Saturday, 30 July 2016



Paradise Gardens offers up a Demo in its purest form. This is a tape devoid of most outside influences. There are no track titles, no lyrics and no liner notes whosoever. What you get is a stark and striking logo, any other accompanying contrast comes from the image of a spiked bat crossed with a bunch of flowers underneath it, and anything else you might garner from this tape is purely within the frame of your own mind. Oddly enough, this simplicity is all a tape such as this needs, and being a Demo it may in fact be all it deserves. Paradise Gardens play an effortless thud of rough post punk, but don’t let that turn you off as this comes more from the ominous caves than a poster adorned room of their parent’s houses. The opener is an almost tough sounding march to your own private hole in the ground, decisive, firm in its delivery and downright catchy. Other songs here sound like those intro parts that appear during the build up to a song you may find people actually liking, yet here they never quite reach the point of recognition, instead they wallow in the squalor of muck and avoid any crescendo that may have bestowed some sort of acknowledgement upon the artist. This is all primarily due to the total lack of discernable drums on many songs and the repetitive strumming which you are sure must lead to something, yet never does. At first you might be disappointed, let down, cheated, but after repeat listens, as the nasal whine boars its way into your mind and the bored slashing takes over, you begin to understand that this is what was intended. This is not good times music, there is no reward here, nothing to offer anyone, and just as the lack of titles and lyrics left you wanting more, you too get what you deserve. Nothing.  

Continuing along the path that Oaken Tower began, Broken Tower proudly and nobly steps up to the baton with valor and steely determination. Strictly regimented and repetitive, like a military training regime, “Our Flag” features two tracks, “Surtr” and “Nidhoggr”, both of which utilizes minimal variation from the riff that is cast in stone from the outset, hammering it with vigor and pure strength until it is but a smoothed down, flattened nub. Slow, gruff and deeply buried vocals emit from the darkness conjuring up imagery of bombs being dropped and explosives being detonated and a steady drum pounds away in the background as an afterthought almost. I have heard the Polish hordes (Veles, Graveland etc) has been of chief inspiration here, and while I am not nearly as well schooled as most in this area, it wouldn’t of been my first go to for a tag to pin this on, in fact, I probably wouldn’t have even entered into the BM realm at all. This is non music almost, closer to some sort of demented noise pounding, the way it simply stays at one pace and one pitch the whole time offers only insanity, there is no light and shade, no good or bad, Broken Tower has taken the essence of pride and injected its most primal base element into a recording that can only serve as a vehicle for curious self wonder and further exploration into the very notion of dedication to a cause, be it a political party, a doctrine, a religion or a flag.

Hollow and forgotten meanderings through the lost land of Post Punks nightmares. The essence here is firmly planted in the obscure and obtuse, twanging bass lines dominate Christian Death esque guitar twinkles while a drugged out Goth moans in the corner from withdrawal symptoms.  There is nothing to latch on to and hold here, no sense of structure, no feeling of a song, and while you could argue that this is simply art fuck noise, I don’t imagine anyone listening cares enough to counter your attack after being drained of life and spirit upon completion of this hellish ride to the catacombs of ones mind.
Rough as fuckin guts and tough as fuckin nails HC from Ontario, Canada. What you have here is a smattering of songs spanning different times (rehearsals, live sets, cover songs etc) so this isn’t so much a cohesive piece of work as it is a display of the ignorance in which Straight Truth approach their craft. This is the kinda HC which could appeal to meatheads and crew guys alike, I am neither, but still I find something to like here, it is the approach and the way in which Straight Truth execute the ideas that interests me more than anything. It doesn’t seem hard to play SxE HC or straightforward mosh riffs into a broken tape recorder, but I find Straight Truths approach far more refreshing than matching crew hoodies and Nike Airs. There is an almost anthemic feel here, as if songs are designed for maximum pile ons and sing-alongs when performed live, simplistic lyrics repeated over and over again that tap into Canadians darkest fears (the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, forced conscription and Ghosts wandering out the door) and a guitar attack that verges on total idiocy will ensure any small gathering of friends will lose their collective shit for 6 or so minutes every few months when these lads throttle themselves in the pit of glass or whichever dive they are allowed to play in. Cover tracks by Necros and Y-DI alongside instrumentals titled “P.O.W.” and “Straight Laced War March” offer further insight into the IQ levels found here. HC like this is best when taken with a strict sense of humor as well as a rigid dedication to the long standing traditions which have been shat upon by fuckwits who came and went faster than diarrhea through a primary school classroom, Straight Truth show here that they have no intention of dropping the ball and as long as the flame still burns they will keep the torch lit.   

Malphas has seemingly come a long way in a very short period of time. Developing the crude blend of Punk/BM that was heard (by only a lucky few on their “Pre-Demo” CS mind you) into the almost unrecognizable beast that we hear today on “La Terre Disparue”. Opening with an ancient and noble intro layered with Polish tendencies and ritualistic essence, the way in which this piece sets the tone in such a way as to transport you almost directly into the 90’s instantly hammers home the levels that have been achieved on this minor masterpiece. The stomping BM that unveils itself throughout the duration of “La Terre Disparue” ranges from anthemic pummel to ignorant bliss and even classic BM worship. It would be hard to not talk about the effect that their Country has on a band such as Malphas, the pride that shines through here is infectious and will no doubt be mistaken for some sort of allegiance to doctrines and worldviews that a large number of BM of this ilk subscribes to. Add to this the flirtation with fringe elements within underground BM through past artwork and wording on fliers and Malphas haven’t done themselves any favours and certainly won’t be appealing to the more politically correct factions of BM.  I understand the grey area that exists in this interest, NSBM has a certain allure to it, and in many ways the best BM from the past was in fact made by racist scumbags. You can argue that the hate is more pure from these degenerates but as time progresses and the original characters drop out and distance themselves from such narrow ways of thinking it becomes clearer that in order to understand BM and the music that come from deep within it you need to experience it and in the process the realization that hate based on symbols and race is in fact a weakness. Malphas came from a punk and HC background, from what I have seen it was the more positive strain of HC that resonated the most with them, so I can see how finding such negative and hateful stuff as NSBM can influence you, even if it is in a way similar to staring too long at the sun or a car crash as you drive past it. Fortunately for Malphas very little of this interest has permeated into the themes of their project, and while you at times may feel an archaic sense of the ancient days of old you also need to understand that is where the similarities end. Malphas are a band for our time, and our time is more diverse and wider reaching than ever before, Malphas represents a changing of the guard.
Testing ones patience and obnoxiousness are traits long associated with punk, if it was easy to listen to I can’t imagine half of us would still be here. The desire to be challenged at every turn is very real and exciting, yet often when I do get faced with such events I often react disparagingly and feel betrayed. Take Behaviors LP here, their tapes were noisy, chaotic spurts of HC insanity, closer to mid-west fuckery than Washington DC art nut, so when I am forced to sit through a Shellac like drum intro which is eventually broken by an Australian sounding punk rock swagger guitar passage I was rightly (or wrongly) confused. Listening back to their past work with the reference of this LP hanging ominously over proceedings does now offer some insights into how this came about, and now I can see that this wasn’t so much a 180 degree about turn, but more a realization of intent and finessing of skill. The gravely vocals which veer dangerously close into “flannel wearing bearded guy passionately decrying overpopulation” take a bit of getting used to considering I have long since placed my entire Level Plane Records CD’s into storage, but there is a feeling present here that you would never get from those now vapid and mindless forays into post HC spazz out bliss displayed by the likes of Hot Cross or Light the Fuse and Run anyway. I don’t listen to Fugazi but I imagine that this is what it kinda sounds like, be that a slur on Behavior or not, I don’t know, and that is what is so odd about this LP, I simply don’t know. There are moments of brilliance (the guitar stomp that rounds out “- -“ on the B side as an example((and yes “- -“ is the song title which probably tells you all you need to know about this LP)) that rekindle what I once loved about Off Minors Heat Death of the Universe LP intermixed with a snotty brashness that I could well and truly do without, and when I have so little time left to indulge in such narcissistic pastimes as listening to music, I find it hard to justify pulling out a second rate “Spiderland/1000 Hurts/Songs About Fucking/Red Medicine” as this potentially is. But remember “I DON’T REALLY FUCKING KNOW”.

Ugly, disjointed and mangled noise fucked BM filth from the UK. For a good while there I paid attention to EVERYTHING that came from the UK which was centered around the mighty Legion Blotan/All Dead Tapes camps, but like all things change, so did this addiction. Stringently following a label as blindly as I did rarely works out well, the variation in quality and the fact that tastes don’t stay aligned for long means that before you know it you are burnt out and apathetic. Besides Sump and White Medal I had completely lost track of what UK BM was doing and was blissfully unaware that imprints such as Brigades of Anger or Lupus were flying the banner loudly and proudly.  I received a mean fucking package of tapes from G.P and Veelhell the other week, it was full of grimy, disgusting efforts all displaying that simple and straightforward no nonsense approach that the Brits are well known for. The Untitled tape by Occulted Death Stance was amongst the pile, featuring a macabre image on the front cover alongside a illegible name scrawled along the spine it was clear which tape I was drawn to first. The A side is a cacophony of flayed madness, messy chaotic and barely held together musicianship underneath unhinged and totally unique vocals spitting and wailing out horrendous sermons. The B side changes pace pretty dramatically, slowing down proceedings to a noise rock knuckle scrape that could put 90’s era AmRep or Load bands to shame. Truly degenerate pummeling fed through some pitch black filter of shit. Listening to this tape reminded me why I was so enamored with the UK scene, their unique and eccentric take on underground filth is captivating and very exciting. Sure this could alienate those seeking another one dimensional tape to satiate their need for reassurance and comfort. Occulted Death Stance is not here for anyone but themselves and while they are yet to cement their own perfect sound, it is still a very engaging listen once you get past your own preconceived notions and expectations of what may lay beneath the muck and filth. Recommended.    
Pure and unbridled destruction, passion and intensity. Veil and Lamentation return one final time and follow up their brilliant first Demo with an even better second one. Imagine the most damaged moments found on Converge’s Jane Doe LP mixed with Peste Noire or Mortifera and you wouldn’t even be close to matching the sheer ferocity and unhinged emotion on offer here. The tapestry of the music Veil and Lamentation conjure up is near impenetrable, your mind falters just trying to decipher what you are hearing, I was lead to believe that Demo I was indeed BM played with no guitars, but by the time I found that out it didn’t really matter, I was already so blown away by how original and intense it was that nothing else could amaze me any further than I already was. Demo II is no different, I don’t even care what they did or didn’t use to create this, the simple fact that they did it is more than anyone deserves and the idea that people out there who are into passionate and immersive underground music may not have heard this makes me sad. If you haven’t heard this tape (or their first one) I would strongly recommend you rectify this immediately. Words CANNOT do this justice, as I have clearly just proven.
FFH’s “Make Them Understand” LP is a monument of pure misery in the field of modern Powerelectronics.  Its single minded determination and focus made it a true force to be reckoned with and it is one of the high water marks for the entire genre, past and present. To follow up such an amazing record is no easy task, and while “Symbol to be Forgotten” doesn’t quite scale the heights (or plummet the depths more likely) as “Make Them Understand” it is still a devastating and powerful piece in its own right. Starting off with FFH’s now trademark police scanner monitoring samples on “New Capital”. This peak into the underbelly offers the listener a sense of voyeuristic unease before degenerating into a full and rich sonic pummeling. The vocals here are hollow and almost bored sounding, especially when placed up against the desperate cries of a police rookie hunting down criminals. This vocal approach always stood out to me about FFH, his departure from the tried, true and predictable is a welcome addition and again shows why he is at the forefront of the genre. PE like this usually has some maniac rolling around howling into a broken microphone, but FFH’s vocals are tempered and measured, they really are the perfect accompaniment to such claustrophobic terror as they generate a sense of control and steady reliance. Control such as this is what an armed bank robber or masked home invader wishes to display in the heat of his crime yet often fails to accomplish. On the B side FFH brings the hammer down so to speak, sonic terror vocals spit out hate over glitchy frequencies and you are once again left astounded. The main ingredient that is missing here that was in such an abundance of on “Make Them Understand” is the sexual malevolence and pure depravity, two common themes found in most PE worth listening to. In many ways it feels that FFH is stepping beyond the acceptable and endorsed and in doing so he is creating an EP that while not as instantly satisfying on the surface may in fact stand proud for years to come as layers are stripped away and we the listener are made to understand it.   
The mutant punk phenomena has officially swept the world, coating the streets with slime and ooze resulting in a disgusting hybrid of snot drenched punk filled to the gills with psychotic looseness and an extreme sense of tongue in cheek. Championed most recently by Lumpy and the Dumpers, a band who most definitely lost their sheen past that first amazing 7” of theirs, however, mutant punk is nothing new, KBD punks were doing this in the fucking 70’s and 80’s to little or no fanfare, but for some reason this current wave has caught my attention more than before and Goon, from my favorite punk place in the world, Denver CO do a faithful, energetic and enigmatic version of it.  From the very same miscreants that bought us the brilliant, heart on their sleeve, pop punk poster boys Chase Ambler, Goon has that same wild and infectious sound that these guys are known for and their take on anything (be it SxE HC or Grind) is very easy to get caught up in, primarily due to their dedication and intensity. At its core, this sound is more rooted in punk and in doing so looses all of the posturing and posing that HC offers, leaving us with a natural and very unassuming display of passion and power. Goon is no exception. Highly recommended.
The art of buying a bands tape after seeing a live performance is a long standing tradition in underground music, you don’t need me to tell you that. For me however, it is a rare event. More often than not I go to a show with the intention of buying the bands record or tape only to be so disappointed or turned off that I leave with my wallet never leaving the back pocket. I attended this years Recrucify The Bastard (this year renamed Recrucifying The Bastard for some reason) on my own as no one else wanted to attend, rightly so I might add, previous years have been a shadow of their former selves with the legendary tales of swastika flags and pigs heads skewered upon stakes now a thing of folklore, replaced by a boring and tiresome parade of the same old characters playing gradually more watered down BM with each passing year. So here I sat, in the corner, alone, watching people I recognized from once legendary acts such as Kill the Kristians, Nuclear Winter, Orrery and Scourge of the Leper play their latest take on the black arts. Sure, Lightless’s cover of “Gates of Heaven” was rollickingly good fun and Supremacy dominated the entire night with their powerful display of Australian NSBM complete with a singer who closely resembled Hendrik Mobus  (right down to the necklace adorning this lanky man which was a wallaby’s skull with a swastika drawn on it) and their pulverizing Capricornus cover, but, it was Dissonant Winds who surprised me the most. I had heard they were a local band, and expected to recognize some of them from trips to the local comic book store or maybe from spotting them flicking through WWII books in the library, but as they stood there clad in black cloaks and corpse paint all I could feel was freezing cold depression and alienation. Dissonant Winds play a drawn out, melancholic version of Depressive BM. The vocals are distant howls and the guitars work together in unison creating a sea of ever moving sadness. Their use of keys in the live setting added a level of eeriness to proceedings and it was this that really set them apart as well as bought the whole project together. I was captivated and enthralled by this display of cathartic BM and seeing their tape on the merch table had me pulling out a fiver quicker than a studs cock for the money shot on a Team Skeet web stream. Unfortunately, there are no discernable keys on their “Upon the Pessimist Throne” tape, which results in a rather long and arduous listen. The other trademarks are all still here though, ambient interludes, distant howls, cathartic guitar work and pictures in the forest making for a decent and still quite noteworthy entry into Tasmania’s already rich BM history. I for one am excited for their next release in the hope that head string puller and mastermind “Aciretose” allows “Befoul” to step out from the shadows of “Live Musician” and into the pitch blackness of “Session Keyboardist”. Fingers crossed. 
Receiving these two pieces of grim looking, grainy B&W ephemera out of the backpack of Altered States Tapes owner and operator Cooper Bowman on a freezing, rainy, and miserable Hobart day is quite fitting. The tradition of trading personal projects is something I still feel quite strongly about (Cooper received Fetish Ritual and Blackline tapes) as it often results in receiving items you otherwise would have never come across. Plastic Parts is a B&W zine of images that Cooper Bowman conceived and Mark Groves laid out, on its own there really isn’t a lot there to bother with, it is 8 grainy, brutalist  and bleak pages of seemingly unnecessary imagery. Yet when coupled together with the stark, simple and thudding industrial clamor of the Kneeling Knave recording they not only take on an altogether deeper meaning but also add depth and breadth to the industrial creep that is crawling before you. It isn’t merely distraction, Kneeling Knave is strong in and of its own right, more so than I even first imagined, I have grown tired of noise, that should be no secret to the readers here, yet Kneeling Knave with its cold, stark and purposeful approach appeals to me due to its coarse nature and unapologetic execution. The fact that the Plastic Parts zine exists as its own entity intrigues me, I feel that in doing so, and not just being an extension of the 7”, gives it a life all of its own, and while I may not appreciate that life when separated from the sound, it begs the question of what could I see and feel when viewing these images while listening to Whitehouse or Taint as an example? Are they now so intrinsically intertwined with the ideas Cooper has put forth in Kneeling Knave (as he would have to assume people will order the two together as is the tradition of padding out orders and making your postage costs seem more reasonable) that every time I listen to the Kneeling Knave recording I will need to also look at Plastic Parts (or vice versa) I have a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t the case, Kneeling Knave is a true force of work and I can see this being pulled out in time of grim introspection when industrial collapse and personal ruin is imminent. Plastic Parts however, I feel that this zine exists in a time lock, for a few moments it makes perfect sense, the pages flow together in unison, and, even if for only a moment, I come close to appreciating it. These two pieces won’t be stored away together; they will be separated like orphaned twins at birth to different adopted families who will raise them as their own. And, like all families with differing techniques, only time will tell how they will grow up.  
M. Del Rio’s impact on underground BM is undeniable and vast. Discovering Bone Awl quite early on in my BM listening trajectory proved to be instrumental in the arc I would continue along. Bone Awls ability to fuse sheer ferocity and nihilism into the confines of what can be seen as an otherwise impenetrable force (Black Metal) allowed an insight into a genre that I may have never seen and in turn opened up a world of sounds and ideas that I had never fathomed before. Dickheads will call them Ildjarn clones, but to rely on that reaction alone only shows your inability to process similar ideas showcased in a vastly varied frame. I truly discovered Ildjarn from a Bone Awl interview where they spoke at length about his “Strength and Anger” album. I had heard that album but only a few times, preferring “Forest Poetry” instead, but the way M. Del Rio spoke about “Strength and Anger” made me re-think the way I approached such a piece of work. This is what makes an influential artist, their ability to influence and inspire. I knew right then that there was something intoxicating about M. Del Rio’s worldview and I also saw a similarity in what I also viewed and wanted from my own personal experiences. His work in Raspberry Bulbs pushed the punk BM genre to its very limit, injecting sounds and ideas that seemed the polar opposite of what we had come to expect. Pink aesthetics, Eurythmics quotes and an overall individualistic approach that belied any sense of camaraderie or community. It truly was outsider music for outsiders. His Seedstock label showcased a ragtag oddball mix of BM artists and his burgeoning Personnel label stepped further afield into the junk noise and post punk world, all the while his own ideas and views influencing every calculated move, there was a clear and concise purpose here and it was gripping. Reading his now ancient Fall To Your Knees Pissing zine which was penned around the early stages of Bone Awls life, offered a far more conventional approach to BM while still allowing insights into the inability to subscribe exclusively to the tried and true. But, it was his guest spots of WM Berger and his My Castle on the Quiet radio program that hammered home once and for all what sort of man we were dealing with here. Listening to the mix he bought along featuring Grausamkeit, Werhammer, Vothana and Asmodee (among many others) alongside his reserved and modest presence on air served as a reigniting of what was otherwise a fading interest in BM for me. Hearing the variety that was on offer was captivating, each song featured its own single minded approach to weird and unconventional BM and it was a breath of fresh air at a time when it was so desperately needed. These two shows gave me a long list of new (old) acts to track down, and in the process it has only proven to strengthen my resolve that BM in its purest form is still the most vital and intriguing music out there.
   Cleft Skull is M. Del Rio’s latest creation, and for me this came out of nowhere, Seedstock/Personnel was in sort of slumber as far as I could tell, so waking one morning to an email announcing a new project alongside another new releases is always an exciting start to the day. I bought this without a second thought. Aesthetically the pink is gone, replaced by blue which may say something in an off itself right there. When you become pregnant and await the arrival of the newborn, and assuming you don’t allow modern medicine to intervene, those are the two options you are faced with, pink or blue. A simple test will help the paint colour of the nursery be chosen and the gifts to be more suitably tailored, but until you do or don’t see that appendage covered in blood and mucus after a wealth of pushing and pain you will never be 100% certain, its still pink or blue.  Sonically little else has changed. You may try and find differences, and they most likely are there, but for simplicities sake this is exactly what you would want to hear from a current project of M. Del Rio’s. It has a rawer sound than that which we heard on “Privacy” and it is once again a solo project, regressing back across the continent in an act of need and desire, but beyond that “Cleft Skull” is a pounding, claustrophobic and engaging punk stomp. The simplicity in the approach is tempered with the layers that unfold themselves with each listen, yet at its very core you hear nothing more on the twentieth listen than you did on the first. The passion and perseverance is there, the approach is as single minded and focused as ever and you can’t help but feel like you are meeting up with an old friend, or reading an old favourite book or slipping on your trusty slippers, that sense of comfort and understanding is undeniable.  The reason for Cleft Skulls existence is as much a mystery as anything else he has done and for that I am thankful. We have too much handed to us on a platter nowadays, existing in the grey is a far better approach at this point, it gives the listener more to strive for and the artist less to worry about. Simplicity is the key and Cleft Skull, with its solitary 3:40 length track has it in droves here. At this stage of the game you either respect and appreciate M. Del Rio and his unwavering work ethic or you have moved on to listening to techno and dark ambient dub. It’s not hard to work out where I sit. Absolutely essential.
“Someone’s gonna end up in the fuckin’ drink tonight”
There is something about Meatdog that has always intrigued me. Since childhood I have had the tendency to seek inspiration from people I would never meet (Axl Rose, Chad Muska etc) and I was always idolizing someone to a dangerously creepily level. This isn’t the case with Meatdog at all I must add, its just seeing him reading a porno magazine in a kids playground before wasting a few HC dancers in the pit an hour later made this guy seem larger than life. His musical output has always had a loose and wild element ever present, from the complete forward thinking oddity of Gutter Gods to the traditional stomping of Reckless Aggression (and fuck me sideways if the alleged project he had lined up with the remaining Rupture boys ever eventuated) and his zines and artwork triggered, titillated and traumatized the stuffy HC population in equal measures. Truth be told, Meatdog is just a regular guy trying to have a fucking crack at life and we have seen his mental musings along this journey on a more open display than most. He isn’t a visionary or a luminary, there is nothing legendary about him, he is simply an artist who needs to work regular menial jobs to make his way through life and the tedium and mundane nature of everyday existence has always gotten in the way forcing him to do expel negativity outwards by way of a release or coping mechanism through his art or music.
  Reckless Aggression was a relatively short lived band Meatdog fronted in Melbourne half a decade a go. The first Demo encapsulated the raw negativity of Skinhead Oi street thuggery perfectly in a time when a global resurgence was being seen courtesy of HC stalwarts moonlighting with danger and racial tension. The main difference was that Reckless Aggression was the real deal, Creem and Skrapyard probably weren’t.  This tape is the unreleased second demo from these near forgotten boot boys and while it doesn’t quite match up to the caustic rawness heard on their first effort it is still an essential entry into the annals of underground street strength. Musically things are stepped up a few notches here, a sneakily placed guitar leads rears its bald head every now and then and overall it sound like they have been listening to more Rose Tattoo than Brutal Attack. Meatdog sounds calmer, as if life has toned itself down, and where the opening track “Unapproachable” could have been a song penned about himself, here it feels more like an observation of everything he doesn’t want to turn into. Artistically there have been major shifts, gone are the Skinheads punching giraffes and fucking holes in the universe, replaced by odd imagery closer to the tramp stamps you see on 30 somethings who liked to fuck their way through the nightclubs back in the early 00’s, or tribal tattoo designs emblazoned on drug dealers arms as they staunchly stand on the corner waiting for another deadhead. This approach offers a unique sense of originality while stepping far outside what we have come to expect from anything Meatdog has done before.  That right there shows exactly where Allan is at this stage of life, far removed from the source material and carving out something new and fresh that he can truly call his own. RIP Meatdog, Long Live Allan Cowie!

Coming from the same camp that bought us School Shootings and Sulk, and sticking with the same letter in the alphabet theme that they seem so doggedly stuck on, is Rochester’s newest punks, Stress. This snappily presented tape featuring artwork not commonly associated with punk (a cowboy and the band logo written in lasso rope) features snotty, vibrant and faster than I would usually listen to USHC reminiscent of the stuff that Cowabunga records may have done a few years back, or for a more recent idea, Raw Nerve but without the highly strung and self righteous pretension.  Lots of “1, 2, 3, 4’s” and caustic energy alongside nonsensical lyrics that make as much sense as the second season of True Detective did, leaving you with a ripping demo that I have the sneaking suspicion dropped about 4 years too late for anyone to really care about. This is the beauty of these guys, they play exactly what they want, there is zero fucks given for what sound is in right now and they focus instead on having a good time regardless of accolades, distro deals and record releases. Stress is exactly what those who are struggling to find anything to like about modern HC need in their lives right now. A dose of cynicism and total irreverence injected into a world that seems hellbent on taking itself so fucking seriously despite the notion that it all amounts to naught anyway. Lighten the noose round your neck, get off your high horse and hang em high cowboy.