Self released on 31 March 2017
Wires sounds like what it feels to get assaulted by an ox that hasn’t tasted red for a million years, submerged beneath some Egyptian crypt stalking the maze that birthed its bloodthirst. And with a title like Drop Acid and Join a Cult there was little chance of being disappointed.
A gloomy, ghostly Opening Sermon starts the EP. It’s a considered, conceptual piece of work that is already swirling into psychedelic, psychosomatic motion full of guts and gall. Its a call to arms for the lunatics on the streets, starting fires with a megaphone forced into the face of one’s nerves recalling a propaganda video recruiting the next legion of lifeless souls lost to the endless recoils of modern distraction.
Dark of The Summer is the first song proper and plummets into Earth’s polluted orbit like a rocket ship burning up the bodies inside. There’s a howl before the moon “holding on for dear life” that leaves me speechless. It’s always joyous to feel blood against the wall, to hear bass that shatters glass back into sand and guitars that strangle the charmer.
Dynamics forever flicking switches ensues, completing a fat wedge of fierce, furious post-punk power. This is not sludge, this is not doom, this is not metal, nor stoner, nor punk. This is nothing but new; a new breed with a pair of bollocks between the legs, a much-needed trope of the shadowy towers that the charts cast upon the pods.
4BTBS follows similar suit keeping things as twisted as possible. It injects delicious youth into the early Bahaus days, the mania and the majesty, or perhaps Theatre of Hate in their savage, primal delivery and early Gallows with all their acid-spitting hatred, clashing bass and drums as weapons to wield; kicking down the door and shooting carnage-sized holes in the circus tents of modern life.
The landing of a juggernaut is confirmed as explosive by the arrival of The Wolf. The hunt is always on as tons of catchiness is thrown against a spinning target with knives without handles. The power of the bass and drums interlock like a wrestle of heart and soul. Feedback arises around the ankles like smoke on a playground post-battlefield and captivate razor-sharp and hungry with vocals that disturb the peace from any sedated sense complex.
There’s no need to put the gun back in its holster as Holiday and Jonestown wages war on all that should stand in the shadow of such a brutal noise. Grunge with added sludge, trash with extra shark, the vocals moaning and droning like a man carrying his own crucifix on shards of broken glass, a fantastic tune that uses space and sonic stabs to create a monstrous mixture of adrenaline and moody adventure.
Nomres Gnisolc completes the EP deepending the scars to new levels of consciousness. Hisses and fizzes of static swirl upward into the air, levitate and suffocate like butterflies that can’t quite make the take off.
It’s always a pleasure to listen to music that has some intellectual depth behind it without sounding like a pretentious art-wank indie-plop piss-drip band. This is music felt from the stomach, a guttural pulse of raging punk rock like EST therapy shocking the skeleton from the suit of skin it lives in using the dissonance and jaggedness of a very simple template, heightened to new methods of delivery, understanding how from darkness, sparks can fly.
Great stuff, it leaves my nose bleeding and my ears are pierced.
Label: Self release
This is music felt from the stomach, a guttural pulse of raging punk rock like EST therapy shocking the skeleton from the suit of skin it lives in using the dissonance and jaggedness of a very simple template, heightened to new methods of delivery, understanding how from darkness, sparks can fly.