearing at the ears and low end transferring tremors through everyone’s innards.  Surely amongst the most uncompromising and unsettling thirty minutes of grating music you’re ever likely to witness.

With many propping up the bar or merch stall, Code Orange Kids start their set to a rather sparse room. Unperturbed, they dive headfirst into their savage take on metallic hardcore, their bodies soon lurching with instruments thrashed around, taking the full brunt of each member’s furious display.  A potent momentum is soon built, the energy of both the band and a swelling crowd on an upward trajectory, physically manifesting in a pit that drags in more onlookers with each crushing chug, letting loose their ritualized gestures of violent abandon.  Guitarist Becca delivers her guttural banshee howls through a wall of sweat-ridden hair as the boys in the band commence the ritual of stripping themselves of inhibiting garments. ‘Liars///Trudge’ is one half savage dirge, the other an atmospheric foray into inner turmoil with Becca swapping her howls for hushed singing and allowing the pit dwellers to catch their breath as the rest of the Underworld stares in awe.  At the final track of set the band have whipped up an electric tension within the room, those at the front form a heap of flailing limbs as more reserved onlookers can’t help but headbang in approval.  As the zenith of intensity is reach the impossibly young four-piece pull one of the oldest tricks in the book: leave the crowd hungry with an abrupt and unannounced finish.  A mass of impassioned screams for encore go unanswered.

Tonight’s headliners Circle Take The Square return to the damp squalor of the Underworld after a nine year absence, taking to the stage under some simple but effective atmospheric lighting, emitting a cold beam onto each individual member.  The least visceral of the evening’s acts, Circle Takes The Square’s are an incredibly polished live entity- as to the demands of their progressive and intricate music where subtleties and dynamics need to be as palpable as possible to be affecting.  Tonight though, the band’s progressions become its undoing with their obtusely extended song lengths and overly long set time verging on over-indulgence.  Circle Takes The Square seem to be the antithesis of the uncompromising adrenaline-inducing abrasion that came before- their measured approach and instrumental digressions proving too much for the casual listener which, judging by the steady trickle of people heading for an early exit, makes up a sizeable portion of the crowd.  A gaggle of hardcore fans lap up the old ‘screamo’ songs and guitarist Drew’s schizophrenic preacher on barbiturates vocal style.  The band’s insistence playing exclusively new material for the first portion of their set may contribute to their lack of impact- especially as an eager gaggle down the front lap up songs from 2004’s As The Roots Undo. By the time they leave the stage the Underworld is only half full.  Their performance may be flawless but it lacks the grit and feral intensity that many in the crowd yearn for.

There is little doubt that the show is stolen by those plucky young Code Orange Kids, the only band who leave the crowd ravenous and baying to be brutalised further.  They prove themselves to be a vital prospect, and along with Full Of Hell’s hollocaustal tyranny they provoke a disconcerting emotional response that makes you feel alive, leaving Circle Takes The Square looking rather meek in comparison.