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It’s nice to hear something that is so indiscriminately scrappy. Darko’s sound is akin to that of a mauled carcass. Whilst some parts gleam white, at least half of it is still caked in festering, raw meat, just waiting to be stripped clean. But does it really need to be? Part of the refreshing charm of this self-titled EP is the disjointed gruff nature that holds it together.

Predictably titled opener ‘We Are Here’ is the sweating, rabbit-in-the-headlights kid, thrust out on stage in front of the entire school, expecting to perform a skit without having to suffer the torrent of boos and verbal abuse. Luckily, this first track is akin to said headlights kid performing a dance to a Jamiroquai song, stunning the assembled masses. ‘We Are Here’ kind of falls over itself in the sudden rush spit itself out. The drums clatter and fumble with a delightful ramshackle torrent of noise, whilst the guitar see-saws with an unpredictable uncertainly in the opening 3 seconds, before finding its feet and rushing headlong into a boisterous blast of speed punk. Much like Set Your Goals, Darko channel melodic hardcore with pop punk with gritty determination and rowdy arrogance. The vocals are gravely as expected, similar to that of Small Arms Dealer, with a gruff sarcastic sounding sneer at the end of each word. The backing vocals are spot on, patching the melodic “woaaaahhhoooohhs” with the headstrong, crotchety lead wail.

‘Knives’ has a trashy, pop-punk backbone to support the frantic hardcore leanings provided by metallic guitar attack. There’s also a touch of Jawbreaker in this, and early 90s emotional hardcore channelled within the clattering drum patterns and choppy guitars. It’s refreshing to hear something that’s harking back to a time when music still had bucketloads of passion and vibrant energy – something which Darko have captured with their vibrant gusto. ‘Yet We Breath’ has a rough street-punk stomp, similar to that of Da Skywalkers, with the huge bonding backing vocal roar forcing through that family spirit of fevered unity. ‘Delgaldo’ takes the melodic punk rock bounce of Four Year Strong, swapping keyboard chimes for strangled riffs and tight breakdowns. ‘Blink’ taps into that part of the brain leaving a definite earworm in the form of the words “watch the world go by, take my hand, don’t shut your eyes” backed by uplifting, snappy punk rock. The final track is 30 seconds of splattered speed punk in the form of ‘Paper Mirrors’ a track that tangles itself in knots as it rushes to finish in a blistering decrepit blast of choppy guitars and raw abruptness.

There’s something so fresh about this – sure the production is incredibly raw and the vocals waver occasionally, but this adds to the irrepressible charm and the gutsy determination Darko have. In many cases, these supposed niggles are positives – this is how it’s SUPPOSED to sound. This is music, in its fresh, untainted state and an exciting, refreshing debut, tinged with that early 90s punk snarl and the melodic attitude of the present day.

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Links

Darko Myspace
Darko Bandcamp

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By Ross Macdonald

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There seems to be a thing for having a minimalist setup these days. Not that it’s a trend, more just a way of executing your music without the unnecessary need for other band members who would prove superfluous. Plus, with a two piece you can fit all your stuff in the back of a Ford Ka probably and get to gigs quite easily, right?

Illness are a duo from Brighton, holding down drums and guitar respectively. Their sound staggers about a fair bit, as though unsure of commitment. At times it strays dangerously close to the tribal builds and crashing barrage made famous by Baltimore’s Oxes, especially ‘Dave Escapes’ – a two minute stuttering tug of tappy guitar lines and abrasive drum patterns. It shudders with this twitching gait, like something that’s being slowly tortured via electrodes; spasmodically jerking back and forth. In other cases, Illness seem to retain a joyful pop sensibility, one gained from prolonged exposure to twiddling twee-indie. ‘Bane Face’ is the best example of this; it’s almost summery bounce, coupled with erratic drum rolls, crashing cymbals and meandering vigour makes for interesting listening.

‘Gutmilk’ is the sound of Don Caballero condensed into 71 seconds. Whilst it manages to stretch out progressive patterns of sound, Illness seem to build upon this sustained ringing note, allowing the drums to dominate the track. They punch through with a slow, steady force under the meticulous whine of the guitar. ‘Hail! Kitty’ follows a rather basic path, occasionally rising and falling as the notes interchange, but unfortunately highlights the somewhat limitations of such a basic setup. ‘Mark In Spring’ takes Illness down the territory they seem more focussed on, which is emulating or rather ambitiously, attempting to out-do Oxes through the use of their staccato beats and odd time signatures that seem to dip into progressive rock, back into gleeful pop and dense post-punk urgency.

‘Old Song’ is the highlight of ‘Gifts From God’ however. It’s decrepit sound tumbles along with a determined focus, that touches slightly on the side the math-rock urgency of Adebisi Shank, stuffed to the brim with feverish drum rolls and a stuttering pace.  My only chagrin is that it should have been longer, but for what it is; a tight pounding blast of rhythmic energy; Illness have exceeded expectations in creating uplifting, positive instrumental rock that has this infectious memorable quality and a raw, stripped-down, ramshackle sound.

‘Gifts From God’ can be pre-orded from the Smalltown America website here.

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Links

Illness
Smalltown America

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By Ross Macdonald

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Anyone thinking of starting a band shouldn’t for 2 reasons:

1.    There’s too many bands; they’re like crap z-list celebrity biographies – numerous, soulless and mostly pointless.
2.    No-one is ever going to create a name that rivals I’ll Eat Your Face, which is possibly the peak of when it comes to thinking of a hilarious and memorable moniker. The only thing close to this would be Howling Spastic Railway©, but that’s copyrighted to me so you can go to hell.

I’ll Eat Your Face are two dudes from Cork, Ireland with a sound that equates to an army of players rather than the minimalist membership they’ve opted for. It’s the kind of racket that straddles genres, not content to jump waste deep in any definitive lot, but rather adopt a pick-n-mix approach to their defining sound. The core however is built most definitely around grind. I’ll Eat Your Face are all about the bone-shattering assault of blast-beat drumming and sickeningly twisted riffs that either squeal with crazed delight or bottom-out with a gurgling roar.

‘Irritant’ is the band’s first ‘proper’ album – and surprisingly, it’s free! Well, free if you have an internet connection and the ability to load and save around 63MB of a zipfile. It’s brief – clocking in at just over 23 minutes, ‘Irritant’ decides that hanging around is for pussies; bludgeoning the listener to a mashed-up pulp of a bloody rat carcass drenched in piss is the safest bet. Opening track ‘Tony’s Coming To Massage Me’ starts with a crackling, lo-fi recording of a quite tuneful set of chords that are eradicated when the drums break through, punching the lead back into the six-string and cranking the volume to necessary threat levels of extreme noise. From here on it see-saws between grinding fury to a bouncing rock-stomp; switching sides when you least expect it. Totally fucking ridiculous, but disturbingly compelling. ‘I Have A Wolf For A Head’ touches upon Dillinger Escape Plan-style jazz-chords; the guitar hacks a ragged, chewed sound over the frankly outlandish but brilliant drumming style.
There are no vocals – which is somewhat of a blessing, as the sound of some fat bearded shower-dodger roaring over the top would severely distract from the music of Mr ‘The Boy’ Guitar and Mr ‘Barrytron’ Drums. Although I can’t help feel that having someone bellowing “EYES FULL OF SHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTT!!!!!” on the very song itself, would raise a smile. But really though, this slays regardless – the scrambled rush as drumbeats fall over each other in an effort to keep up with the scything guitar sweeps completely owns the I’ll Eat Your Face sound. ‘Really Long Arms’ features a nice jazz-meets-trippy, ‘cover-your-ears-and-you’ll-miss-it’ mid-section, but is mostly dominated by such pummelling riffage and the kind of short passages of blasting hardcore that give nods towards Botch and the despondent snarl of Black Sheep Wall. The schizophrenic buzz that makes up ‘Pecks From Hell’ staggers between a grinding howl and sludge-covered scrape of harrowing drone; whilst ‘Internal Mind Disco’ is like being stuck on a waltzer with Napalm Death covering a Bolt Thrower track, minus Barney Greenway.

Don’t be fooled by ‘Loser: On’; whilst the wrong-footer opening of twee percussion and patterned bleeping if a brief pause from the chaos to allow you your breath back, I’ll Eat Your Face decide to deliver some of their heaviest, most barren material inside a minute and a half of twisted, furrowed noise that chugs with a stop-start urgency and a panicked rhythm. Likewise so does the Simpsons approved, gag-inducing ‘Rat Milk Moustache’ – a track that churns with squealing determination and menace.

Stand-out track is the excellent ‘Six Miles In’, the only piece to feature vocals; albeit unintelligible ramblings fed through a vocoder, alongside buried screams and that sense of uncertainty created by the disturbing ‘taunt’ of the guitar and drums, which seem almost mocking in their tone, pointing invisible fingers at the listener and berating them, like their target is a sibling of the girl who smelt of spam and by default, is ripe for derision.

‘Irritant’ is plain nasty – the drums batter you into submission; the caustic riffage dips between a blitzkrieg of pure grind, math-punk distortion, grime and stoner rock. I’ll Eat Your Face constantly keeping things interesting with their irregular time changes, witty song titles and a furious heaviness that in some cases, feels like you’ve entered a fight that you’re most definitely going to lose.

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I’ll Eat Your Face’s debut ‘Irritant’ can be downloaded from their bandcamp site for free here. Also, check out the split EP they released with Hands Up Who Wants To Die.

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Links

I’ll Eat Your MyFace
I’ll Eat Your Face Band Camp
I’ll Eat Your Big Cartel

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By Ross Macdonald

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You’ve noticed the pattern here, right? Dublin-based Jogging are yet another healthy edition to the ever bulging roster of bands that belong to the Richter Collective family. Whilst much of the RC’s releases have recently focused on the graduating shifts and subtle crashing builds of experimental post-meets-dance rock and off-kilter electronic-indie noodling; Jogging have more in common with label mates BATS than anyone else.

Jogging sound frustrated and this is a good thing. Frustration as we all know is a sign of irritation and annoyance and coupled with the ability to play an instrument to a respectable standard is potentially the winning formula (to these tinnitus ravaged ears) when creating music that people will actually bother to take notice of, rather than dismiss as landfill. Jogging sound agitated – they sound like a fair amount of pent up aggression is bubbling to the surface and the best way to vent this is through their spiky brand of Future Of The Left-style disgust, coupled with a gnarly punk rock edge.

The thing about Jogging is, they fucking rock. ‘Minutes’ is the kind of breathless, exhausting rock album that most sane people will struggle to not air-punch along to. Jogging seem to draw from two direct sources – the first being Epitaph-style punk rock, back when the label had a fair amount of credibility and around the time the Punk-O-Rama compilations were of considerable high quality. The melody and determined drive is something that would sit quite nicely with the early work of bands such as Beatsteaks and Hot Water Music. The second falls in the Dischord territory, drawing on the likes of Fugazi, Minor Threat as well as the intensity of bands like Rites of Spring.

Opening track ‘Threadbare’ starts with a jaunty, enthused “Whoo!” that dives headfirst into a driving post-punk romp of jerking tempo changes and rasping vocals. It’s an exceptionally well-crafted tune; whilst the vocals tend to lean on the side of sneering, the lyrics remain uncharacteristically optimistic – “I raise my glass to my teeth!” (hey, it’s good to think of it has half-full right?) However, bubbling beneath the surface is that uncaring edge of discontented brackishness.
“Everybody’s laughing at your weakness….everybody’s laughing at your name” spits Jogging’s seemingly bitter vocalist, who doesn’t hide the snide feelings he has for the subject matter of ‘Not Simple’; a track that rattles along with the fevered stabbing rage of ‘Suicide Invoice’-era Hot Snakes. It’s clear that Jogging are attempting to drag feelings of animosity from the listener; not to the band, but perhaps to unresolved issues that person may have. ‘Fostered Foes’ is a maniacal rush of math-punk; all stumbling drum patterns and mangled chords falling over each other in some attempt to emulate the strident vitality of At The Drive-In; which it manages with style.

‘Shake Up Shakedown’ writhes like the staggered post-hardcore of These Arms Are Snakes, but by sounding even more severe and cutting in both vocal delivery and the barren guitar tone. The drums adopt a bouncing funk-punk edge complimenting the restless sound made by the bass and guitar excellently. The spitting snarl of ‘Bruises Like Bowties’ seems to channel the rage of early Dischord hardcore, mixed with a grinding bass heavy lead and guttural punk rock discrepancy. The delivery of the vocals “with the blood on my hands!” on ‘Cleft Chin, Good Heart’ is done with such despondent sincerity and primal wrath  it stirs up the kind of raw emotional pull that harks back to that early 90s late 80s emo, back before it became a dirty word. Two minutes of harrowing, dark punk rock that all 4 members of Fugazi would swear blindly was a lost album track.

‘Lifeline’ overflows with tapping, sporadic guitar tweaks, diving in and out of a frenzy of choppy discordance, before hitting a lumbering stride through a grinding bass-driven body of sound. The dual vocals (one high-pitched, raw and scratching, the other hoarse and weathered) on ‘Heartwood’ work brilliantly, whilst the persistent and dogged drive of the track’s unashamedly gruff nature gives a heavy nod towards the brash punk rock style of Dillinger Four. Surprisingly, ‘Curtains’ is a more light-hearted affair; falling into similar territory as ‘Plenty For All’ by Hot Snakes – anthemic, yet with subdued aggression and more focus on melody and even harmonies (particularly the vocals).

My conclusion? Well, Jogging STILL fucking rock, and if you haven’t got yourself to their bandcamp and parted ways with your euros/pounds yet I want to know why. This is the kind of gritty, no-nonsense punk meets post-hardcore rock that exemplifies just how vitriolic, passionate and energised music can be, a magnificent debut of aggression and aggravation.

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Links

Jogging Myspace
Jogging Band Camp
Richter Collective

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By Ross Macdonald

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Worrier seems a suitably apt name for this trio from Milwaukee (you were expecting me to say Dublin, right?), as the vocals have a degree of panic about them. This isn’t the kind of fright or anxiety you would associate with some weak-willed simpleton shuddering in the corner; this is the kind of intense, manic-staring panic of unhinged madness and scattered logic. The yelping cries and bird-like squawks of trepidation are juxtaposed with the flourishing, extravagant nature of Worrier’s eclectic sound.

There’s a kind of breathless exuberance in their music – not in the minute long feral power of say bands like Some Girls, because Worrier actually have tunes and melody. What I mean is, there’s this kind of intense and euphoric aggression present. Many of the tracks on ‘Source Errors Spells’ are staggering over each other in a glorious stumble of miscellaneous sounds. There’s so much earnest creativity on offer and the alarmingly different shifts in sound, speed, pattern and focus draw several deserving comparisons; such as the oddball eccentricity of Liars and that outrageous passion of Les Savy Fav.

Worrier open proceedings with ‘Let Down Your Hair’; a track that begins with the moody hum of a church organ, backed by a soft fuzz. The drums kick in along a wavering pattern – rolling and bouncing alongside the heavily synthesised layer of sound. The dual vocal attack folds into itself, mixing a chanting lead in with the soaring backing cries and shouts like a cluster of rowdy drunken teenagers. But there’s a delicate craft in this – whilst it predominantly sounds like a raucous sing-along reserved for the kind of places where you’re likely to get half a bottle embedded in the back of your head; the melodic pop-hooks balance out the chattering hustle.  ‘I Am The River’ follows, driven predominantly by the militant electro-drum beat, that is devoid of cymbal crashes and instead centres on an almost tribal thump of relentless energy. The guitars and keys are a lot more subtle this time, giving way to breathless vocals and purring atmospheric hum.

The vocals are going to be the marmite on this particularly fine cake of musical notes however. They range from this gasping, almost husky drawl; especially ‘I Am The River’ but also a odd rising vocal shriek that isn’t too dissimilar to Jaguar Love’s Johnny Whitney. You know; the kind of singing voice that makes you think the person’s testicles have started to retract back up inside them. However, it’s these vocal swings that make Worrier an appealing prospect, something that is best emphasised on ‘Reverse the Hearse’ which captures the squawking shrillness and the wheezing calm so well.

‘Sea Section’ takes the sturdy drumming of ‘I Am The River’ and collides it with eerie bleeps and screeching synthesisers in a similar way to Liars, if they started writing songs about boating trips whilst mashing the keys of a Yamaha. The vocals are notably different again, taking on a more rough-shod punk sneer of indifference and lyrically seem quite headstrong and ring with defiance. It also references the need to escape, with the emphasis of being free from various shackles. The words “…and we’ll sail away in a casket made of clay….to melt down right before your eyes…” supports this with a nod towards regeneration. ‘Lost Ships’ keeps with the aquatic theme, blending heavy, spiraling electronic influences with a distinct dance-rock frame and the crashing wave of glitching squeaks and roars. ‘I’m Not The Ocean’ is a brash retort to ‘I Am The River’; the cry of “these are blackened ships!” and the trippy, dilapidated quiver of the guitar and drums, coupled with the intensity of the severe vocals is what Worrier pull off extremely well.

‘Black Death Princess’ sounds like Neon Blonde and Rutger ‘About’ Hoedemaekers jamming in a studio after too much caffeine. Talk about menacing – the Neanderthal drumming, creepy, yet swirling keys, dark pulsating loops and the hauntingly hoarse backing vocal screams and a rich warm lead voice that wails with an eerie sinister lust make this an obvious album highlight. ‘Wind in the Sails’ is a big smug grin of tooth-rotting indie pop that many will find not to sing along to by the second listen. Infectiously warm and soothing, with strong prominence on anthemic gang vocals and buzzsaw keyboard lines through the jaunty, summery buzz of twinkling noise. ‘Axeidents’ sounds eerily similar to the massively hyped Test Icicles with Tim Harrington-aping vocal barking about fist fights over the top of bouncing dance punk that sparkles like it’s been waxed clean by Superman.

‘Source Error Spells’ by Worrier is a splendid piece of eccentric, indie-dance-rock; it’s schizophrenic nature, both musically and vocally is somewhat jarring at first, but one that open-minded listeners, particularly those who follow Why? Liars and Jaguar Love will find rewarding and full of vibrant energy.

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Those looking for a copy of ‘Source Errors Spells’ can download a copy for a mere 5 euros (just under 5 quid) from their bandcamp site.

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Links

Worrier Myspace
Richter Collective

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By Ross Macdonald

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The Continuous Battle Of Order win the award for having a name that makes me think it should be the tagline to a Command & Conquer or Call Of Duty game. Heck, it would work attached to a Viva Piñata title. Comprised of just two guys; a drummer who goes by the name Craig and a guitarist by the name of Hornby, The Continuous Battle Of Order formed out of the ashes of math rock-types, We Are Knives. In some respects, they share similarities with Rhode Island’s Lightning Bolt – the minimalist set up, songs mostly devoid of vocals and instead utilising a barrage of sound as the mouthpiece. Yet, they sound nothing like the bass-noise duo, as their sound is more in common with the buzzsaw drone and exuberant flourish of Shield Your Eyes and in small doses, label mates Adebisi Shank.

The opening track on ‘Pttrn Skrs’  is filled with the following: a Morse code-type distress call, glitched bleeping, the rushing of waves that bleed into lumbering drum beats and jarring, swirling out-of-tune guitar crashes that don’t seem to follow any pattern, rhyme or reason. It’s captivating in a strange way; as with The Continuous Battle Of Order, it’s unclear of their goal or even what the next few seconds are going to bring. It’s a bit like staring into the mind of a manical schizophrenic. These are his thoughts – fluxing between hoarse vocal cries, tribal percussion; the de-tuned haze of a sea-fisherman’s radio relaying co-ordinates, trippy passages of drugged guitar chords and mangled rhythms. It then bleeds into some impossibly fast tappy/math rock guitar scrawl that the drums battle valiantly for domination. It’s like listening to OXES played at a faster/wrong speed whilst the shipping forecast is being recited in the background. ‘Pttrn Skrs’ feels incredibly raw; fresh studio jams that lack polish but instead feature that guttural nuance of scrappy discord.

The guitars and irregular drum patterns stumble over each other like two ADD-sufferers trying to complete a three-legged race; particularly on ‘002’, which dips into Don Caballero territory for pretentious sustainable notes and ramshackle percussion. It’s held together with this grunge-edge that grooves and shifts with arrogant assurance and a rumbling bounce. ‘003-1’ starts with a persistent guitar twang, with a woman’s voice reading various numbers like someone feedbacking the lottery result from the 1930s through a cheap transistor. ‘003-2’ is predominantly a stop-gap percussion piece, focusing on tribal drumming, clattering and banging with the only thing missing being a sweet glockenspiel passage.

The soothing wash of the rich guitar plucking on ‘004’ is a stark contrast to the somewhat unpredictable rush of sound that the previous tracks have offered; yet its mesmeric tone is captivating. The subtle fade-in and out offered by this track, not to mention the quiet strings help create a luscious piece of absorbing sound. ‘005’ stutters and staggers with very little control as the duo that make up TCBOO fire out quick bursts of rattled tappy-instrumental melodic rock. They pause periodically to regroup; refocus and twist the track in another direction – by either following the same repetitious chord pattern or completely changing progression all together, diving down another pathway of busy clamour.

The last track begins with a shrill wail from a Theremin, coupled with the fuzzed vocal sample chanting the line ‘WE ARE ALL JUST PATTERN SEEKERS.’ ‘006’ is clearly the heaviest and progressively noisiest track by TCBOO; the rasping burst of the grunge-rock guitar scrawl and irregular drum strikes eventually slips nicely into some spiky, math-rock waves, whilst the unremitting drum roll is furious and encompassing. It ends abruptly with the tapping Morse code as heard at the start of the album.
Some might say that this whole experience cements the feeling that ‘Pttrn Skrs’ is not an album, but merely half-an-hour of varied sounds made by a radio transmitter and an erratic disc jockey. Others, would state it’s the work of two individuals who have gone beyond the realms of structure and focused on making music that excites, confuses and inspires.

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The ‘Pttrn Skrs‘ album launch takes place on the following dates:

16th April – The Quad, Cork, 8pm
17th April – Twisted Pepper, Dublin, 8pm
13th May – Black Box, Belfast, 7pm

The band are also playing Brixton Windmill on the 23rd May with Tweak Bird.

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Links

The Continuous Battle Of Order
The Richter Collective

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By Ross Macdonald

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Let me create a rather daft but truthful metaphor for you: listening to The Display Team is like leaving several attention-deficit disorder kids with a load of art supplies and a big white wall that says “do not touch.” Within seconds you’ve entered a world of garish paint splatters, demented scrawls, bizarre constructs, amusing doodles, eccentric caricatures and the feeling that you’ve just discovered a group of masterminds.

Back to reality: The Display Team are 6 individuals; 2 guitars, 1 bassist, a drummer, a trombonist and a trumpet player who create the kind of batshit insane-musical chaos that will leave you more confused than sitting through both Matrix sequels back-to-back. The underlying style is raucous punk rock that has been shattered with a sledge hammer and scattered with numerous other styles. These range from flamboyant lounge-jazz, to sporadic hardcore, to even a dash of reggae, to ballsy rock ‘n roll and of course, the circus frivolity of ska. However,  it is the vocals that really slap the listener around the face like some enormous metal claw. With all 6 of The Display Team’s personnel contributing their fine sets of lungs to vocal proceedings; many of the tracks on ‘Drones’ are given a strange ‘A cappella’ feel (but of course one accompanied by instruments) or as I like to say, “a punk rock Beach Boys” and to me, it is this that sets them apart from the normality of the current music scene and raises the question: “holy shit, did they just do that?”

It’s that crucial 1-2 punch opener that distinguishes a good album from a superb album; and the Display Team fall heavily into the latter category. The immediate blast of noise that is opening track ‘Worry-Sponge’ is sledgehammer of sound. The crash of guitar chords, mixed with the thunderous drumming and reckless brass is the equivalent of The Display Team chasing you down the street like rage-infected zombies. It gets the adrenalin pumping through your body; your heart racing with unnatural speed as well as the fear of what’s lurking around the corner. What is skulking in the shadows is the ‘two’ punch in the form of ‘Gnaw The Iron Paw’; a snotty barrel roll of disgruntled punk rock, which seems to tell the story of dismantling an old regime to be replaced with another. From one perspective, the talk of ‘tear up the blueprints’ and ‘dismantle everything and start again’ (which is shouted with such jovial glee) is reflective of The Display Team’s music in a way. They are rethinking; reworking music we listen to and are striving to create something that will in their own words, ‘upset the see-saw!’ The fact that it sounds like The Mighty Mighty Bosstones trading song structures and time changes with some math rock band who have decided to start a part-time barbershop quartet just adds to how the rules are transforming.

Third track, ‘Norwegian Honey’ (which details the humorous stalking antics of an obsessive Scandinavian beauty) runs at a completely different pace when compared to the thrashing sounds of the opening salvo. Whilst the jaunt is still there, it staggers drunkenly between exuberant swing music and ‘Rock The Plank’-era Mad Caddies pirate ska. It even manages to shoehorn in some classic rock guitar squeals and short passages of ambient jazz and the odd shot of dancehall for good measure. From this description you may be thinking that it sounds like a jumbled mess of incoherent sounds, but in the hands of The Display Team, it morphs into a whimsical and vibrant shanty.

The freight train barrage soon slides back on to the rails in the form of ‘Check Up (From The Neck Up)’ which seems to tell the story of a deranged lunatic and a cry for said maniac to seek professional help; whilst the band crash their way through 3 minutes of stop-start jagged rock, distorted brass and anthemic backing vocal screams. ‘Body Renting’ treads uneven ground between Patton-style violent mood swings of grimey punk rock, with the multi-vocal attack sounding like a pack of excited monkeys jabbering with malicious intent behind the snapping and sarcastic dual leads.

Whilst ‘Karma’s Gonna Get You (Filthy Scum)’ manages to create a derisive and mocking tone; ‘Pitfalls of Politeness’ takes a trip to the circus via a local jazz recital and a marching band. It sounds like something that should be sound-tracking The Ren and Stimpy show if John Kricfalusi was ever allowed to make and release more episodes. Whilst it starts as something quite innocent (much like the aforementioned Hoek and J Cat described above) it soon descends into rasping depravity in the closing 20 seconds – a moment in music that should most definitely be longer and played at maximum volume.

The swing element returns in the form of ‘A Pathetic Pill’ – the bigger brother track of ‘Norwegian Honey.’ The Display Team’s attempt to stuff as much into this track as possible is staggering – one moment it lurches from drunken Rocket From The Crypt swami-shredding, to 70s swing rock, to bouncing skacore, spread with a thin layer of skiffle and even Sweep The Leg Johnny jazz-noise disorder. Throughout, the vocals bark, scream, shout, harmonise, rap, and screech with sporadic efficiency and barely-stifled humour.

Remember the Jazz Club sketch from The Fast Show? Well ‘Conjunctivitis’ sounds as if it was lifted directly from the end of one of John Thomson’s rambling “nice!” monologues as he turns to introduce the band. It also conjures up images of The 13th Duke of Wymbourne sliding into view, glass of brandy in one hand, cigarette in the other and a sinister look on his moustached face. This would soundtrack his dashing escapades like a bizarre cross between Richard Cheese and NOFX.

‘A Letter To Russia’ closes ‘Drones’ in a bombardment of frantic horn blasts, jagged guitars and Patton-style vocal gurgling. The track focuses on two different points of view – the first being school girl Samantha Smith’s letter to Yuri Andropov (Soviet Communist Secretary) detailing her fear of nuclear war between America and Russia. The second part of the song is Andropov’s reply, telling her not to panic and how his country are trying to prevent conflict between the two powers and his decision to invite Sammy to visit the Soviet Union. Out of the 12 tracks on ‘Drones’, ‘A Letter To Russia’ is easily the best both lyrically and vocally. The decision to touch on such subject matter with a slight tongue-in-cheek approach draws similarities with the lyrical content and style of Keep It Fast favourites, Down I Go. This kind of ‘condensed history report’ in a song is a worthy addition to The Display Team’s arsenal of talent and one they should consider repeating on future releases.

If we look back to the painting analogy for a second; it is clear that ‘Drones’ prints the word ‘FUN’ in massive letters, the size of a Donald Trump skyscraper. I’m going to throw out one of those tired music journalism clichés even though I don’t want to, but the fact is, The Display Team create some of the most unique and interesting music that strictly refuses to be pigeonholed or even stay still for more than a second. ‘Drones’ is an incredible musical journey of revolutionary sounds and is a debut that I imagine all 6 band members loved and I mean, loved making.

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Links

The Display Team Myspace
The Display Team Homepage
Genin Records

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By Ross Macdonald

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Those readers getting excited about finally finding a band that have recorded a concept album about Ted Danson and a group of alcoholic misanthropes should be prepared for bitter disappointment. Whilst the prospect of hearing a load of songs regaling the supposed ‘comedy gold’ of a load of American actors I don’t find funny may appeal to some, I just thank the gods that The Cast Of Cheers reference this show in name alone.
Listening through ‘Chariot’ there are times when you feel you’ve got it nailed on what “their sound is”, only for the next track to bulldoze that constructed idea and begin speedily creating another from the ground up. The Cast Of Cheers flitter between compact passages of twisted instrumental musings; spliced with broken vocal shrieks and a tight dance-punk mentality.

There’s a somewhat techno-blurring of sound on opening track ‘Goose’; which is content to splice a straight forward indie-rock tune, with glitching vocal stutters, deep basslines and robotic drum patterns. The complexity lies somewhere in the structure created by the guitars, which weave between part math-rock and part pop at a relentless pace. ‘I Am Lion’ shares similarities with ‘Goose’ to begin with, but starts to crack out of that template. The scribbled background guitar howls that meld beautifully with the heavy bass lead give the track a weird ethereal quality; whilst the tight percussion gives a nod towards spasmodic bounce of ‘Atlas’ by Battles.

Obviously, having contacts with the record label The Richter Collective, means The Cast Of Cheers are given scope and retain a certain sound from their experiences and relationships with other bands on that label. These will of course have some influence on their sound as it bleeds through, changing and expanding a band’s sound and developing new pathways. Third track ‘Tip The Can’ contains obvious elements of the prog-math-punk-chaos that is Adebisi Shank; it’s a heavy nod towards the driving pace of their track ‘Minirockers’. The guitars take on that rolling keyboard-yowl of being half-mangled, yet still perfectly composed and in tune, whilst the drumming kicks into a more sporadic gear. The vocals appear softer; more soothing – but still slightly distorted and incredibly sincere as opposed to their usual bark. Excellent use of backing vocal stutters, which sound like some peculiar mystical chant gone wrong. A wonderful piece and most definitely one of the stand-out tracks on this release.

The technical wizardry of The Cast Of Cheers’ guitarists is exemplified on ‘Auricom’; a track that not only contains the scream of ‘I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING DEPUTY’ but some incredibly strange jazz-meets-computer game blips and bleeps and see-sawing rhythms. It’s like trying to condense and then interpret Tron into 3 and a half minutes of music. The Rob Schneider-approved 5th track ‘Derp’ incorporates club land drum beats with a throaty bass heave and tappy, yet elaborate flourishes of bouncing noise-pop. ‘Strangers’ kind of stumbles slightly – being the token slower track it feels a bit lost, but the intricacies make up for this as it’s soft, dream-like nature is a soothing calm against the exhilarating rush of the previous raucousness.

The ‘screaming through a load of radio static’ vocal technique is once again applied on ‘Tigerfox’ as the yell of  “Is there any fucking love in here?” is halfway between the recording of a drunken answer phone message and passionate plea for adoration. The atmospheric shrillness of the closing minute mixes nicely with the prog-based rhythmic build before cutting off with sudden abruptness. Despite the jaunty bounce of ‘Autoshottie’, its lyrics are somewhat miserable and bizarre. The shout of “Crooked vampire! Super James Dean!” fools the listener into thinking it’s yet another lyrical non-sequitur of nonsense shouts. However, what follows touches on a darker aspect: “I am alone here….autoshottie….I have lost, everybody…I feel nothing….autoshottie” – it’s all in the delivery – this dark, dejected, almost suicidal tone that is in stark contrast to the upbeat nature of the music.

‘Deceptapunk’ is a disjointed piece, favouring dense instrumental passages of sound, interspersed with ghostly vocal whispers and soft electronic fades that seem grounded in the 80s. The final track, ‘Glitter’ starts with a jaunty circus-style stomp, before leading into a scuzzy bass line and those barbed vocals that seem to hiss and spit every word with Alan-Rickman-esque distaste. The luscious swirl of noise that follows is pitched in post-rock territory, oddly complimenting the tappy-prog of the tracks stammering build.

‘Chariot’ is intelligent, direct, impressively tight and concise dance-punk that embraces a hopeful pop edge into its noisy prog-rock inventiveness. Fans of Adebisi Shank, Battles, Errors, dancing like you’ve been electrocuted need apply straight away; The Cast Of Cheers could be one of the best kept secrets of the musical underground. Make sure you know their name.
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Links

The Cast Of Cheers
The Cast Of Cheers Band Camp

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By Ross Macdonald

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On ‘Barriers’, A Torn Mind are unsure as to what they want to be in life. They’re a shapeshifter, constantly morphing their sound into new and intricate ways, never staying in one form for more than a minute, before erupting into something even more ostentatious and vibrant. In many ways, this could be a turn off – it could be argued they’re not giving enough time to adapt and work on a specific style, preferring to favour the jack of all trades, master of none philosophy. Let’s take a listen…

Opening track ‘Sixes and Sevens’ is so pompous and overblown you can imagine a fat man gyrating to it whilst stuffing himself at an all you can eat seafood restaurant. The guitars whine with complex precision, falling over each other in casting out the sprawling scatter of notes, whilst the drums roll and pound keeping a steady, heavy beat. Suddenly it begins to glitch and shudder; abruptly stopping and force-feeding the slightly hurried, yet overtly keen vocals into the mix. It changes from a quite heavy intro, into a somewhat cheesy, pop-rock bounce, led by 80s-sounding keyboard blasts and overlapping vocal-effects, not to mention the brief inclusion of a brass section. The soft jazz interlude they shoehorn in divides the track nicely; even if it has a ‘sounds like it should be played in some late night Channel 5 erotica’ (not that I’d know – ahem.) The last half of ‘Sixes and Sevens’ isn’t quite up to the sporadic opening the track promised, but ends in suitable grandeur; with ringing key-shrieks, offset by rambling drums and the fragile, yet gradually-strengthening vocals.

‘Edge of the World’ is like listening to a slower version ‘Pretty Hate Machine’ era Nine Inch Nails without Reznor’s trademark bark and swapping the industrial hammer pound of the techno-influenced drums for a more standard, metallic approach. It also has a lot in common with Coheed and Cambria – the strange mix of prog-elements and light, pop-rock with synthesised passages give a nod towards the big-haired prog-punkers. It’s almost smothering – technically impressive, layered, twisting rock that splices the roaring, chug of the guitar and bass alongside the weighty and intense keyboards which dominate this track with a striking, yet imposing mood. In fact, remember the old Transformers movie? The one with Orson Welles as Unicron (big fuck-off planet) and some of the most comedy dialogue ever? Well this tune could replace any of the ones created by Stan Bush and no-one would bat an eyelid.

‘Titans’ counterbalances the extravagant and flamboyant eruption caused by ‘Edge of the World’ and adopts and more melodic and structured path. It is in this instance where the vocals fit and sound at their strongest. On the more brasher sounding parts of ‘Barriers’ the voice seems a tad weak and constantly battling for attention; like a cat and a dog balancing on a ball in a vain attempt to distract their owners away from the elephant their son won on a radio show. They soar, if that’s the right expression, on this wave created by the swirling 70s-style guitar drone and the chattering bass groove. At just over the 4 minute mark, ‘Titans’ jerks and twitches from the Jekyll character of calm to the Hyde character of callousness, but again switches back to the melodic route, as if suppressing this sudden fracture in their structure.

Whilst ‘Impurity’ starts off as quite a ominous track, it feels a bit weighed down and scrambles to even hold your attention, which is a shame for a piece of music that started off quite promising. However, it gains momentum and surges into life with a demented piece of jazz-noise-punk scrawl as the saxophone takes control, giving a nod towards Sweep The Leg Johnny-style chaotic fury. The dual-chanting vocals, scattered saxophone parps that swerve in and out give ‘Impurity’ that adrenalin boost and it soon becomes this rising tidal wave of squealing, reverb and overblown, yet structured noise that froths with a sinister urgency.

A Torn Mind must be closet Boston fans. It seems strange that they would mention the likes of Genesis and Pink Floyd, yet fail to mention the Tom Scholz led seventies rockers in their long list of influences. What I’m referring to is the similarities between the beginning of their track ‘Vita’ and Boston’s ‘Foreplay‘. It’s a frenzied rush of synthesised notes with only the hard edged stop-start drum pattern adding variation. This introduction feels more like a dedication than anything else, juxtaposing that familiar opening outbreak with their own soaring beats. The lead riff is a joyous sound, a stark change from the disturbing elements heard on ‘Impurity.’ This closing track is a strange one and a perfect example of the schizophrenic nature A Torn Mind have when it comes to song writing. One minute it hits the high notes with the fist in the air, windswept cry to the heavens of anthemic stadium prog-rock self-pleasure; then it deviates to erratic Dillinger Escape Plan-esque guitar shredding, sounding more like a pissed off hardcore band trying to break through. Praise has to be directed towards the excellent use of samples; which appear in the form of excerpts from speeches, particularly one made by Evangelist, Voddie Baucham who is an advocate of God reigning down fire and brimstone on unbelievers, questioning why the lord delays this outcome. It’s possibly one of the best use of spoken-word samples I’ve heard in a long time that perfectly suits the music it’s accompanying. This image of a man screaming to the heavens for the wrath of almighty God to descend down on the sinners is supported by this surging and menacing rush created by A Torn Mind. It’s creepy how well the two compliment each other – you can almost imagine the untold destruction as Baucham implores these terrible events over the crescendo of sound.

For a first release, this is brimming with promise and passion. Through this 5 track, 40 minute juggernaut the different musical directions have been sliced up and scattered throughout, giving a heady mix of what A Torn Mind’s music has to offer. This of course, gives it an unsteady foothold, but those willing to preserve will take to the sudden changes and variations and witness a real talent that isn’t afraid of experimentation.

‘Barriers‘ can be pre-ordered from the band’s myspace here and their EP launch takes place at Sneaky Pete’s in Edinburgh (sold out, so you might need to blag your way in.)

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Links

A Torn Myspace

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By Ross Macdonald

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Marvin. Sounds like the name of the poor bastard bully-magnet at school. You know the one – he carried a briefcase, had sellotaped glasses, smelt of cheese crisps and was head of the science club. Alternatively he could be a Martian who has an intense dislike for a furry carrot-munching mammal. I suppose though picking a geeky, possibly unlikeable-sounding name works. Look at the Melvins – named after some dude who Buzz Osbourne used to work with and hated with a fiery passion and they’re one of the most almost grunge-metal-what-the-fuck bands in the world!

Marvins Revolt seems an unusual choice of signing for the Richter Collective – an Irish record label that has provided the deranged ‘spaceship-being destroyed’ splatter-rock of Adebisi Shank and the dance-punk/monster obsessed ramblings of BATS and the rough-shuddering stomp of Hands Up Who Wants To Die. However, there’s nothing like a smattering of diversity in the ranks to escape the notion that your label only caters in mangling eardrums and Marvins Revolt add just that. Originally the band (then a four-piece) catered a more noise-rock approach. However, 2 albums down the line and a member down, they now focus their energies in a different musical direction. Whilst their previous material may have more to my tastes, the songs on ‘Patrolling The Heights’ tap into that softer side of my psyche that favours the more melodramatic side of rock, that focuses on layered instrument-progression, haunting vocals and rich drum textures.

Opening track, ‘Siberian Outer Boundries’ blends the atmospheric wash of a lone man, pouring his heart out in deserted church; his voice bouncing off the hard stone walls, whilst the passive guitar strumming supports his hushed tones perfectly. It morphs swiftly into second track ‘Siberia’ under this mellow haze, before kicking into a simple, yet strong drum march, that builds on a deliberate, pounding rhythm of stomping feet. The guitarist deviates from intriguing time signatures, to standard indie-rock strumming at each drum roll and pause, building on a more progressive and slightly-heavier nature as the track comes to a conclusion. The vocals rise and soar with youthful eloquence and the accompanying synthesised backing is a delight.

The juddering build of guitars on ‘Antique Markers’ gives a rough, punk-influenced edge, that dissipates beneath the soothing flow of those haunting vocals and jerky drum beats. There’s a distinct fuzz of washed-out noise pop within their somewhat erratic sound that holds everything together, like parcel tape. ‘Patrolling The Heights’ has that feeling of a gentle mish-mash of styles and influences, all making themselves know in a rather timid way, that gradually builds in confidence, before departing without over-staying their welcome. ‘Organize Your Arms’ is perhaps a perfect example of this. One minute it’s all angular spikes of indie rock blades; the next it’s bouncing along with a distinct Beach Boys-summers-day vibe of plinking keyboards, exuberant high-fives and gang vocal choruses.

‘Doctors, Hospitals’ sounds like something that should be sound-tracking the next eccentric, indie-film by Wes Anderson, or Juno 2, with its gentle, rising introduction, twee-pop guitar-twangs, vocal harmonies that eventually flow into the rushed, yet luscious musical dexterity of spiralling heavy guitar rock and throbbing drum hits. However, it’s the kind of ramshackle ambitious attempts such as ‘Like Wires’ with its mellow string postscript and sweeping grace that really make Marvins Revolt stand out.

It’s difficult to find any fault musically – despite some parts feeling scattered; they tie nicely together through an excellent build up of well constructed tunes and arrangements. The vocal-tone seems incredibly young and earnest, as though they’re desperate to please, but passionate, with this eager sense of self belief and optimism. Well worth investigating.

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Links

Marvins Revolt
Label

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By Ross Macdonald