goodbysunball

[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]

[goodbysunball]

You can really feel like you're here

As usual, it's been a minute, but still handling and playing large plastic discs on the regular. A nice variety for June, whether you want to scream at the void or bask in repetition or curl up and smoke ciggies. A short list of off-the-cuff 2024 favorites is at the bottom, too, for the short attention spans.

Arianne Churchman & Benedict Drew, MAY 2xLP (Love's Devotee)

A tip of the hat to Matt K.'s ever-reliable Yellow Green Red for hipping me to this record, something that on paper I would generally pass up but plays out like an invigorating fever dream across four sides of wax. Stealing from the label's writeup: "MAY employs at its base a flank of analog synthesizers, field recordings and Churchman’s layered vocals, each combining to form a beautifully dizzy sonic collage that often spirals out across long durations into hypnotic rhythms and jubilant melodies." The magic is in how the duo manages to effectively take the same trick, going from folk song to swelling grandeur, on nearly every track while still retaining the same sense of wonder. Though, for me, it was the marathon opener, "The Cuckoo," that really did the trick for me the first listen. In a sense, "The Cuckoo" is the line in the sand, as the way it unfolds is much darker and dissonant than anything else on the record, and the dissonance hangs around for a healthy chunk of time. After that, the record basks in the sun, meadows and valleys, Churchman's vocals ceding to the environment of buzzing and gently swaying synthesizer. Something like "Down by the Green Groves" sounds like a Broadcast record or tape left in the sun for weeks, then played at half-speed as it disintegrates. "Day Song" sounds like a properly warped rendition of something off The Wicker Man soundtrack, a fiddle or banjo plucking a melody over plodding drums and sighing, sawing synthesizers. Only "Searching For May" returns slightly to the dissonance found on "The Cuckoo," the titular search turning into slightly desperate yearning, but on the whole MAY is shot through with an appropriate amount of sun-baked awe for the natural world. Experiencing the record on headphones while walking along a beach felt deeply spiritual, as cheesy as that may sound; but the sounds contained here seem designed to be played or experienced in open spaces, to commingle with their inspiration. Outta nowhere gem, and limited to only 350 copies, surely not long for this world once word leaks out.

Matt Krefting, Finer Points (Open Mouth)

The latest from tape manipulator/sound sculptor/Idea Fire Co.-man Matt Krefting, quietly released back in January on Bill Nace's Open Mouth label. This is the first solo outing I've heard from him since the Lymph Est LP on Kye, and it's a stunner, albeit one that skews somber and unadorned. Matt works in a sound world that's been done to death in the last decade or so: tape loops, brittle scrapes and plucks, lonesome mechanical hums, and some keys/synth sprinkled in ("An Eye on the Future," heartbreaking) to soften the landing. In the hands of most, that's a combo you can safely miss, but Krefting has the skill and restraint to make the sounds inviting, enveloping and captivating the listener. The bassy plucking on "A Double Request" feels of a piece with Robert Turman's Flux, but the sounds double back on themselves, twisting the strings into a net to capture your body while your mind wanders. The same goes for "Both This Life and the Next," which even includes the mbira heard across Flux, but there Krefting lets the tape distortion seep in and eventually consume the slow progression of notes. When he wades into field recordings or drone, the sounds feel removed from the action, sometimes foggy ("Let's Look Again") and sometimes deliberately encased in glass, perhaps a not-so-uplifting commentary on screens and devices displacing human-to-human contact. In that sense, the record feels more empathetic than most in the genre, choosing to engage with the darker, depressive emotions rather than cloak them in distortion and remove all human trace. As far as contemporary reference points go, Finer Points reminds me of Incipientium, but less cold and bleak and more tender, as if handling century-old artifacts and recognizing a common humanity. The feather-light synth on "Just to Have Him Around" closes the record, the sun easing up in the sky after a particularly stormy night, a splash of faint yellow to the decidedly fuzzy gray that colors most of Finer Points. Great reading soundtrack, and for those willing to go deeper, a rich, sensuous landscape that comes out just fine on the other side. Sold out from the label, but Forced Exposure somehow still has a few of the original 200 copies.

Thou, Umbilical LP + 7" (Sacred Bones)

Much respect for the grind of Thou, a band that's somehow both risen from and stayed true to DIY ethics, draped in scathing philosophizing and often wretchedly heavy music. (The Sisters in Christ record store rules, too.) For various reasons, I haven't followed the band closely in the past decade, but the outta nowhere collaboration with Mizmor, Myopia, bested both groups' recent works in my estimation, a sound that married Thou's heaving sludge with Mizmor's black metal, each pushing the other to more violent extremes. The press release teased that Umbilical was Thou's hardcore record, and while I guess that's relatively true due to the shorter song lengths and, on some tracks, a discernible verse-chorus structure ("The Promise"), the LP plays out like a singles compilation. It’s as if Thou returned to the days where they released a split with anyone every other month. If you, like me, are a fan of Thou songs like "Smoke Pigs" and "Don't Vote," you'll find a lot to like on Umbilical, easily the band's best record since Summit. The idea behind the record is vocalist Bryan Funck criticizing himself and Thou in the guise of a much younger, more militantly DIY or anarchistic version of himself. The lyrics are vicious, and the music shows up prepared for the evisceration: "I Return as Chained and Bound to You" ranks as one of Thou's heaviest, recalling the Their Hooves Carve Craters in the Earth 10", and "Lonely Vigil" drags the listener through quicksand with its crawling, crushing riffs. "House of Ideas" meanders at the end for a little too long, but this is a lean, tight record, worthy of all wild and tired descriptors that basically say "heavy" over and over. The physical package includes a 7" with two more tracks, both leaning more toward crowded punk tempos, riffs buried in the maelstrom of Funck's shredded vocals. That the two tracks were placed on to a 7" makes them feel more like afterthoughts, which they're not, but when the eight-song LP is properly satisfying, it probably means it's not a 7" I'll be revisiting often (even if the end of "Unbidden Guest" rules). Umbilical is a spoil of riches in that sense, an appropriately crushing soundtrack to vitriolic self-flagellation that reinvigorates an old sound with new twists.

Verity Den, s/t LP (Amish Records)

It took me a long while to check out Verity Den's LP, something I quickly bookmarked months back, but it's been played to death the last few weeks in my hut. The trio from Carrboro, NC use loud, gauzy guitars like their shoegaze forebears, and their songs patiently unfurl like the smoke from a snuffed candle. From the opening chords ringing out on "Washer/Dryer," it's clear this band isn't the ten-thousandth rehash of Loveless but something much more strange; Casey Proctor's vocals flutter on the surface like Meg Baird's in Heron Oblivion, and the lyrics unexpectedly leave a dark, wet trail, knocking the listener off-kilter. A track like the gorgeous "Prudence," featuring some beautifully hesitant and restrained guitar work, somehow has with the opening lines "Broke-ass ho/where'd he go?/Owes me dough," while other song titles like "Crush Meds" and "Everyone Thought You Were Dead" point to a much bleaker launching point for these songs than the end result does. An exception might be "Other People," which glides along on a motorik beat, the subtle chord change at the chorus causing chills both times it hits. The LP is a collection of separately released tracks or releases, but only the relatively conventionally structured "Priest Boss" feels slightly out of place, though it's clear the song is woven into the fabric of the record when the title's repeated in the lyrics of "Other People" later on. Verity Den plays out like settling in to the pleasant buzz of a second beer, but doesn't dissuade stormier currents from running through your brain. Extremely strong and affecting debut; fans of True Widow, Mount Trout or the aforementioned Heron Oblivion would do well to check in with Verity Den posthaste.

Water Damage, In E 2xLP (12XU)

Water Damage quickly follow up last year's incredible 2 Songs with In E, a new double-LP of their raison d'être: heaving, droning repetition delivered at maximum volume. Might be the inclusion of a violin this time around, but In E feels lot more classical than the band's previous work, slowly shifting away from "rock" and evolving into a proper ensemble, albeit one with a heavy reliance on feedback. There's one song per side here, the last being a perfectly fine cover of "Ladybird" by Shit & Shine, but one that adds little to the ground covered by the first three tracks. Grayson Haver Currin accurately labeled the record "a rare mind eraser for our increasingly plugged-in times," and that's really the calling card for the band's discography. "Reel E" kicks off the record, the ensemble swelling over the same drumbeat for the duration. Feedback, guitar and violin saw away at the ever-expanding mass, sometimes combining to sound like the wheels of a train scraping against its metal track. It's my favorite thing the band's done so far, powerful and invigorating minimalism pushed to the red, capable of blotting out everything wrong in your sphere for 20 minutes. Things slow a little on "Reel EE," the drums left alone for the first few minutes, until everyone else kicks in to create an ecstatic drone that seems to continue rising upward forever. "Reel EEE" feels the most wide-open, taking five minutes for the drums to lock in, featuring stabs of guitar cut short in deference to the shrill flute/violin combo. The band shows an uncommon restraint on "EEE," but after "Reel E," it feels like Water Damage peeling back the layers lessens the smothering, mind-altering effect of their best tracks. A group like Incapacitants can blast away the listener on every track and I still own multiple records by 'em; seems like Water Damage could do the same if they wanted. Still, there's no arguing that In E is a powerful statement, the whole record buzzing, simmering and occasionally screaming with the ecstasy of repetition, something that a lucky few get to experience this summer and fall as the group plays a few dates outside of Texas. If the heat doesn't make you have visions, I've little doubt that Water Damage and In E will do the trick.

Favorites of 2024 so far:

42 Dugg, "Wock N Red"

Bobby Would, Relics of Our Life LP (Digital Regress)

Thomas Bush, The Next 60 Years (Jolly Discs)

Chief Keef & Mike WiLL Made-It, Dirty Nachos (43B/Eardrummer/RBC)

Arianne Churchman & Benedict Drew, MAY 2xLP (Love's Devotee)

Contaminated, Celebratory Beheading LP (Blood Harvest)

Klonns, Heaven LP (Iron Lung)

Matt Krefting, Finer Points LP (Open Mouth)

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)

Pain Appendix, Manuhypnoz CD (Freak Animal)

REALYUNGPHIL, Niontay & Surf Gang, "Halftones/Amnesia"

Verity Den, s/t (Amish)

YKSI, Ultrasensory Exploration CD (Freak Animal)

[goodbysunball]

Digital monsters

Sneaking a few in before April's done and gone. Many of these musics were experienced digitally only for the most part, whether it was due to lack of a physical product or expensive import prices, none of which now apply (except for the Stone Rollers) as I finally get around to posting this. Ian's making Light Metal Age tapes, MIKE just put Pinball on CD, I finally pulled the trigger on KN​Æ​KKET SMIL, etc. Still, the car is the place where most listening is done these days, an unavoidable and really-not-that-bad reality. Windows down, these up:

Maria Bertel & Nina Garcia, KN​Æ​KKET SMIL (Kraak/No Lagos Musique/Otomatik)

It would not be much of an understatement to say I'm a bit burned out on free-improv-jazz and adjacent records, but a live video posted earlier this year by @dustedandsocial piqued my interest in this duo. Nina Garcia shreds and mangles the guitar in a manner both controlled and explosive, like the best no wave auteurs, but the draw here is what Maria Bertel does with the trombone. She pulls these long, drawn-out notes from the belly of the instrument, like glass fibers being pulled from a melt, reminiscent Phill Niblock's arrangements for cello or voice. There's plenty of scrape 'n skronk coming from the trombone, too, like on "Trick & Illusion," but I find the bass-y drones to be more interesting. The end result is a brittle, harsh push-pull between the relatively free guitar and the more grounded trombone, where it often sounds like the two are running in circles in a room with their eyes closed, occasionally colliding to combine forces. When they are not at odds, as on "Nightmare of a Lunatic," the results can be thrilling. At other points on the record I am reminded of Harvey Milk's "Pinnochio's Example" (the title track), later-period Sightings ("Lost Arts," "Twin Truths") and the instrumental side of Khanate ("Playground of Blind Forces," "Inorganic Body"). Given how this is presented - bare, without any perceivable ornamentation or post-production - it makes for a tough listen; you've gotta be in the mood for something this harsh and unadorned, 'cause meeting you halfway isn't happening. But, if you've any affinity for old instruments hammered into new shapes by inspired/inspiring hands, there's some powerful, almost-mystic energy wafting from the grooves.

Bobby Would, Relics of Our Life (Digital Regress)

Bobby’s back, continuing his partnership with the esteemed Digital Regress label, who brought his STYX release to the LP format. STYX was dedicated to his mother, and initial listens have left me convinced that Relics also appears to be wrestling with her passing. Unlike STYX, which contained tracks like "Hype On" that worked themselves into something resembling upbeat and energetic, Relics is a comparatively somber affair. It's bookended by two quiet instrumental tracks ("Runaway" is especially good), and in between is more skeletal, maybe even refined, version of Bobby Would. The overall effect here is often reminiscent of Wonderfuls, or Lewsberg on In Your Hands: gossamer-thin arrangements, sparkling guitars, slow tempos and mumbled vocals. While there are points where Bobby Would presents as a bit listless or hopeless, it never stretches to the maudlin, mostly due to the opaque phrasing. As on previous BW releases, the lyrics are still usually little more than repetition of single phrases until they become profound, which works especially well on these subdued arrangements. The more I listen, the more it sounds like a natural progression from his last two proper LPs, the subtle refinement of a now-signature sound. Like “Maybe You Should” from World Wide World, “Tryin' 2," "Is It Nice Now?" and “No More” rank with some of his best slow dancers; "Explain" and "All I Do" feel like Baby's grown now, using only the necessary elements to create a song and cutting the tape when it's done (not that Bobby Would has ever had a problem with economy). The only misstep here? The hidden track at the end of the physical record, a cover of UB40's "Red Red Wine" (no fucking joke), and nothing more need be said about that. The nine tracks that properly make up Relics of Our Life deserve to be lived in, spindly guitar lines swirling around like smoke and mumbled vocal incantations taking you elsewhere for the duration. Another unassuming gem from the surprisingly durable Bobby Would.

Light Metal Age, s/t (self-released)

In retrospect, I think Gen Pop's PPM66 is one of the best records to come out in the past decade, wringing modern ennui by the neck to squeeze out lyrical inspiration, nailing down a balance between catchy and smart in an impressively effortless way. That record flew, and still flies, under the radar, unfortunately, and the band is no more. Light Metal Age is the new project of Gen Pop's Ian Patrick Corrigan, and it sorta picks up the thread of PPM66, but veers off into the countrified black humor of Country Teasers ("Quil Ceda"), lonesome new age ("Oakland 2017"), and a chilling minimal synth track ("Garage In Meridian"). Corrigan's vocals sound like Bill Callahan in his early days as Smog, but in content he appears to be searching for a place or meaning or some sign that the world isn't as backwards and cruel as it actually is. I think opener "What He's Done" is my favorite song of the year so far, a perfectly dusty guitar line paired with deep, reverberated vocals coldly presenting a personal inventory (“Tattoos since he was 20,” “$20K he owes/20 years to go”). It’s all tied together by the chorus of “You said let it go/But do you know/what he’s done?,” the anxiety of being a prisoner of your past neatly summarized. “Quil Ceda" is my other standout favorite, the biting line "It will make you sick" now popping up in my head all too often as I go about my days. Really, there's something to like on every track here: the double-timed portion toward the end of "T.U.L.I.P."; the rain-soaked, pre-dawn alleys conjured by "Garage In Meridian"; and the subdued Ben Wallers impression on "Gaps In the Material." Sure, "Oakland 2017" is maybe a bit long and saps momentum plopped in the middle, but this seems more like a mixtape than a finished product, and I've come to appreciate the cracks in the tracks forced together. I've been playing it non-stop for nearly two months now, a potent distillation of the young American's modern struggle, laid out without self-pity and the right amount of simmering discontent. Can't ask for much more.

MIKE & Tony Seltzer, Pinball (10K)

Here’s an unexpectedly economical and breezy offering from MIKE, produced entirely by Tony Seltzer. Not sure what Tony Seltzer did here to allow MIKE to let down his guard and puff out his chest a little, but it’s a welcome change of pace, if a bit forgettable. Seltzer’s beats aren’t going to have many rappers come calling, but they’re exciting enough jumping off points for MIKE to try on different personas. I get hints of UGK-era Bun-B (named checked in “Underground Kingz,” as required), Young Dolph, and Lil Baby in MIKE’s rapping on Pinball, and it’s fun and jarring to hear him rap over trap beats like “Yin-Yang.” For all his efforts, the album lags in spots - “100 Gecs,” “Underground Kingz” and “R&B” have become laborious over multiple listens, the beats sputtering, the rapping losing steam without MIKE’s usual emotional overflow. But the opener “Two Door,” the unassuming bounce of “Skurrr” and "Pinball," and the Niontay-featuring “2k24 Tour” still connect, MIKE throwing off a satin boxing robe and sparring with whoever. It’s true that overexposure to this album over the past few weeks has probably taken away some of its luster, but hearing MIKE in this capacity paints a more complete picture of him as an artist. Short ‘n mostly sweet, with no tears, Pinball’s sure to be a steady listen through the punishing summer ahead.

The Stone Rollers, The Ballad of Bill Spears (self-released)

Are the Woolen Men done? Nothing official on that, but members are shifting priorities to other groups: guitarist Lawton Browning is in Change Life, and the Stone Rollers features WM drummer Raf Spielman. The Stone Rollers have been releasing single tracks, one at a time, since September of last year, and The Ballad of Bill Spears puts all four tracks together. It's a separate project and unfair to compare the two, though there are strong sonic similarities to the Woolen Men. The Stone Rollers are bouncy and hard-strumming, somewhere between folk protest songs (yes, there's harmonica) and country with a punk edge (but obviously not as bad as that descriptor conjures). In the spirit of the best country songs, the Stone Rollers don't restrain themselves from saying some really mean shit on these songs, taking people to task with an acid tongue and leaving without apology. I like all four songs - if you're not listening to the lyrics too closely, these are breezy pop songs with the strong character of the '60s - but I think "The Shell Song" and "You Can't Reach Me" are the two best. The former has the harshest lyrics ("When I see you down the line, I hope you're not the same" and "I won't wait around to see what you become/because good or bad I do not care at all"), and "You Can't Reach Me" is an ode to the dream of escaping "my life/bound up so tight" for the greener grass. All four tracks are simple and effective/affecting in an immediate way, familiar but bristling, classic-sounding but unmistakably modern. A nice teaser from the Rollers, who I can only hope will excoriate this feeble review on an upcoming track.

[goodbysunball]

Cement mixer blues

A couple more for your March, with Opening Day right around the corner. Four picks, all hits, and more waiting in the wings - but until then:

Thomas Bush, The Next 60 Years LP (Jolly Discs)

Album number three from Thomas Bush, one carving his own path through the history of quietly devastating British folk. That Bush has much to do with "folk" in general is debatable at this point, but there are fractured fragments within his damaged, precise compositions. On The Next 60 Years, he refines his vision further, not solely through reduction (though that, too) but with a bit of surprising bombast on the B-side. "Same Life Flowed" opens the album with plodding pop, the double-tracked vocals opening up just enough during the chorus to complement the harpsichord melody, and runs into the pensively dueling guitars on the accurately named "Pure Intention." As is Bush's wont, the album never keeps a straight course after this beautiful opening; some songs, like "Mulligan" or "Flood of Light," creak like floorboards in an empty house, whereas "Face In the Water" jumps out of the speakers from behind the curtain. I've never pieced together any influence of Talk Talk or Mark Hollis on Bush's sound, but now it's crystal on "Burn Clear," the patiently brushed cymbals and pattering drums pairing with slowly ringing chords, all directed by Bush's carefully delivered vocals. The samples on "Burn Clear" get turned inside-out on "Face In the Water," its booming synth chords leaving backwards bubbling loops in their wake, the distortion becoming ever more prominent as Bush's most clear, confident song unravels over its duration. The synth chords turn green midway through, and the garbled loops run rampant to cloud any pop ambitions with more unease. The album closes with the quietly devastating "Xtrails," a repeated descending progression of guitar notes and scattered synth chords, tying the album together neatly with only the necessary ingredients. In early listens, "Burn Clear" and "Face In the Water" were the highlights, but now tracks like "Thirsting" and "Xtrails" have become my favorites, the ones where Bush takes something recognizable and strips it to a skeleton and makes the bones vibrate with noise, creating a new story for the figure largely free from its past. Stunning, especially during my pre-dawn drives, but potent enough, and enveloping enough, to transport the listener from start to finish anytime. Sold out at the source, but I suspect copies will land stateside soon; if not, All Night Flight is handling the distribution - hop to it.

Contaminated, Celebratory Beheading LP (Blood Harvest)

Amidst a glut of ho-hum, self-referencing contemporary death metal, I wasn't really prepared for the complete onslaught that makes up Contaminated's second LP. I liked Final Man a lot, but things seem to have gotten a lot bleaker in the seven years since that came out, and Celebratory Beheading is the record that balls up collective agony into relentless, boneheaded death metal. It takes all of 15 seconds into opener "Suffer Minutiae" for the band to launch into a chugging breakdown riff, and even after multiple spins I feel as if I haven't captured the right words to describe music so single-mindedly brutish. There are no synths, electronics or really anything resembling a breather across the album. This new-look Contaminated feels like layers alternating between Carcass (pre-Heartwork) and Autopsy, with a dash of County Medical Examiners or other goregrind practitioner. Each song is made up of multiple movements, which is the stupid way my brain's been reduced to describing this record when it's on, but the very basic recipe is to pound with death metal crunch and follow it up with a grinding blast, before pulling back and taking another swing at your head. These parts are masterfully fused together without gaps or any recognizable structure, suffocatingly dense compositions coming one after another. Once your ears adjust, the pieces of the bulldozing sound can just barely be picked apart. The drummer's right up front with the vocals, and the two seem to goad each other on; the guitars, drenched in distortion and as beefy as I've heard (sans exterior electronic noise) in ages, churn out mercilessly hard or dizzyingly fast riffs. "Final Hours" is the point in the record where I finally catch my breath, and by "Apex C.H.U.D." (stands for Circular Headbanging Under Duress, pretty sure) you're stomping around like a sumo wrestler. Imagine running in a sewer tunnel away from a tidal wave of waste, each turn bringing no more distance or relief from the chase; at some point your legs and chest give out and you submit. I haven't looked at the included lyric sheet - the album and song titles are illustrative enough - but this seems to be the soundtrack to intentionally hammering a nail through your finger, pure visceral animal thrill, presented without concessions or interludes. My favorite record of the year so far.

Los Doroncos, Sun and Fireworks LP (An'archives)

There's nothing like the first whiff of springtime to bring me around to an album that made little sense during the dregs of the new year, and Los Doroncos' Sun and Fireworks is one for the ages. Seasoned vets with deep ties to the Japanese underground - members from Denudes, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Doronco Gumo - but what you get here is a dream dive bar band, playing music both intimately familiar and somehow buoyant, not bogged down with expectations or concerned with much else than playin' hits. If the band set out to make classic rock feel fresh again, they nailed it, taking the scoff right outta my throat and using it to hit another solo. The band rips on the two longer tracks, "A minor" (one of the young year's best tracks) and "Drum," but elsewhere things are downright breezy. Guitars are largely unadorned until solos call for distortion, vocals are charming, paper-thin but hopeful, and the drums do enough to keep everything together. For me, any cynicism is eradicated by the beautifully disarming guitar lines littered about in "LuLu 2," but just as often it's the solo pushing its way through the clean chords of "Tin Ear." I'm in the midst of fixing up my porch, and if I get my way, I will be having a few beers back there with Sun and Fireworks elevating my mundane accomplishment. Come through.

Peg, We Know Who You Are and Everyone Is On the Lookout CS (No Rent)

Meeting of the minds between Cube's Adam Keith and Jackie-O Motherfucker's Dave Easlick, both of whom previously teamed up in SPF. I can't remember SPF's music much, though it may be time to revisit given how much I've enjoyed Peg's debut cassette. The music on We Know Who You Are feels like dub recorded without or presented without permission, as if found on a thrift store cassette, and then given added rhythm by Easlick and Keith's drumming and programming. "Mutual Percussion" is a sterling example, drums fading in and out while viscous treated guitar bubbles and the sound of a breeze or footsteps periodically emerge to confusingly give the feel of a field recording. The album feels sometimes ominous, sometimes sarcastic; the intention feels pure but you're never quite convinced with a track like "Agenda Jazz," either. Beyond sifting through the tape for intention, there's deep enjoyment here, skewering and distorting sounds in a way not unlike Equipment Pointed Ankh, though Peg's got a decidedly more abstract, glowering, smirking result. Hard to pick favorites, but if forced: the slouched strut of "Athletic Posturing"; the disarming "Everyone," all glistening synthesizer and distant drums; and my favorite, "Bog Standard," Easlick letting loose on the kit while a bassy loop and high-pitched noise build towers in the shifting sands. Really feels like these two met each other head-on this round, keeping stakes low for themselves but understanding one another intuitively to create one of last year's best albums.