Robyn Writes

Belgrade – s/t

Formed from the ashes of several Philadelphia post-hardcore acts, Belgrade are five guys to whom aggression is evidently no longer a valid outlet to express their emotions. The quintet it seems, has finally succumbed to maturity and the band sounds all the better for it as they manage to maintain a commendable distance from the potential horrors of blandness and Coldplay-like attributes. Their self-titled record is a relatively mellow affair and for the most part the band’s tracks are up-tempo outings although any grand emotional outpourings of happiness remain measured and free from hysterical gestures. There’s nothing on the record that immediately reaches out, grabs you by the scruff of the neck and deplores you with wild eyes and a shower of spittle that “this record deserves your attention right now!” Instead, Belgrade have presented us with a fully formed record that makes plain that the band have already discovered and honed in on their “sound”, despite it being perhaps a little derivative.

The talents of the band members are immediately tangible – they may not be virtuosos, but the guys certainly know how to craft tracks with depth as well as substance. What’s more, Belgrade never allow themselves to explore too far into the musical wilderness; reeling in those meandering guitars before they reach abstract territory whilst still prodding and teasing at the groups musical boundaries. Everything saunters along pleasantly, although it takes several listens before the record stops sounding like forty minutes of inoffensive indie and individual songs can be distinguished amongst the lethargic strumming and severely reverbed lead guitar that carve out pretty little melodies over breezy vocals.

Belgrade stick resolutely to standard verse/chorus/verse song structures, perhaps limiting themselves in that respect and inviting the possibility of accusations of an over-familiarity between the tracks which due to their mellow nature seems a perfectly reasonable criticism. Even so, Belgrade is a record of sumptuous fluidity – effortlessly making the transition from each track to the next in the most carefree of manners. They’re not exactly versatile, but when you sound so assured as Belgrade it becomes a moot point. Belgrade are a band to soundtrack your carefree summer days whilst providing enough sonic texture to demand to be heard through headphones in order to fully experience the bands mesmerizing prowess.

4 out of 5 high fives!

Campaign – The Black Album [7″]

A cursory listen to The Black Album will reveal two things – Campaign like to party – and I mean really party as in total uninhibited craziness that leaves you with the mother of all headaches and finding yourself inexplicably covered in blood. Secondly, Campaign want YOU – the listener, to be sucking vodka shots out of belly-buttons and committing yourself unquestionably to a whole manner of crazy-ass shit. With tracks such as ‘Breaking Bones’ and ‘Out Of Control’, Campaign’s breakneck punk flurries render themselves as the perfect Jackass soundtrack to a pre-sober Steve-O doing something particularly gnarly probably involving his genitals or Bam Margera kicking himself repeatedly in the head just for the heck of it. This is good-time punk, free from the accusatory nature of more politicized strains of the genre and whose aims are held down to a simple humility- to spread their beer-soaked vibes and preach the gospel of raucous festivity. Campaign’s hardcore zeal is provided by the less-politically inclined rage of party-centric hardcore of the likes of Black Flag’s Six-pack and TV Party era celebrations of nights spent getting hammered. Their overall sound therefore, is often strikingly similar to The Bronx- blistering punk n’ roll that’s often downright gritty and depraved but holds onto anthemic ambitions which manifest in the crowd-friendly “woah-oh” choruses. ‘Breaking Bones’ is a relentless piece of speed-punk where the band manages to cram two guitar solos into just two minutes whereas ‘Slums’ dispels any over-riding sense of one-dimensionality with some inventive and squalling lead guitar work. ‘Midnight Interrogation’ falls just short of a minute which is probably for the best as the drummer’s traction-engine arms seem to harbour some unsettled beef with the drum kit. In a rare use of subtlety, closer ‘Out Of Control’ comes complete with keyboards that hover in the background yet their effect as atmospheric device is perfectly tangible.

Lasting less than ten minutes, The Black Album is a flurry of punk fury for those in need of a quick and instant fix. Sure, you may be convinced that you’ve heard a few of these riffs before, but the sheer ferocity with which they are delivered eradicates any notion of unoriginality; its gargled howls and partially destroyed drum kit an irrepressible and hugely enjoyable exercise in no-frills party punk.

3.5 out of 5 high fives!

Big Dick – s/t

The funny thing is, seeing a band with a name like Big Dick instantly conjured pre-conceived sounds and notions in my head – that they were raw, hard-drinking and hard-partying; eschewing a sleazy amped-up sexuality and that for whatever reason they were most probably Australian. Okay, I was wrong about them being Australian; in fact Big Dick operate out of Ontario, Canada, but the rest of my pre-conceptions fit rather well with the dancey, sweat-drenched noise rock that this bass and drums duo specialize in. Obviously, any bass and drums duo will have to try very hard in order to distance themselves from the dirty, funked-up sex-punk of the emphatically brilliant Death From Above 1979, a hard feat to achieve when the only tools at your disposal are the same four-strings and drum kit. But Big Dick remain heavily indebted to them, hanging around amidst the no mans land between pastiche and homage with many tracks such as ‘Witchcraft’ containing hugely funky bass riffs that could easily have been pinched from a Death From Above B-side or any cut from You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine for that matter. But Big Dick are not simply second-rate copyists, although at times they certainly lean heavily in that direction. Running parallel to their furious funk is a strain of scuzzy and uncompromising noise, taking cues from 90’s underground acts who focused on creating the ugliest and most deprived music their instruments could handle. The lo-fi production leaves the whole record engulfed in an inviting layer of warm fuzz that is omnipresent on the record’s sonic peripherals. Tracks such as ‘Colours’, where the sludge is laid on thick, the riffs resolutely Neanderthal and the vocals shriek in such disregard for the throat that vocal chords are left in tatters, remain the standout excursions of the album. Other tracks such as ‘Mayday’ are driven by a relentless punk urgency, with the duo emanating all the hyperactive ferocity of ravenous coke-fiends, intent on hammering through the song as quick as their limbs can carry them so they can gain their next well deserved fix. The album is also far from a one-dimensional shriekathon or straight-up freak-out of relentless bass bashing and drum destroying. Whereas the band flirts tentatively with melody on some tracks, they drop their aggression totally on ‘Anti-social’ and allow a softer touch over every part of their sound. But they veer from the warpath only briefly, and the return to aurally destructive territory is swift and doesn’t let up again until the album is over.

Despite penning some genuinely thrilling, visceral and groove-laden songs, the similarity to Death From Above may be too overwhelming for many. On the other hand, the sonic territory that Death From Above exploded into has left a void and an underground clamouring for sweaty, exhilarating and dirty punk suitable for house parties and for providing the soundtrack to alcohol-induced vomiting. They may be brash and derivative of a number of easily pinpointed influences, but Big Dick are the perfect band to have playing in your front room as bodies fly and the police are knocking on the front door and shouting threats of arrest through the letterbox.

3.5 out of 5 high fives!

Pushmen – The Sun Will Rise Soon On The False And The Fair

Oh sweet, sweet heavy metal, look at what Pushmen have done to you. Stripped you of much of your steadfast clichés and injected you with a fervent animosity and immediacy that belies your old age; even as your arthritic hands remain bent out of shape after years of speed-metal and aborted attempts at two-handed tapping. Now metal is rejuvenated once again, still sticking to the same diet of whiskey and cocaine but aware of the power that fresh perspective and open mindedness can bring to a genre as senile and cumbersome as heavy metal. All this means the catchily titled The Sun Will Rise Soon On The False And The Fair is far from resembling a by-numbers record of recycled riffs headed straight for the ever growing pool of stagnation. It is by all accounts a thrilling listen that is made vital because of a mutating form of punk’s abhorrence that runs through the protruding, strained veins of these angry Pushmen fellows.

Occupying a left-field metal sound which resides in very similar territory to Mastodon’s crossover appeal but without any of the sprawling classic rock pretensions, The Sun Will Rise Soon… is a continuation of modern metal’s unholy matrimony of cerebral, dexterous passages with outright aggression and pulverising, sweat-inducing riffs. Pushmen already have some serious metal pedigree amongst their ranks, comprising of ex-members of The Sword and Heartless Bastard to name but a few of their previous metal muses with which the members have already clocked up thousands of hours touring, excreting thousands of bucket loads worth of sweat in the process. On top of their impressive CV’s, Pushmen boast some of the finest ink-on-flesh in the business and an abundance of facial hair of Nordic proportions. So far, so metal.

The guitars are far from the standard metal fare of solid, distortion ridden bludgeons. Whilst they are well versed in straight up power chords, Pushmen prefer to whip their instruments into a frenzy, as guitar lines dart back and forth, prodding at your ears and teasing with dissonant fretboard workouts before delivering the payload in a furious outburst of attack. Riffs are unorthodox, cutting jagged edges through the songs and sitting somewhere between Slayer’s aural brutality and The Jesus Lizards raucous re-appropriation of jazz scales.

Thundering opening track ‘Child From Chaos’ features a surprisingly melodic chorus, touching upon the subversive attitudes of pop-savvy modern metal bands of the calibre of Torche and Baroness. ‘Vortex Philosophy Blues’ is a swirling, well…vortex of virtuosic riffs that descend into the bowls of hell before emerging with a pretty catchy central hook and a bought of chanted vocals. Don’t get deterred by un-metal phrases such as ‘swirling’, this album is still as macho-metal as a Hells Angels pre-show barbeque before a Metallica concert. Opening in a foreboding barrage of feedback and atmospheric dissonance, ‘Amass’ is left to simmer for some time before the huge riffs are brought out to play. ‘Blaze Some More Hate’ and ‘The Year of Hands and Neck’ are two sublime showcases of outrageous musicianship as drums nail some truly furious fills whilst never falling into over-indulgence whilst guitars wail in a selection of high fretboard moments that proves Pushmen are unafraid to use more minimalist tendencies instead of the usual one-hundred-notes-per-second heavy metal fare. As the album progresses the guttural screams and bellows of the throaty terror unleashed from bloody vocal chords may prove to be difficult for some listeners to endure, as the vocalists mid-range screams tear at the ears like rabid claws and leave you pleading for even the slightest variation. ‘Crime Again’ begins in a distinctly un-metal fashion, its main guitar part sounding resolutely odd but not out of place amongst the stomping riff which brings the track to a punishing close. ‘Western Medicine’ signs the band off on a six minute expedition through a selection of riffs that veer towards the weird end of the metal spectrum and the vocalist on a quest to see if he can scream so violently that his lungs come flying out of his mouth.

A solid record, commendable for keeping its gaze forward rather than behind into the over-mined metal back catalogue. Its fault are few, but the hardcore bellow that persists throughout all nine tracks will surely deter and/or intimidate some would-be fans. Their loss.

4 out of five high fives!

Barrow – Though I’m Alone

Emerging from the heartland of America’s ‘Bible Belt’, North Carolina’s Barrow are four lads with a distinct musical vision that belies their relative youth. Though I’m Alone is an outright rejection of standardization and genre limitations which a worrying number of bands and musicians seem so keen to enforce these days. Taking to heart the “punk is freedom to play whatever you want, as sloppy as you want” mantra, the record is an aural feast for those whom ugliness is deemed a much more attractive proposition than squeaky-clean saccharine conventionality.

Upon the first play of opening track ‘Fox Ears and Silence’ I found myself checking to see if I had started playing Throbbing Gristle by accident, but no, the first thirty seconds of industrial clattering and ominous metallic scraping is indeed the work of the band. Any notion that this is a record of experimental pseudo-industrial noise is quickly dispatched by the unannounced arrival of blistering drums, thrashing guitars and to top it all off, a solid dose of disembowelling screams in an uninhibited attack on the senses. Their music is a conflict, an everlasting struggle between atonality and melody and between aggression and fragility of which the tension between these elements is unforgiving. It is the power of juxtaposition that gives Though I’m Alone its emotional power, an inventive update on the old quiet/loud trick but one deployed inventively- sometimes exploding out of nothing and other times emerging as a foreboding wave that comes looming out of the darkness. Barrow are something of a brilliant oddity in the respect that in the space of one song they subvert all expectation and any pre-conceived notion of which musical direction they are headed. This air of unpredictability results in even the most subdued and introspective of moments under constant threat of turning into a visceral attack with no warning. Tracks such as ‘Wither’ are held together by a post-rock thread, leading to moments of breathtaking expanse as the climax blends atmospherics and caustic fury with commendable finesse. ‘Old Timer’ is underpinned with a droney bass rumble as delay-infused slide guitars sculpt melodies across the soundscape, punctuated mid-song by a short blast of furious catharsis that recedes as quickly as it erupts. What remains are fragile vocals that bring to mind Jesse Lacey if he fronted noise-rock ear destroyers Swans. Meanwhile, distant vocals repeat the question “are we nothing but the same?” until the question has lost all meaning. On the opposite end of the emotional scale to the bands more attention grabbing forays into the caustic, ‘Clawhold’ is a deeply affecting and subdued affair that features quivering and delicately whispered vocals which carry as much fraught emotional pain as any of the screams on the record, no matter how guttural they may be. Bringing the album to a close in sprawling fashion is ‘God’s In His Heaven – All Is Well’. The intro is two chords of trudging post-rock, gradually accompanied by a stark, minimalist arpeggio and an equally simplistic but no less effective slide guitar. The intensity is built up with measured meticulousness into a ball of unstable energy that instead of exploding disintegrates into chaotic discordance as the drums carrying on their sultry march until the bitter end. A tremendous effort that is impossible to lazily pigeon-hole; Though I’m Alone sees the cerebral uneasily coexisting with abhorrent outbursts across a dystopic sonic landscape that feels undyingly overcast. An early contender for the angry album of the year.

5 out of 5 high fives!