goodbysunball

[goodbysunball]

Take a record, leave a record

Back up and running for now. Five solo releases, another one from Water Damage, and one well-received gory metal opus. Step inside.

Chris Brokaw, Ghost Ship (12XU)

It seems Chris Brokaw's never too far from a new recording being released, but I've been anxiously awaiting the proper follow-up to 2020's incredible Puritan. Those looking for Brokaw to redeliver "The Heart of Human Trafficking" will momentarily be a bit sour at the pensive, foggy mood of Ghost Ship, though the lack of drums and, really, momentum open up a more cavernous, affecting space. The jagged sawing of "Anything Anymore" is about as roused as this record gets, opening with "Thank god I'm not in jail/thank god I'm not on fentanyl," a painfully American sigh of relief. For the rest of the album, Ghost Ship retreats into itself, conjuring Eluvium on "Vampire of Rathmines" or Loren Connors on the title track, though the inventive, patient guitar work is unmistakably that of Brokaw. The lyrics are weary but matter-of-fact, a hard look at behaviors or habits easier to ignore, here laid out for inspection, unadorned. Closer "Away From Me" is the best track here, and the most devastating; the opening guitar line becomes amplified and then gradually splits into a thousand shards, the record ending in the same fog pictured on the cover. In a sub-underground seemingly saturated with solo guitarists, Chris Brokaw is still unmistakable, a giant. Not too often I want to wander down a dreary path like Ghost Ship's cleared, but it's really gotten under my skin the past few weeks. Highly recommended - and grab a copy of Puritan while you're poking around the 12XU mart.

Cube, Lucky Numbers & True Weight (Digital Regress)

I don't think there are many artists who capture the feeling of late capitalism, technology-addled or -damaged lifestyles, and fringe society as well as Adam Keith, whether through his excellent Baited Area magazine or his music as Cube. These things are all thoughtfully explored, without judgement, an active interest in how people behave, make art, and generally survive or adapt in an environment actively working against them. As Cube, Keith lives in a genre-agnostic space that contains post-punk, noise, and drum and bass/jungle. On Lucky Numbers & True Weight, he leans harder than ever into the latter: "New Stare" verges on footwork, the industrial pounding of "Rotoprone" sounds ripped from a L.I.E.S. 12", and "Skin Diver" is exhilaratingly furious d'n'b. The best parts of any Cube record are still the throbbing tracks with deadpan vocals on top, the lyrics usually consisting of phrases that have infiltrated everyday life ("Terms of Service") removed from context and re-shaped by the ominous delivery. New here are experiments with autotune and the closest-ever Cube pop track, "Reverse Cowboy," the bouncing, minimal beat and alien chorus undercut by an ominously shimmering synth in the background. The genre-hopping and restlessness places Lucky Numbers & True Weight in the same league as J.R.C.G.'s Grim Iconic record from last year, fine company if you ask me; but the picture Cube paints is much more dystopian and claustrophobic. Another banger from Cube, even if the mirror held up reflects less and less favorably each passing day.

Darksmith, Loose Ends (Philatélie)

A new recording from Tom Darksmith, this time on LP courtesy of Philatélie. Loose Ends is a bit of a self-deprecating title, like most Darksmith releases I guess, and at first blush it appears to be a slight entry in their overall discography. "Part Two" especially felt amorphous and slippery, though after many listens it feels like a refined, focused vision, something I'm sure Tom'd hate to hear after reading his interview in Rocker. It seems like the whirring, jammed machinery of past releases has been largely cleared out, making space for faint voices and the endless grating hum of production they fuel; a close inspection of some piece of machinery that might take your hand off if you get too close. "Part One" is among the most effective Darksmith tracks I've heard, grinding and humming and blaring its way to extinction, and the distant echo of human activity and refrigerator hum of "Part Two" acts as the foil on the flip. Immersion is the gateway.

Kilynn Lunsford, Promiscuous Genes (Feel It)

It's been some two and a half years since Kilynn Lunsford's Custodians of Human Succession, my favorite album of that year, and it seems like the time's been well spent developing their idiosyncratic vision. Lunsford's work with Little Claw and Taiwan Housing Project still informs to a degree, but it's getting harder to spot now amidst the throbbing, rubbery bass, pitch-shifted vocals and increasingly dub-and funk-inspired compositions. The best of the bunch, like "Nice Quiet Horror Show," the bass-guided cover of the Beach Boys' "Disney Girls," the lone rave-up "Gateway to Hell," and the noise-addled acoustic strums of "Gagged World," could, absent Lunsford's very confrontational lyrics, find a whole lot of success in a right and just world. For good measure, the cover of Syd Barrett's "Maisie" here knocks almost like a vintage Memphis production, knife sharpening sounds included, Lunsford able to transpose effortlessly atop almost any backing music.

With somewhat mixed results, Lunsford lets loose apocryphal lyrics and broken-then-mended melodies in several spots, pushing the listener away while simultaneously pulling them closer. The indisputably goofy intro to "Lillibilly," arriving after an inspired deconstruction of the Beatles' "You Never Give Me Your Money," features Lunsford's vocals bouncing off the walls atop jaunty barroom piano, repeating "Predatory market crash" like a schoolyard taunt. The sinewy title track features exaggerated monster bellowing and a stiff, brittle rhythm section, lyrics promising your child a job at the meat processing plant "if you run into a rut." "Some Mothers Do" is a lyrical maze delivered atop a broken programmed keyboard, consisting of riddles like "Not a scoundrel, a liberty-taker, but a proper gentleman" and "Modern-day fairy tales, sex films, Roger Ailes." The more I listen, the more confusing it all becomes, but it's sure that Lunsford has a vicious, tempered vision, one that is becoming more warped by and resilient to the ongoing, painfully slow societal collapse. Promiscuous Genes can't stop that, but there are answers in the forceful drive to create and make something, lest you really lose your head, Rat Bag.

Pissgrave, Malignant Worthlessness (Profound Lore)

The light switched on for hordes of the sub-underground this year: after 10 or so years of aural punishment, Pissgrave was warmly received upon the release of this third album, Malignant Worthlessness. Even Pitchfork had their say, which is all a bit strange for a band that seems to hold everything and everyone in contempt, grinding out a vicious brand of utterly relentless death metal with near-mechanical abrasive vocals, and adorning their records with close-up photos of decaying or destroyed human bodies. Any positive recognition's more than well-deserved: each Pissgrave album's been better than the last (but they're all individually great), and their blinders-on approach to metal, utterly unaware of trends, or seemingly other genres, remains unwilling to make a single concession to the listener. There are crunchy, circular headbang riffs at points (see: two minutes into "Heaping Pile of Electrified Gore" or most of "Interment Orgy"), but for the most part, the shot blast that begins "In Heretic Blood Christened" is more representative of the duration. The drumming is up to the task, grinding out blastbeats or pounding out slow tempos with fury, each song packed with dizzying, inventive riffs shifting seamlessly. It's brittle and abrasive, but not smothering; rather, the album feels textured, almost nuanced, the riffs wound into themselves enough to form a gnarled, thorny nest. The overall effect is still very much physical and primitive, of course, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a more punishing collection of songs this year. Pissgrave now, Pissgrave forever.

Private Collector, s/t CS (self-released)

Two continuous 30-minute sides of tape loop slop, electrical vomit and sandpaper scrape from West Virginia. At a certain point, these sort of noise-based experimental projects start to blend together, but where James Douglas' Private Collector stands out is how they continuously layer and peel back these sounds; it feels like you're in a writhing pit of insects, sounds moving in and being replaced, often one or two minutes after introduction. There's a persistent train whistle sort of noise on "Bankers Box" that can get on my nerves, and a minutes-long broken ice cream truck jingle or siren rears its head on "Storage Unit," but otherwise sounds slip out of earshot and disappear, quickly replaced by throbbing, rustling, swishing, as if they're working five or six tape loops at once. There's no doubt Private Collector will get under your skin and garner more than a few complaints from clean-hearers within its sphere, but there's something both novel and addictive about this approach to noise. Flows well, rarely drags, and feels academic without a starched collar or sport jacket: a dry, dry humor can be evinced from the song titles and some of the sounds within. A strong debut, exhausting in the right ways; collapse into Private Collector for a spell.

Water Damage, Instruments (12XU)

One of the small pleasures of the past few years 'round here has been gettin' a little high and letting the needle drop on a Water Damage LP. I'm hardly the first to find something powerful in planting a bass line, a drum line, and listening to all the other guitars, electronics, violins, and whatever else is in the room grow in volume like weeds around the rhythm section. Instruments is now the third record I own by the ever-growing, ever-changing ensemble, and while the formula still works, the back half of this record might've uncovered my limit. The opener "Reel 28" features a loose bass line ripped right outta Bitches Brew and the group rides that for the duration; it's great. A 12" featuring "Reel 28" on one side and "Reel E" on the other would be unbeatable. But that's not what we get: the album proceeds with "Reel 25," a track that promises action but continues to lean into it's punishing, swelling "dun-dun" beat. If I hadn't seen them pound "Reel 25" into the ground for nearly an hour at Big Ears this year, I'm not sure I'd be a fan; the wave refuses to crash after a 20-minute crescendo, and the further I get from that live memory, the less I want to hear it. "Reel 32" is almost hesitant, sounding like the band's estimate of a Takehisa Kosugi ensemble, volume traded for detail, openings made for improvisation. The subtle textures and impressive restraint on the track are noted, but it struggles for traction over 17 minutes. There's a cover of Pärson Sound's "India (Slight Return)" at the finish that sounds fine, but never really achieves liftoff. Maybe I'm just burned out from nearly an hour of "Reels" preceding it, but it's failed to connect thus far. Instruments is a more than fine record, and you should absolutely go see Water Damage if you ever have the opportunity, but between the live archive and the once-a-year full lengths, saturation just might have been reached.

[goodbysunball]

Miracle postponed

Been more focused on selling off records than buyin' 'em, but the right music always cuts through any cynicism I might've harbored momentarily. Long time comin', more in the works soon. Happy 4th.

Artificial Go, Musical Chairs (Feel It)

Second record in two years from Artificial Go, and it very much expands upon and amplifies everything that worked on Hopscotch Fever. Musically the band sticks with the jangling, anyone-can-do-it feel of the Clean, the Raincoats and the Feelies circa The Good Earth, and the addition of a bass guitar, among other scattered instrumentation, is a boost. The separate parts begin to differentiate themselves on Musical Chairs, the band no longer taking a backseat to Angie Willcutt's acrobatic vocal performance. From the soft driving power of standout "Playing Puppet," featuring one of Willcutt's more subdued performances, to the yawning, itchy dub of "Sky Burial," the vocal effervescence is now clearly matched by the band's prowess. Of course, the vocals are still the star: there's an effortless cool in Angie Willcutt's vocals, not only in shifting from accent to accent but also in the word choice and meandering, sharp delivery. "Who will pick me up? Who will drop me down?" she asks in "Red Convertible," and similar smart-dumb phrases are peppered in with more biting commentary, like all of "The World Is My Runway," and when she says "All I see/is blocking my view" on "Late to the Party." There's clear intention behind the whole album, even when not taking itself too seriously ("Circles"), but still slips in the kind of heavy subject matter and experimentation found in more buttoned-up projects. Hope you caught 'em on their most recent tour, because this kinda magic doesn't stay bottled up and hidden for long.

Jason Crumer, Lake of Fire (Satatuhatta)

Incredible new record from Philly's Jason Crumer, one half of the brains behind the inexhaustible No Rent Records. The equally busy Satatuhatta in Finland put out his latest, and the dialed-in harsh noise across Lake of Fire fits in nicely with most of that label's output. The record consists of nine tracks, most heavily laden with distortion and feedback, with glistening ambient synths or droning bass underneath. The less abrasive musical devices and the way they're employed give the album some semblance of a narrative arc, and so too does the patterned way Crumer wields distortion. The distortion will drop out, rumble underneath threateningly, stutter before gathering into a whiteout ("Grand Gesture"), in part reminding me of '90s-era Macronympha with shorter track lengths. A few tracks, like "Country Search Ends In Tragedy" and "Street Sweeper on Memory Lane," have a cinematic feel, and "Camouflage" even throws in what sounds like a guitar pick slide amongst the wreckage. It all coalesces into something blistering and arresting while remaining oddly accessible, wrapped up in a smartly designed sleeve to make it this year's must-have noise full-length, the sculpted sound within a relentless and necessary antidote to feelings of despair and powerlessness. Highest recommendation.

Heimat, Iti Eta No (Teenage Menopause)

Album number three from Heimat, the duo of Olivier Demeaux and Armelle Oberlé, one that balances the group's maximalist, dramatic tendencies with more nuanced moves. Oberlé continues to be a polarizing vocalist, bellowing, shrieking and squeaking in multiple languages, lending the band and its output a unique presence, if not a theatrical air. Demeaux keeps things churning with energetic, knocking drum patterns amidst the booming organ synths and clangorous samples. When the band connects, as on "Koko," "Waldi" (don't miss the incredible video) and "Nass," it feels like such a natural collision of sounds and vocals, Demeaux's drum patterns and synths carrying the heft while Oberlé lets loose. The plodding, churning eight minutes of "So Long" works the whole way through, and the inclusion of the haunting acoustic "Tree" lends the feel of a lost 1970s UK folk album. Occasionally they wander into the overwrought, like on the title track, but on the whole Heimat's crafted another indefatigable, exuberant album that is as uncategorizable as ever.

Intensive Care & the Body, Was I Good Enough? (Closed Casket Activities)

The Body, relentless collaborators, dropped this record made with industrial-metal duo Intensive Care earlier in the year, and like most of the Body's collaborative records, the results are somewhat middling with the occasional dam-bursting moment. For what it's worth, this is one of the best-sounding records the Body or Intensive Care have been on: the production booms, and the underlying texture, be that synths or mechanical noise, is plush and rendered in a way that keeps things afloat. Call it the Body's first "vibe" record, if you're in need of a soundtrack for your workouts in an industrial warehouse sans air conditioning; the plodding beats certifiably tilt heads, but most songs tread water for a few minutes before ending. It feels like everything was pared back in service to the programmed beats, and it makes tracks like "At Death's Door" drag, a well-controlled smoldering in place of fireworks at the track's end. It is only on the closing track, the nearly 11-minute "Mandelbrot Anamnesis," that the tension of the preceding seven tracks comes to a head, a track that wields all of the samples, noise, beats and finally crushing downpour of distortion in equal measure, a track strong enough to justify owning this record at all. I'm sticking with the B-side for now, but like the Body's side of the split with Sandworm, it's a trip worth taking.

King Blood, Eye I Aye Ivy (Petty Bunco)

Yeah buddy - a new King Blood full-length, six years in the making, dropped alongside three Vampire Bluesss cassettes, and just like that your sweltering summer soundtrack is set. The Vampire Bluesss sets are more meditative than Ry Wharton's previous work in Snake Apartment or King Blood, and some of that seems to have infiltrated Eye I Aye Ivy. There's still plenty of distortion and shredding here, of course, but nothing so much like the fireball of "Silent Dust." Instead, tracks like "Little Brother," the Popol Vuh-like "Masques" and the lonesome echo of "Count to Nine" showcase an attention to texture that's likely always been there but buried under sheets of guitar. The same sort of balanced attack was used to some degree on Hocus Focus but it's more detailed and restrained here, pulling you close for "(House of) The Arrow" and then letting it rip on "Gaudy Night," but never disrupting the threaded haze of distortion and reverb that runs through the album. On the surface this is an eminently listenable album, but with an impressive amount of depth, new details emerging on each listen, from the wailing chorus on "So Many Doors" to the guitar wrenching itself free in the middle of "Recoil." Delivers all the goods and then some; trust in Petty Bunco.

Organ of Corti, Locus (Dead Mind) // Organ of Corti, Insania (Philatélie)

The organ of Corti, part of the inner ear in mammals, transforms audio signals into "action potential" through vibration (thanks, Wikipedia). A fitting name for the Swedish trio of Joachim Nordwall (Skull Defekts, Gagmen, runs iDEAL Recordings), Mattias Gustafsson (Altar of Flies) and Dan Johansson (Sewer Election, Neutral, Amateur Hour), who through the use of tape loops and synth create creeping, patient soundscapes that often conjure dread or anxiety. The group has been releasing music for a few years now, but this year's double serving of LPs cements Organ of Corti as much more than a side project for its members. Locus was released first, the beautifully designed sleeve and print offering no clue to the cavernous noise within. The way "Resonare" slowly fades into the sound of pool balls colliding on "Cultus" provides a jump scare, but Locus is an otherwise steady, smothering album. While there's some grit and dust courtesy of the tapes, Organ of Corti's sound is remarkably clean, like the unnerving sterility of a hospital or nursing home, and the spoken word samples used add a deeply uncomfortable air. Tracks like "Populi" unfurl like Alan Splet's soundtrack to Eraserhead played at half-speed, the radiator's hiss transformed into a struggle to exhale. Insania continues where Locus left off, but the back half feels comparatively distorted and grimy. The tinnitus of "Error," the mechanical groaning and broken glass on "Sexus," and finally the ominous pounding and drowning near-human voices of "Constans" make for a thrilling side-long conclusion to a remarkable run across both LPs. As is often the case with such restrained industrial noise, maximum volume yields the most thrilling results, though both Locus and Insania will creep up behind you either way.

Rapid Dye, s/t (11PM/Cool Death)

Seven years removed from the blistering Nurture or Destroy 7", Sydney's Rapid Dye return with a refreshingly caustic LP that serves as a reminder as to why hardcore matters in the first place. Across 11 minutes, Rapid Dye split the difference between Die Kreuzen and Straightjacket Nation, equal parts burly and blistering, with amazing drumming ("Bite") and suitably throat-shredding vocals. You can mosh to "On the Take" and "Penance," but most of Rapid Dye conjures a heaving mass of bodies not unlike that on the cover, rife with tightly wound, barely-controlled chaos. The production is fittingly grainy and distorted, which works to the benefit of the guitars and vocals, and gives the feel of being in the room with the band. Absolutely zero fat here, and gets played at least three times over every time it's on in this hut, each track's blaring feedback intro both a warning and a call to attention. Every track is the best track, from the taunting screams of "Go ahead!" on "Wheel of Fortune" to the violent pogo bounce of "Cream" and "Again," but something about the abrasive relentlessness of "After Formal Party" really hits home. Smells like a classic to me.

[goodbysunball]

RIP Rosalind Fox Solomon - Valentine Boxes, Chattanooga, Tennessee, Photo by Rosalind Fox Solomon, 1976

[goodbysunball]

A young Jim Jarmusch interviews  Pere Ubu, 1977

[goodbysunball]

We're the good kind

March is normally when I celebrate the worst two months of the year being over, but this year's feeling like it's got much worse in store, though I hope I'm mistaken. Here are some new-to-me and perhaps under-the-radar and other-hyphenated-descriptor records that've taken the edge off the last few weeks.

Black Curse, Burning in Celestial Poison LP (Sepulchral Voice)

Second LP from this blackened death unit, venturing out further into madness and landing where Teitanblood, Pissgrave and Destruction Ritual-era Krieg roam. It's no small feat to push a sound as hard as Black Curse do, spittle from gnashing teeth practically splattering out of the speakers, while writing genuinely memorable songs that hold up to repeat listens. No perverse complexity, no esoteric lore, no melodies or washed attempts at psychedelia; Black Curse are rooted in the terror that is Life, "the world in fire." It opens with the awkwardly titled "Spleen Girt With Serpent," disparate movements all working individually (that slow riff about eight minutes in, whew) but one or two airy breaks or clunky transitions sap some of the momentum. From there though, the band locks in, the longer tracks gliding from gurgling death metal to blistering blastbeats, occasionally allowing the listener to catch up with circular headbanging riffs and crushing, lumbering doom. The way that a track like "Ruinous Paths..." splinters apart and twists together over and over, is sort of an ideal for this type of music, its immediacy and will to chaos holding the listener rapt for the duration. I'd also like to shout out the thousand foot depths in the middle of "Flowers of Gethsemane," disembodied voices howling inside the wall of noise created by the drums and guitars. Ferocious and manic, pedal pushed ever harder toward Valhalla. A towering pillar of death metal execution.

DAR, A Slightly Larger Head LP (Sophomore Lounge)

Yet another tip of the hat to Repressed Records' social media presence, one of the only reasons to even log onto Instagram anymore, and most of their staff shortlisting DAR's A Slightly Larger Head on their respective year-end lists. There's certain labels you should just automatically check out whatever they release, and Sophomore Lounge is one of 'em, but for whatever reason this slipped under my radar. DAR is the work of Chicagoan Aaron Osbourne, and he's backed by Jim Marlowe, Jenny Rose & Ryan Davis here, creating an unabashedly bold, deceptively simple rock record. Its crunchy riffs are well-suited for clear skies and wiping away near-constant depression for a few minutes. For some, the lyrics will be a little too earnest, or a little too personal to Osbourne, two things that are sort of the same in that they make it hard for certain listeners to find their own meaning. For the majority, though, Osbourne finds perfect ways to describe the minutiae and quiet despair of modern living: "Trying to find closure/just dying to be alive" from "Fourth of July" is one of many choice lines that start in darkness but ultimately communicate a communal desire. As bleak as things can get across A Slightly Larger Head, the music is as punchy and bright, likely due in some part to Jim Marlowe's recording and production. When Osbourne sings "We're the good kind" as a summation on the title track, the record's outed as a panacea for the small unspoken anxieties and doubts plaguing modern life. Fans of Beat Happening or those two Bed Wettin' Bad Boys LPs should check in here, as should anyone looking for a bright, brainy rock record to put the last few months to rest. Tip!

Gaoled, Bestial Hardcore LP (Iron Lung/Televised Suicide)

Big-time debut from Gaoled (pronounced "jailed," like the Scapegoat song) after a number of cassette and flexi releases, and it smokes. They take hardcore, powerviolence and death metal and feed 'em through the meat grinder, the purplish swollen goo flecked with electronics. They do the "fast part careens into devastatingly slow part" as well as anyone, but the sound here's beefed up to sandblast away any questions of their sincerity. Not that anyone's making grinding metallized hardcore for fashion, but they absolutely level you with the intensity and anger on display. The drums, bass and guitar are remarkably clear; while it's easy to latch onto the chugging riffs on "Relax," repeat listens reveal the intricacy of the blistering, blink-and-miss parts. The vocals are barked and reverberated around, filling any voids and sometimes used to augment the big riffs ("Waiting," "Feed"). There's a noted death metal influence on tracks like "Tempt" and the bulldozing closer "Khanate," the band stretching out their sound, a good look for an LP's worth of something as abrasive as Gaoled. The end result of Bestial Hardcore is energizing, not exhausting, a grit blast eardrum cleansing, needed now more than ever.

Oïmiakon, Comptoir Des Vanités LP (Bruit Direct Disques)

Got a backlog of Bruit Direct Disques releases that I regrettably did not feature here, but I'm gonna start with the most obtuse and opaque one, of course. Philémon Girouard is behind Oïmiakon, a self-described "electroacoustic/noise composer," though for Comptoir Des Vanités he flirts with grim, corroded techno for a good bit of the duration. The glitchy beats of the first few minutes give way to the 10-minute "Viande de Race," a skipping rhythm and muffled club sounds, heard from the bathroom or outside or maybe just in your head, threatening to swell or break free and making for a strangely captivating departure. The restraint on "Viande de Race" collapses on the B-side: noise swells and scratches across "M.Lube," "Turbo Silence" sounds like Lolina jumped on a Joe Colley track, and the transforming, panic-inducing beats on "Master Audition" rise to a fever pitch to bring it on home. While the write-up references Gaspar Noé's Irreversible, I tend to associate Comptoir Des Vanités with Climax, but in both cases the throbbing, pulsing chaos is at a distance, viewed through a screen, or right behind you, breathing down your neck. Sticks long after it's over. Another gem from Bruit Direct Disques, this.

[goodbysunball]

Denis Johnson, Angels (1983) p. 41

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Chrome Cell Torture Perth advertising

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Northern Exposure S6 E3 “Shofar, So Good”

[goodbysunball]

Best of 2024

Keeping it trim, for your sanity and mine. Too much good music released this year, again, but nothing topped the swirling, weighted haze of "Everyone Thought You Were Dead.”

While I'm very strongly in favor of buying music and supporting artists, consider also a donation to Gaza Soup Kitchen and The Sameer Project.

Happy New Year, and thanks for reading. On with the show:

LP

VERITY DEN, s/t (Amish)

J.R.C.G., Grim Iconic...(Sadistic Mantra) (Sub Pop)

THE BODY, The Crying Out of Things (Thrill Jockey)

BILDERS, Dustbin of Empathy (Grapefruit/Sophomore Lounge)

SHOP REGULARS, s/t (Merrie Melodies)

SEPTAGE, Septic Worship (Intolerant Spree of Infesting Forms) (Me Saco Un Ojo)

ANADOL & MARIE KLOCK, La Grande Accumulation (Pingipung)

MORDECAI, Seeds From the Furthest Vine (Petty Bunco)

WATER DAMAGE, In E (12XU)

MATT KREFTING, Finer Points (Open Mouth)

12"/7"/CS/CD

ÅTHÄVOR, s/t CS (Satatuhatta)

BALTA, Mindenki Mindig Minden Ellen 7" (La Vida Es Un Mus)

BRAIN TOURNIQUET / DELIRIANT NERVE, split 7" (Iron Lung)

CICADA, Wicked Dream 7" (Unlawful Assembly)

DEAD DOOR UNIT, Abandon CD (Tribe Tapes)

LIGHT METAL AGE, s/t CS (self-released)

JIM MARLOWE, Mirror Green Rotor In Profile CS (Medium Sound)

PHILL NIBLOCK, Looking For Daniel CD (Unsounds)

NORMS, 100% Haza​á​rul​á​s 12" (11PM/Total Peace)

SIN TAX, Abnegation 7" (Miracle Cortex)

SUFFOCATING MADNESS, Unrelenting Forced Psychosis 12" (Toxic State)

Sharp Pins at the Pilot Light, May 23, 2024

FIVE SHOWS

Ryan Davis & the Roadhouse Band, February 2, The Pilot Light, Knoxville, TN

Unwound, March 21, The Mill & Mine, Knoxville, TN

Sharp Pins with A Certain Zone, May 23, The Pilot Light, Knoxville, TN

Negativland + Sue-C feat. Zoh Amba for two songs, June 8, Central Cinema, Knoxville, TN

Primitive Man, September 22, Eulogy, Asheville, NC

BONUS: Driving to Nashville to see J.R.C.G. only to find out it was canceled, but getting to eat the best meal of the year at Margot Cafe

FIVE BOOKS

All first-time reads in 2024; highly recommend Fat City and The Wall.

Don Carpenter, Hard Rain Falling (1966)

Mariana Enriquez, translated by Megan McDowell, Our Share of Night (2023)

Leonard Gardner, Fat City (1969)

Marlen Haushofer, translated by Shaun Whiteside, The Wall (1963)

Aurora Venturini, translated by Kit Maude, Cousins (2023)

[goodbysunball]

Their legacy shall die

One last gasp before the year-end roundup. All hardcore this time, in various flavors from satisfyingly straight to exhilaratingly destructive. You oughta hear what's comin' outta Budapest. Onward:::

Balta, Mindenki Mindig Minden Ellen 7" (La Vida Es Un Mus)

Second 7" from this two-piece out of Budapest, delivering more pummeling, noisy hardcore across nine tracks. This isn't quite the blown out "noise not music" ethos of other bands; the vocals fight through the waves of distortion blasted out of the guitar's amps, and the drums are reasonably clear, if not caked in the mud being kicked up. There's even a bit of a breathing room on the heaving "Patkány Élet," but for the most part the vocals, guitars and drums are all competing to outpace the others. Makes for an exhausting, thrilling ride, because there are killer riffs and expert fills buried underneath the caustic vapor. Irreverent hardcore, setting fire to hardcore, hardcore for change.

Berosszulás, Az Öl​é​sr​ö​l 7" (Stoned to Death)

Another one from Budapest, and from what I can glean, Berosszulás have been around a while, so it's likely they've had an influence in the burgeoning hardcore scene there. The six tracks here have the structure and feel of Die Kreuzen's self-titled LP, albeit wrapped in a lo-fi recording that serves as the source of noise hovering throughout. Sounds almost like a live recording to me, but the energy is well-captured, or at least the vocal performance is strong enough to push it all over the top. The last track's my pick, the final scream of anguish sharp enough to tear flesh. Best hardcore scene of 2024.

Brain Tourniquet / Deliriant Nerve split 7" (Iron Lung)

Allegedly a challenge from one band to the other to "[strip] everything down to its most primal form," this is a healthy serving of D.C. powerviolence served two ways. The Brain Tourniquet side is my pick, the band ripping through ten short, potent bursts not unlike those found on their first two 7"s. "Unclouded by Conscious" and "Retch" do the grinding speed-into-heaving breakdown bit better than most anyone, and tracks like "Cost of Life" and "Eyes Shut Blind" rip through their sub-30 second runtimes with teeth gnashing. Deliriant Nerve has more of a thrash/death metal influence to their sound, which is done well enough. The distorted guitars and vocals drown out the drums (except the cymbals), and lacking the clarity of the Brain Tourniquet side, all the tracks tend to wash together. Still, worth it alone for the BT side, which is strong enough to be one of my favorite 7"s of the year.

Cicada, Wicked Dream 7" (Unlawful Assembly)

Killer debut 7" from Richmond's Cicada following a 3-song flexi on Total Peace, and they've apparently got a new demo cassette making the rounds now, too. Hardcore played fast, vaguely metallic, with distorted, raspy and buried vocals that ride the chopping, frenetic waves of riffage from the band. Sometimes the vocals seem unaware of the music being played, spilling out across the scorched earth the band leaves behind, which makes for a very intense, almost nerve-wracking listen. The parts when the band slow things down give off a slight whiff of black metal, but the artwork and lyrics betray a sense of humor (as does the clapping locked groove at the end), though it's anyone's guess if they're laughing along with you. Truly demented hardcore, the kind that still feels very volatile and dangerous without succumbing to gimmickry. Heavy duty, right down to the packaging; highly recommended.

Desist, Demo 2024 (625/Thrash Tapes)

Always have my ear to the ground for more west coast powerviolence, so this Desist demo was a no-brainer. Ignorant, "delinquent" (so says the label) lyrics collide with grinding tempos, knuckle-dragging riffs across these nine tracks, along with a fair amount of movie samples and substance abuse. "Greened Out" and "Opportunistic MFer" are the tracks I can recall off top, but the thing's only like six minutes so let it roll over a few times for full satisfaction. I see you, Sacramento. Rips hard, delivers the goods, leaves 'em wanting more.

Gen Gap, Hanging Out With Gen Gap 7" (MF Records)

Nabbed this without hearing a note, as it had the MF Records stamp of approval. Turns out it's not quite the furious hardcore of Delco MF's, but instead a more clean, sorta glammy 'n hammy take on the genre, easy to digest but without much flavor. I didn't find a whole lot to grab onto here; you've probably heard other bands do the same thing better.

Heaven, 4-Track EP 7" (Iron Lung)

Pretty good second 7" from this Texas D-beat unit, dutifully checking all the boxes you'd expect with a few moderate twists. I like how the riff on "S.C.U.M." sounds like it gets caught in a locked groove, and the closing track "Peace Lies" serves as a fittingly rowdy end. No real surprises here; what you see is what you get, and for some, that's good enough. Kudos for prominently including a "Free Palestine" banner on the cover.

Norms, 100% Hazaarulas 12" (11PM/Total Peace)

Yet another wild, noisy hardcore record from Budapest, and probably the best of the three featured here. Norms have been around a while, releasing a demo back in 2013, but their discordant, feverishly alive brand of 'core is new to me. The band plays with tempos that are often uncomfortably fast, the drumming unbelievably tight and right on the edge of spilling out of control, but the band's always able to pivot and set things up for another assault. No idea how they keep it all together on a track like "Valóság 9.0" or "Fogyasztó, termelóand," their many movements packed into less than two minutes, every one of 'em careening straight toward Valhalla. Feels like a meeting of Void and Masayuki Takanayagi's loudest works, and has more than whiff of Rusted Shut or Harry Pussy in the mix, too. Not a second too long, burning bright and out in about 15 minutes. Even though I want neither more nor less when it's over, 100% Hazaarulas is the most vibrant, blistering, gleefully destructive music that's passed through here in ages.

Problems, Beg For Release 7" (Adult Crash)

A welcome recommendation via @fearofgod, and one that I've not seen written about or mentioned elsewhere. Problems are from Oslo, a fact which may or may not hurt their exposure, and Beg For Release appears to be only their fourth recording in 15 years of existence, and their first in eight years. Here they've located the perfect midpoint between burly and bouncy when it comes to hardcore, every song seemingly more pit-ready than the last, bolstered by a crisp, clear recording. Almost every song opens up to a slower riff at some point, something that'd be an issue with less confident or capable musicians, but the band is airtight on this record. The yelled, intelligible vocals are the cherry on top: as angry as they need to be, all clenched teeth and lips split by mic contact, but aware of what each song calls for, always flung headfirst into the slower parts. Real hardcore heads may not like how easy the band makes this sound, but for the rest of us, it's a gift.

Suffocating Madness, Unrelenting Forced Psychosis 12" (Toxic State)

Unpopular pick for best Toxic State release this year! Really dug the slept-on first 7" from Suffocating Madness, and was stoked to see they remained an active concern with this LP released in October. Discharge is an obvious influence, but on this recording, I'm reminded over and over again of Bastard's classic Wind of Pain, from the nuanced-but-apparent thrash metal influence to the lyrical content, which meshes the sociopolitical with the personal. From the jump, the record's as advertised, a blistering assault augmented by searing solos and the occasional bone-crunching slowdown. Tracks like "Slaughter" and "Wankers" are a blitz on apathy, "Shove Yer Cross Up My Ass" is a nice upending of the usual punk rhetoric, and the call-and-response vocals on "Pressure" ramp up the intensity tenfold. Gotta shout out "Their Legacy Will Die" as an oddly comforting idea to tie things together, and like the majority of Unrelenting Forced Psychosis, the band refuses to accept the feeling of having no control in an increasingly aggressive late-capitalist society. In the end the record feels like a real on-ramp to action, a caustic cleanse with a galvanized finish.

[goodbysunball]

The hard blues

Perfect timing, right in the midst of list season. There's a lot waiting in the queue, though these records seem to have made the most impact. More in the line soon, a bunch of 7"s and cassettes and maybe a few more LPs, and eventually the obligatory look back. Mounds of plastic await:::

Anadol & Marie Klock, La Grande Accumulation LP (Pingipung)

Debut collaboration between Turkey's Anadol and France's Marie Klock, and it's an inspired one. I was familiar with Anadol's work from two prior LPs, but Marie Klock's intentionally absurd, voluble electronic music I've only recently discovered. On La Grande Accumulation, Anadol's kosmische-jazz comfortably sidles alongside Marie Klock's mostly spoken, sometimes sung stream of consciousness vocals, and the effect is deliciously intoxicating. Sometimes MK swims against the current of the music, as on the opening title track, and sometimes the pattering drums and synths pull her in, resulting in the bangin' disco-lite of "Sirop Amer (La Goule)" or the chanson-meets-giallo soundtrack on "Sonate Au Jambon." The first five tracks glide almost frictionlessly despite the sometimes frantic sing-speaking, but the final track throws a wrench into the proceedings, something that happens on every Anadol album (check out "Adieu" on Uzun Havalar, for example) and almost undoubtedly welcomed by Marie Klock. "La Reine Des Bordels" begins innocently enough in washes of synthesizer, but shifts into a double-timed square dance, then blaring ominous church organ music, and finally a demented waltz, Marie Klock breathlessly covering the proceedings throughout. It's sort of a fitting end to the record, something jarring to tie together a record which at points can feel like an ASMR exercise and even meditative. Gotten a whole lot of mileage out of La Grande Accumulation, a record greater than the sum of its parts, immediately satisfying without sacrificing the avantgarde leanings of its makers.

Bilders, Dustbin of Empathy LP (Grapefruit/Sophomore Lounge)

Patois Counselors, Limited Sphere LP (ever/never)

Rarely bundle reviews together but these two seem of a piece. Both are loquacious, expansive, lyrics-first records, and both artists have graduated from biting, angular post-punk to a more relaxed sound. 

Bill Direen's long-running Bilders dropped an LP and cassette this year, and he seems to have found the sweet spot between the songs and the poetry presented in recent live performances. The band backing up Bill on Dustbin of Empathy mirrors, catches and gets out of the way of his vocals, their music consisting mostly of brushed drums, softly strummed guitars and the occasional keyboard or organ. At first blush it's almost definitely too slight to appeal to a broader crowd, but Bill Direen is nothing if not a captivating showman and engrossing storyteller. His lyrics cast a wide net, spanning the globe and touching on war, age and morality with the light, deft touch enabled by his 60-some odd years of life experience. His delivery is usually muted, but he occasionally breaks out a caricature or odd pronunciation, as on "Scaribus" or "Caprice and Nemesis," and "Obedience" is as worked up as he allows himself to get. Direen's lyrics feel wise and matter-of-fact, and are unobtrusively slipped in, like the lines "Some voices I will never hear again/Did not live, as long as I do" leading off "Comrades." As a good documentarian, the facts are presented but the margins are, inevitably, colored in with his own feelings. Repeat listens turn up more lyrical gems, and in the end Dustbin emerges as a quiet triumph against the attention economy.

Patois Counselors' Bo White possesses a similarly keen, sharp eye for detail, and if anything Limited Sphere seems to partially claw back any notion of "skewering" detected on previous PC records. There's a sense that White is equally charmed, intrigued and bewitched by the ecosystem of any given local underground arts scene, including the outsized forces restricting and suffocating them. The band plays things with a softer touch and wider palette, ending up somewhere like The Art of Walking-era Pere Ubu crossed with the National's quieter moments across Alligator and Boxer (see: "Fountains of UHF" or "Wrong Department"). The drumming across Limited Sphere is the engine, crisp and busy, deftly navigating and directing sheets of guitar, synths, woodwinds and piano throughout. White's low, nasally delivery make the lyrics tough to make out at first, but the utterance of "Is this what we like?" on "Accoutrement" feels apropos to a world ever more excited by Spotify Wrapped. More natural and less tense than The Optimal Seat, Limited Sphere feels like a collection of short stories, the complex-yet-smooth music a Trojan horse for Bo White's lyrics to be fed inside your skull, lingering and rattling for weeks. Sounds like homework to some, but I'll happily be revisiting, untangling and piecing together Limited Sphere for months.

The Body, The Crying Out of Things LP (Thrill Jockey)

A new LP by the Body, sans official collaborators, is generally a shoo-in for mention as one of the best records of the year around these parts. But, to be fair, the last few "solo" records on Thrill Jockey feel somewhat uneven with age. The most recent, the torrential grey-out of I've Seen All I Need to See, felt like the serpent eating its own tail, a powerful but defeatingly cynical record that seemed to serve as an endpoint. After a number of collaborations, the band returns and sounds refreshed, even bright amidst its shockwave-emitting cymbal crashes and tortured howls. There is a clarity across The Crying Out of Things not heard since I Shall Die Here, resulting in a lean 36 minutes that flies by, dexterously shifting between hard, distorted beats, mantle-cracking chords and samples caked in static. While it's hard to improve upon a track like "End of Line," the Body's contributors more than leave their mark: Ben Eberle's searing vocal contributions feel especially caustic on "Removal," and the back half of "The Building" bursts through Felicia Chen's quietly powerful turn in a way the trio didn't really allow themselves on Orchards of a Futile Heaven. Things still feel dark and cavernous, at times even bleak, but the overall effect is that of the band blasting down walls and letting some light slip in. As usual, the duo turns in one of the best records of the year, but this time it feels invigorating, a call to arms or at the very least a shot in one. If you're unfamiliar, here's your entry point.

Dead Door Unit, Abandon CD (Tribe Tapes)

I last checked in with Philly's Dead Door Unit (one K. Geiger) back in 2022 with Laugh at the Devil, a more than compelling suite of creaking, looping noise in the vein of Modern Jester as I recall, but this year's Abandon is on a whole 'nother level. On Abandon, Geiger's not necessarily shedding the influence of Dilloway, Hanson Records and any number of Midwestern noiseniks, but using it instead as a jumping off point to create these lingering, unsettling long-form tracks. Some in-track transitions, especially on "Clutter (Until the Flies Gather)," can unintentionally jar the listener from a trance, and the relative dearth of blistering noise across most of the CD may leave some looking elsewhere. But if you strap in for the duration, the album becomes increasingly engaging from start to finish. Somewhere between the last few minutes of "Christmas Alley" and the beginning of “Windmill Hypnosis” is where the immersion begins, and the looping, chattering, scratching noise begins to induce either a fight-or-flight response or a sort of fever dream, the listener wrapped up in isolation by sweltering noise. Occasionally the music startles and sears, like the first third of "She Knows How to Reach Us," but Geiger uses the remainder of the track to masterfully pull apart that noxious cloud of static and slowly put it back together again. The one-two of "She Knows" followed by the lonesome piano loops on "Melrose (Street of Dreams)" is one of the high points for my listening this year, a real trip within 26 minutes that's surprisingly affecting by its end. Abandon is a towering, lengthy statement, but one that signals Dead Door Unit's arrival as a potentially generational talent.

Die Verlierer, Notausgang LP (Bretford/Mangel)

Leather jacket garage rock is usually something that I avoid, unless, apparently, it's delivered in a different language. Those Pierre & Bastien LPs still hold up, and now Germany's Die Verlierer deliver another strong take on their second LP, Notausgang. The record, completely sung-shouted in German, also sports a perfect crunchy-warm vintage production, yet still raw enough to generate friction. Tracks like "Das Gift," "Attentat" and "Adrenalin" capably rip, but the production makes the songs feel like some recently unearthed singles from the late '70s/early '80s. Better yet is when the band keeps the intensity but practices restraint with the guitars: the motor-mouthed vocals carry "Allesfresser," which already sounds like a future classic, and the raw "Made / D.M.A.IP" oughta kill live. Notausgang delves even further, slowing things down and drawing in the listener on the tense title track, and even throwing a day-dreamy guitar line into the languid "Stacheldraht," one of the best songs here. The track sequencing is a bit jarring, especially across the first three tracks, but that's a criticism that doesn't hold a lot of water for music best experienced in person. Works in the recorded setting, too, and I'm still a little surprised how much Notausgang was and continues to be played this year. Die Verlierer's open-ended approach to scuzzy rock 'n roll very much transcends the notion of a Crime cosplay act, resulting in a more restrained, durable record that appears primed to reward for years to come. Killer cover art, too.

Septage, Septic Worship (Intolerant Spree of Infesting Forms) LP (Me Saco Un Ojo)

Denmark's gore-obsessed death metal trio Septage returns after two solid EPs to drop a full-length, one that's completely mowed down expectations. A lot of death metal fixated on gore, or merging with goregrind, can safely be dismissed. Too often the bands are trying too hard to be the sonic equivalent of a shocking B-movie horror film, or often even worse. Septic Worship nimbly sidesteps that trap, and delivers 20 minutes of blistering and crushing takes on goregrind without taking itself too seriously. The respective barrages that open up each side of the record are hair-raising, teeth-clenching moments, and from there the record's sides glide from full-on grind to lumbering death metal drops with ease. "Emetic Rites," which opens up the second side, packs everything Septage does so well in just over two minutes, though almost 2/3 of the tracks are left smoldering within 90 seconds, which makes differentiating songs a real challenge. It's not like you put on something like Septage to analyze the nine seconds of "Septic Septic," though; it's there to blast the cobwebs out, chip a tooth or two, and help you come out on the other side reinvigorated, if a bit raw. This is easily my favorite metal or metal-adjacent record of the year, an uncompromising yet ridiculously fun record. Clearly the lyrics out this as something not necessarily apropos to the moment, but Septic Worship is powerful enough to drown out the constant buzzing, grandstanding and distracting faux-outrage that makes up 90% of modern existence. Consider it a bit of self-preservation in an absolutely mad world, or just strap in and let it knock you around - either way, it's a strong antidote to endless doom scrolling and pointless anger.

[goodbysunball]

[goodbysunball]

Illegal life forever

Sleep's hard to come by these days, but important new music is not. Really excited about all of these albums, though I think a lot more people would be into the J.R.C.G. and Weak Signal records if they heard 'em. Feels wild to be alive in a time where this much new music hits a nerve.

J.R.C.G., Grim Iconic (Sadistic Mantra) LP (Sub Pop) Second album post-Dreamdecay from Justin R. Cruz Gallego, and it's a monster step forward from Ajo Sunshine. While sonically the two albums are drowning in layers of tom-forward drumming, buzzing synths, and effects-garbled vocals, Grim Iconic (Sadistic Mantra) puts all the pieces into a coherent whole. For whatever coherence is present, this is still a deeply adventurous, genreless, psych-damaged, electronics-rich album with enough twists and left turns to hogtie any attempts to pigeonhole it. My favorite songs, "Drummy" and "World i," are lush, heavy meditations on a single theme, driven forward by Gallego's nimble drum patterns and padded with enough synths to glide smoother than a limousine, even where blasts of white noise and black metal vocals come in. Then there's "Liv," in which Happy Songs For Happy People-era Mogwai splits open to reveal a warped vision of '00s dance-punk, or "Junk Corrido," where what sounds like a Goblin track falls off a cliff into eerie ambience, complete with thin, shallow woodwind exhalations. The album can feel just as impenetrable as it is approachable, but all the pieces fit, even where they normally wouldn't, a credit to the production of Gallego and Seth Manchester. Whether you're interested in pulling the million audio-instrumental threads stuffed into Grim Iconic (Sadistic Mantra) or you, like me, just want to listen to "Party People (Heaven)" at maximum volume and never leave its luscious confines, it's one of the year's must-hear records, and one that's scarcely left my listening rotation for months.

Jim Marlowe, Mirror Green Rotor in Profile CS (Medium Sound) From way back in January, a second solo cassette release from Louisville's most active musician, he of Sapat, Equipment Pointed Ankh, Tropical Trash, and now a member of Ryan Davis' Roadhouse Band. Where Time Out on the Miracle Index (Haha Tapes, 2022) veered more toward drone and ambient, Mirror Green Rotor in Profile triangulates on the surface somewhere between Vince Guaraldi, ZNR when they let their guard down, and the oft-orchestra'd crescendos of 00's indie. The latter is woven into a decidedly psychedelic tapestry, stripped of its sometimes embarrassing vocals and melodrama, revealing the many moving parts and layers intertwined and churning beneath. Hooks seem to fall right out of Marlowe's brain and hands, augmented by tumbling drums and hammered piano and a litany of other instruments I'm doomed to misidentify. The tracks that jump out on early listens, like "Imaginate Me" and "64 Deluxe: Plank Ring," are inventive and cartoonish like the cover art, both music and art reminiscent of animation for children from the '60s and '70s. The more pensive moments ("Bud Morton's All Gone," "Pink Rotor Mist") feel no less bright and vivid, the rich, warm percussion-heavy sound stringing together the short vignettes. The noted lack of cynicism, dropped in favor of a bright, punchy sound, shows where Marlowe contributes to Equipment Pointed Ankh, and anyone who liked either or both of their albums last year ought to be right at home on MIrror Green Rotor in Profile. The rest'll find something to hang their hat on across the albums 30 minutes, as these quick, unassumingly busy tracks reward both cursory and repeat listens. My favorite cassette of the year so far.

Mordecai, Seeds From the Furthest Vine LP (Petty Bunco) Sixth LP from America's finest purveyors of lo-fi scuzzy jangly rock, and if you thought they'd clean up with age, breathe a sigh of relief. The band has regrouped to deliver their best and most enjoyable LP yet, even with its members now spread out worldwide, far from their Montana roots. Seeds From the Furthest Vine eschews any crisp production techniques, arriving instead chock full of vocals that sound as if they were recorded through an oscillating fan, cardboard box drums, and guitar solos that wriggle violently like eels out of the players' grasp. While sonic similarities to their forebears can be spotted - Rep/Shepard/Jay, early Pavement, and a splash of the Galbraith/Russell corner of the NZ underground - there simply aren't many groups left that sound like Mordecai, let alone deliver on the promise of that suite of influences. Peep how the soft jangle of "Oval Door" collides with the sharp, clattering noise of "Meat on a Stick," or how the piercing woodwind of "Seeds From the Furthest Vine Pt. II" presages the Fall-indebted blare of "Never Get Ahead." Then there's the audacious seven minutes of garbage heap clang and manic vocals on "Down In an Alley," delivered over a warm harmonium and serving as the speaker-crackling comedown on a rather brilliant album. While it can sound like the group records spontaneously, using whatever means at hand when the situation demands it, the fact that the whole record flows effortlessly belies a logic behind the album's construction. The fragments of lyrics I can make out indicate a thoughtful, poignant core, roughed up and resilient, though more often they're buried and indecipherable ("When You Know Them As"). Vocals are an instrument, too, so whether you're comfortable with that fact or not, Seeds From the Furthest Vine's a winner, capable of floating on the fringes of your consciousness as much as it is enveloping it like a rough wool blanket.

Negative Gears, Moraliser LP (Static Shock) Second record from Sydney's Negative Gears, arriving after five long years, and it couldn't be more suited to the moment. The band sits within the dark grooves laid down by Crisis, Siekiera (both mentioned by the label) or Juju, fleshing that framework out with multiple guitars, keyboards and vocals dripping with contempt. They frame the moment through a psychological lens, lending fresh eyes to all the seemingly unsolvable problems everyone acknowledges: crushing workloads, social media-begotten loneliness, and keeping up appearances that everything's fine through it all. While their sound is certainly of a contemporary Australian lineage (equal parts Total Control, Constant Mongrel and Low Life), they keep it fresh and stand out on their own by bringing wild energy to the topics at hand, eyes bulging through the swelling, driving noise on "Room With a Mirror" and "Lifestyle Damages." Moraliser's catchy as hell in spite of its lyrical evisceration of society, late-stage capitalism and themselves, which they cover right off with "Negative Gear." Despite the dour topics tackled, there's an undeniable itchiness and movement about these songs; you could probably dance to "Ants" or "Connect," and I imagine they'll be crowd favorites in no time, tightly wound construction leading to anthemic release. Even though the music might lend itself to movement, there are long, moody tails at the end of each side to drive home the real state of things, conjuring visions of empty city streets, drizzle, wet trash rolling around, the unavoidable mess humans leave when they're gone. The earth will be fine even if we won't, and it's hard not to have some optimism about younger generations' action and impact, but on days when it feels like all's lost, Moraliser is the album to lean on.

Vampire, What Seems Forever Can Be Broken LP (Televised Suicide) It's been a bumper crop year for bands on the Amebix-Rudimentary Peni sound axis, and amongst the bunch that I've heard, Vampire's What Seems Forever Can Be Broken stands tall as my favorite. Any fan of Death Church is gonna find a lot to like here: tom drums pound, the bass threads vicious lines around each hit, and the guitar’s a distorted buzz saw. Where Vampire really distinguish themselves is their vocals, placed right up front and enunciated clearly despite the rage and bile bubbling underneath. Sounds like each of the three members takes turns, but the feral gnashing and their more melodic foil are the two vocalists that make the most appearances. The best vocal performance has to be the opening verse on "Endless Chain," where it sounds like the one vocalist is chewing off and spitting out each syllable, blood dripping from the corners of their mouth. "The Letter" is another standout, a disarming takedown of shamers and abusers set to an absolutely bulldozing riff. The band keeps things trim, with most songs snuffed out after two minutes, and that extends to the lyrics, too: “We’re looking for a future/there’s nothing to hold” hits the nail. There's a respect for their anarcho forebears, but Vampire veers slightly more toward hardcore, except with audio so crisp you can feel the sweat and spit coming out of the speakers. The production allows tracks like "Human Market Capital" to hit that much harder, all tightly wound tension and release squeezed inside 90 seconds. Gotten a ton of mileage out of What Seems Forever Can Be Broken, as much of an adrenaline boost and it is an unfortunate reflection of our current moment. Apropos now, and probably forever.

Weak Signal, Fine LP (12XU) If there is one band you should hear this year, it's Weak Signal, the quietly prolific trio from NYC. Fine already feels like a future classic, the kind of record that I listen to multiple times a day and still find more time to listen to again. The trio is brutally efficient: drums hammer rudimentary patterns, locked down by the bass, and the guitar chugs along with crunchy, muted notes and chords until a solo breaks free. The band's lyrics and Bones' straight, baritone delivery cut to the quick with the bite of Denis Johnson, unpretentious sentiments that are washed and tumbled from half-a-lifetime of experience, as cynical and biting as they are heartbreaking in their economy. They can cut both ways at once, like "I only love my friends/that's why I leave them be" from "Baby," or the chorus to "Wannabe," where Bones manages to sound both at peace and deflated. They even reach for a bit of unapologetic hedonism on "Rich Junkie" and all without a whiff of condescension, a fleeting thought given space and squashed in the span of two minutes. The lyrical efforts would all be for naught if the music wasn't up to snuff, but the band has doubled down on their streamlined grunge sound, excess grime wiped clean and even given a bit of polish with acoustic guitar and mellotron accents. There are blasts of noise that open up each side of the record, rock star moves from a group that deserves to make 'em, but they're tamped down in favor of choruses and guitar lines that both stick in your craw. The combination of the music and lyrics connects in such a primal, satisfactory way that it's almost beyond words, but when the solo on "Disappearing" hits, or "A Little Hum" leaves you with a lump in your throat, you just know this is it. Feels like a big moment for a band that deserves a bit of recognition - a fact wryly acknowledged by Bones a few times on the album - and here's hoping Fine is the album that does it.

[goodbysunball]

August 2024: Habitual socialite

Another delay-ridden post, this one gestating for about a month now, or at least mid-July's when I took the picture above.

Lucky for you there's a fix: Doug Mosurock, formerly of @still-single, is back up and running reviews at Heathen Disco. Doug's the real deal, an obvious influence on this withering Tumblr blog, and his short/sweet review digest, delivered once or twice a week, is well worth a (free, for now) subscription. The onslaught of reviews have hipped me to that CHBB reissue, and I'm sure there'll be a bunch more.

Onto the records, heavy on the punk and hardcore this round ---

Bad Breeding, Contempt LP (Iron Lung/One Little Independent)

Bad Breeding are back to crash your dinner party, armed with exhaustive pamphlets and not letting up on arguments about housing crises well past the point of decor. They have been singularly adept at cataloging the damaged, bleak, backwards, corrupt and blind state of the world, and have done so across a set of blistering LPs and their accompanying essays. Exiled is still my favorite, but I thought the band stumbled a bit on the follow-up Human Capital. The long tracks on Human Capital feel every bit their length, but listening back today, I think "Joyride," "Arc Eye" and "Straw Man" buoy the album with ease around the title track and "Rebuilding." Contempt could be considered a much sharper version of Human Capital, ripe with feedback, near-metal riffing and righteous fury as before, but still extending track lengths with mixed results. The best part of the album, and maybe of Bad Breeding's discography to date, is "Liberty" into "Discipline": the former cold-worked into a frenzied noise over two pummeling minutes, and the latter doing the most with drums, feedback and barked vocals, fighting desperately against being swallowed whole. While they don't touch that peak again on the album (and not many could), "Temple of Victory" and "Vacant Paradise" are furious pounding tracks that, when isolated from the album, pack some real heat. Over the course of the record, the band's relentless sound can wipe out distinctions between tracks, or worse, as on the second half of "Guilded Cage / Sanctuary," drag the momentum to a complete halt. Those minor quibbles shouldn't deface what is an album full of the mid-tempo, bass-heavy, feedback-laden hardcore I'd prefer to hear, and in any case "Guilded Cage" fuckin' smokes. I'd take an album full of "Survival"s or "Retribution"s if it meant more punks railing against the systems in place as Bad Breeding so fervently advocates, rather than against like-minded (or not) peers. Maybe Contempt is asking too much of the discerning public, or maybe the earnestness is a turnoff, because the record can feel easy to dismiss as too reflective of what we can read about or experience without much effort every day. But there remains a fire within the record that feels vital, even if it's not the soundworld I want to enter every day. I think it's one of the best records of the year, not because it has to be, but because the band clawed and teared their way there, producing a ferocious album/package that digs deeply into the late-stage capitalist system we all suffer from. Contempt's not the solution, but it might well inspire it.

Klonns, Heaven LP (Iron Lung/Black Hole)

The most recent Deep Voices post had an interesting dive into perfection vs. originality in music, and Heaven is swinging for perfection in a genre more often satisfied with filth and murk. Here's a rare hardcore record that sounds polished, barely smudged with experimental touches on the edges, and emerging fully formed and fun as hell. Now labeling their sound "The new wave of Japanese hardcore," Klonns are near-bulletproof across Heaven, so much so that I somehow don't mind when they pull out a "GO!" vocal command every track. Gruff, raspy but still intelligible vocals sit comfortably on top of near-metallic riffs and drums that flash just enough to make sure you keep a distance. The resulting sound is roomy and comfortable, like an old hoodie, but with the sleeves cut off and reeking of VFW hall floors. I'll point you straight to "Beherit"/"Realm," the breakdown on the former serving as a primer for the guest vocals of Sailor Kannako ripping apart the end of the latter. The bruising riff at the end of "Nemesis" or the finale to "Replica" sound like a finely honed point rather than emulation: this is a band focused on what makes hardcore vital to them and executing it nearly flawlessly. The electronic intro/outro portions are nice touches to bookend an LP's worth of evidence of what a supportive punk scene can produce when everyone's aimed in the same direction. Sick and wildly unpretentious LP, beautifully packaged and bursting at the seams with music that begs to be experienced live. Maybe someday, but for now, this'll do.

Osbo, s/t 7" (Blow Blood)

A "gritty, modern classic of a hardcore record" you say? I'm as numb to label write-ups for their own records as anyone at this point but that's still a bold gambit to throw down, along with the Cold Sweat RIYL, but Blow Blood rules so here I am. I don't really think many have come close to Blinded except for that way under-appreciated Pious Faults LP, but the sound and attitude on Osbo earn that Cold Sweat comparison. I'll leave it to the real hardcore scholars as to the rest. The band previously released a demo back in the first wave of the Covid pandemic, which I am forgiving myself for missing, but might have to cop after hearing this EP. The vocalist is what sells it here, going full ugly for the duration, the kind of hardcore that would've lit up message boards back in the mutated reign of bands like Twin Stumps or Mayyors. Still works today, especially as a companion to that Bad Breeding LP, feral and ugly hardcore sagging under its own weight, probably causing the rooms they play in to sway like a ship in rough waters. I think "Say It to My Face" is the best track here, but it's hard to deny the nearly side-long "Time," a plodding, abrasive four-plus minutes that basically serves as a perfect showcase for the band's strengths: bass up front, uncomfortably ringing guitar, and the finest "AUGHHHH" I've heard in a minute. That track's worth the price of admission alone, and the artwork/design is aces, too. One hundo copies only, so go scoop yours from Sorry State (they still have the demo tape, too) posthaste.

Shop Regulars, s/t LP (Merrie Melodies)

Another fine recommendation from Matt K.'s Yellow Green Red here, the debut LP of Shop Regulars after a handful of limited, self-released cassettes that you or I will assuredly not own. That's just as well, because the LP's got plenty to unpack. The band sounds like prime Julian Casablancas fronting Horse Lords (or whatever rigidly asymmetric rock band you'd like) covering the Fall, all disjointed rhythms and knotty guitars paving a path for the most unbothered vocals. You'd be forgiven if you're conjuring visions of bands like Dirty Projectors or other lauded indie bands that felt like homework to listen to from that ill-fitting descriptor, but it gives twice what it takes and even tiptoes into spine-tingling on the 11+ minutes of "Emerson Run Down." The two guitars calling back-and-forth in the middle of that track gets me every time, even though you know where it's going, and it sounds like the rest of the band falls into place in real time and thankfully captures it all on tape. The whole record has this loose-but-tight feel, which in the wrong hands can feel very annoying, but here it's anchored by the performances of the patient vocalist and the drummer ready to fill any available void. Doesn't mean the drummer has to work overtime: the restraint on "7 Winds," which utilizes repetition like The Double, chases the spiraling cut-short guitar riff ad nauseam. There is a bed of real feeling here, not the robotic core that bands trafficking in uncomfortable time signatures, repetition and overlapping movements often do. It all makes Shop Regulars surprisingly durable, even helping me maintain a cool head in unbearable traffic earlier this week. Somehow a portion of the 200 copies are still readily available from the link above, but I can't imagine that'll be the case for long.

Sin Tax, Abnegation 7" (Miracle Cortex)

To the point: here's a 7" record packed with hardcore played at the pace of grindcore, draped in the sneering, smoldering frenzy of first-LP Kriegshög. Sin Tax have dropped my favorite 7" since Healer's Resurgence EP a few years ago, taking the torch of Straightjacket Nation and driving straight toward Valhalla. The vocals take a page out of DX's book, which I'm guessing most don't do because of health or safety concerns, and the band cuts all fat and likely into some blood vessels in service of making this as lean and feral as possible. Only "Dog Eat Dog" lets you come up for air, but good luck getting past all the flailing arms, let alone the razor-wire riff of the title track on the first side. Flattened me the first time and now probably the twentieth time I've listened to it; shouldn't be surprised given as it's from the label that released that under-the-radar Execution 7". Still available from the label for about $20 shipped to the U.S., and I'm available to tell you how dumb it is to spend that money elsewhere. "YOU ALREADY PAY."

[goodbysunball]

Was just thinking the same things while listening to Norms’ 100% Hazaárulás yesterday. Both Balta EPs on LVEUM provide a similar jolt.

Berosszulás - Az Öl​é​sr​ö​l [full EP]

Hardcore still really does it for me sometimes, age changes nothing. Also, Hungary is Europe's best country for hardcore, hands down.

[goodbysunball]

From: The New Generation, Introduction by David Thompson, Peter Stuyvesant Foundation, Whitechapel Gallery, London, 1964 [Room & Book, London. Art: © Bridget Riley]

Feat.: Derek Boshier, Patrick Caulfield, Anthony Donaldson, John Hoyland, Paul Huxley, Allen Jones, Peter Phillips, Patrick Procktor, Bridget Riley, Michael Vaughan, Brett Whiteley

Photographs: Antony Armstrong-Jones

Group Exhibition: curated by Bryan Robertson, March-May, 1964

[goodbysunball]