The Ovaltinees - "Race And Nation" CD 1982-1983 (2003)

DON'T TRIP (you'll trip)...I just think they were a catchy crap-punk band, snagging my ears because of their profound simplicity and ghetto-ugly sound. I have trouble placing them in the traditional Oi category, as they were nowhere near talented enough to play even that. Fun for fans of one-chord music, with the nationalist messages easily ignored because that's what normal people do. I don't think I'll ever understand their name, but I do understand the best song they ever did was "British Justice". Download them, I won't tell...unless you fuck up.

Late P.S.: One of the overseas homies filled me in on their name. They...they seriously...liked Ovaltine. Something else about a marching song is mixed up in this too, but...OVALTINE?!


Voco Protesta - "Vojo Al Libereco" 12" 2009

I love basic midpace discore. Minimalism at it's maximum has always fascinated me, so if it's played and produced like Doom's Peel Sessions or E.N.T.'s solo debut, I'm down (and if it's simpler, I just limbo lower!). Japan's Voco Protesta traces these templates smoothly enough, with a tighter spiritual focus on this 12" than any of their other efforts, pre or post. There's a glaze of intimidating braindrill as always, but it never overtakes the live-ish mix. The band continues to say fuck you to everybody's racism and still sings in Esperanto. It's not a mindblowing record or even saying anything unique, but it's solid and familiar in warm instead of lazy ways. Sometimes that's all it takes to earn a "classic" respect from me.

P.S.: Actually, the closing title track is mindblowing.

Gauze - "Go Back And Wash Your Face" CD 1997 (Fresh Rip @ 320)

One of the "most hardcore" records ever made. I personally rank this highly (#1) not only in Gauze's canon, but in Top 5 debates of "best hardcore LPs ever". If Gauze really isn't the best, there's still no comparing them to any other band on the planet. Here, their 4th album in what was then 16 years of existence, intentionally dry production maximizes the listener's focus solely on each song's supernova E-N-E-R-G-Y! I don't agree with their mystical status (they're just niggaz yo), but with music performed with such burning fury you psychosomatically feel the strain of their muscles and brine of their sweat in every beat and note, there's a fairly good argument to be had for why fanboys pop their puckers on Gauze's schlong. Unbelievably shocking H-A-T-E-R nihil-lyrics too...when you can find translations.







MRR 1997...

 

Mr. Bungle - Rough Mix of Debut '91 & Live Hamburg 2-14-92

The confusion the rough mix (more like raw sessions) causes is actually insight into the autistic writing process that originally gained the group's deep cross-scene admiration. In short, they freeformed the entire LP then sutured the disparate pieces back together, thus forming the classic track listing. I'm sure they had rough structural ideas in mind, but many sections are completely different pieces if not entirely new and unheard songs. Even the tracks that are most recognizable to the released versions are still constructed of alternate takes, alternate riffs, alternate samples, alternate vocals, alternate everything, bearing only the mushiest semblance to the final pressed product. It's easy to see why John Zorn was picked to produce, as his master's hand would be needed for a band whose creative process was as eclectic and electric as his own. Tracks 12 and 13 skip really bad due to the age of the disc and apathetically allowing it's physical deterioration (an early cdr trade of mine when that became a thing instead of tapes), but I still left them in for completism. The German live performance is a very good audience recording, and is just as compositionally unfamiliar and surprising as the rough mix.

The Mad - "We Love Noize!" CD 1999

O.G. ('78) KBD horror-artpunk fronted by makeup f/x guru Screaming Mad George. Grand Guignol live shows, twangy energetic distortion, sizzly synchronizing drums, enthusiastic doodly bass, frenetic screeching sax, and George's meltdown shrieks jam-kick your brain with memories that punk started as a vehicle for the rawest artistic passions (no matter how esoteric) and not a default genre for extreme agendas. Refreshing isn't a strong enough word when listening to The Mad these post-hate days, so I'm honestly hoping they provide your own mind with an ultra deep douching as well. Absolutely everything the band ever studio recorded, and the CBGB's live show too!

Warcry (Paul Speckmann) - "Trilogy Of Terror" Demo '83 & "Possession" Demo '84

Orale ROCKenheimers! Speckmann's first bass gig (as a cog and not the MASTER!) kickin' out pure heavy metal with grit and searing tone. Speckmann bailed after the first demo to form "a thrash band", so the remaining members soldiered on with a harder rock goosestep and melodic vocal change. Guise, I'm not even being facetious, with Speckmann's departure they stylistically flourished playing surprisingly memorable KNAC-core. Fave track: In For The Kill



Senseless Apocalypse - Demo, Live, and Cunt Decide (1993)

Japan's answer to...nothing...they were just a refreshing sound in grind's already dying sub-scene of noisecore (a genre of extremity birthed by hardcore but babynapped by chaos-punks). Scaling back sonic excess for their vinyl splits, they were then lionized as uncanny clones of S.O.B.'s original fastcore style. My contrarian mind...agrees, with the "musical" change already foreshadowed within a couple of the pure noisecore trax. In general, It's all screaming and spazzing with an unusually high degree of seriousness and production value their shitblurr influences were too marginal to ever fuck with. Because I don't (necessarily) hate you, you get the debut demo in wav, live mp3, and pre-band Cunt Decide in mp3, with tolerable scans of the covers and a hi-res cleanse of the MRR interview.

Punk Rock Is Bullshit - How a toxic social movement poisoned our culture (by John Roderick, originally published in the Seattle Weekly News, March 6th 2013)

For those of us who grew up in the shadow of the baby boom, force-fed the misremembered vainglory of Woodstock long after most hippies had become coked-out, craven yuppies on their way to becoming paranoid neo-cons, punk rock provided a corrective dose of hard truth. Punk was ugly and ugly was true, no matter how many new choruses the boomers added to their song of self-praise. It was this perceived honesty that we, the nascent Generation X, feared and worshipped. But over time punk swelled into a Stalinistic doctrine of self-denial that stunted us. The yuppies kept sucking, but by clinging to punk we started to suck too.

I have friends in their mid-40s who don’t even have a savings account because “saving money” never seemed punk rock. I can’t count the number of small businesses I’ve seen fail because worrying about inventory or actually charging customers didn’t seem very punk rock. I was once chastised for playing at a private Microsoft function by a guy who worked there, so disappointed was he that I would sell out by playing a corporate gig.

Punk taught us to rebel against authority until “authority” included everything: piano lessons, fire insurance, leather shoes, and, ultimately, growing up. Punk taught us to have contempt for every institution, except Fugazi, until contempt and suspicion were the first and only reactions we had to everything. Good news was embarrassing, success was shameful, and a happy childhood an unthinkable transgression. These personality disorders were just punk in practice. It’s time we stopped disavowing happiness and measured pride, we punk survivors, wrapping ourselves in itchy thrift-store horse blankets thinking that only discomfort is honest. It’s time we stopped hating ourselves, our ambition, and our sincerity, guarding our integrity credentials in fear of interrogation by the secret punk police. It’s time to unmask punk rock, admit that it has done us no favors, and banish it from our minds. There is no one waiting for us at the gates of heaven with a big book of punk, ready to judge our souls and validate our credibility. Punk rock is bullshit, and was always bullshit. Say it with me.

I’m not talking about punk-rock music, because I don’t believe there is such a thing. Punk music is just rock music, and the best punk is halfway decent rock. Punk rock was nothing new in 1976, and it’s nothing new today. The Beatles’ cover of “Roll Over Beethoven” is more punk than 90 percent of all punk rock; the Ramones were way more conservative—musically and socially—than Sha Na Na; the Sex Pistols were just dumb David Bowie; The Clash was a world-music band and the direct antecedent of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. If anything, the mantle of “punk rock” was an umbrella to describe a reactionary retro-ness, a feeling that music was best played with old-fashioned dumb energy, simple to the point of being simplistic—which not coincidentally corresponded to the period of the widest proliferation of recreational drug use in world history. It was music to validate being too wasted to think.

What I’m talking about is “punk rock” as a political stance, punk rock as a social movement, punk rock as a fashion trend, punk rock as a personal lifestyle brand, and punk rock as a lens of critical appraisal. The shadow of punk rock has eclipsed countless new dawns under its fundamental negativity and its lazy equation of rejection with action.

What started out as teenage piss-taking at baby-boomer onanism quickly morphed into a humorless doctrine characterized by acute self-consciousness and boring conformism. We internalized its laundry list of pseudo-values—anti-establishmentarianism, anti-capitalism, libertarianism, anti-intellectualism, and self-abnegation disguised as humility—until we became merciless captors of our own lightheartedness, prisoners in a Panopticon who no longer needed a fence. After almost four decades of gorging on punk fashion, music, art, and attitude, we still grant it permanent “outsider” status. Its tired tropes and worn-out clichés are still celebrated as edgy and anti-authoritarian, above reproach and beyond criticism. Punk-rock culture is the ultimate slow-acting venom, dulling our expectations by narrowing the aperture of “cool” and neutering our taste by sneering at new flavors until every expression of actual individualism is corralled and expunged in favor of group-think conformity.

Punk-founded doubt and fear has directly spawned the cowardly culture of modern irony. Fear of being called out or targeted for enjoying art that doesn’t meet the stringent criteria of punkness—a criteria too ineffable to codify, but pernicious and deadly to underestimate—has given us no outlet for the vagaries of our taste but to claim that we enjoy the things we love only out of mocking disdain for the awfulness we pre-emptively ascribe to them. The very act of loving something ironically is an admission that punk-rock groupthink has denied us our own will. Scorn has become the ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail, distancing us from joy to the point that our souls rebel. Punk has encouraged us to hate innocence until the only entertainments we can appreciate are the fake epiphanies of celebrity weight-loss porn and cynical folk-revival banjo music that borders on thoughtcrime.

Whenever I say publicly that punk rock is bullshit, I get two types of response. The first is the predictable sneer: “That’s the point!” “Punk rock knows it’s stupid, it’s trying to be stupid, it’s always been stupid.” “Punk is flaming dogshit in a bag!” This mentality accounts for the way punk rock infected us like an Andromeda strain, how it can simultaneously be an industry of cheap, mass-produced mall fashion for suburban “rebel” teen-moms and the governing aesthetic of the smartest middle-aged critics and most discerning skinny-pants fans of music and culture. We are in thrall to a fallacy of irrefutably circular logic: Punk rock only seems like a garbled, negative, ignorant, half-witted worldview because it’s actually an intentional indictment of a garbled, negative, ignorant, half-witted world.

This incredibly persuasive rationalization has proved difficult to unlearn, but it is demonstrably false. What has punk rock done for us? Did it defeat Reaganism and Thatcherism and end the Cold War? Has it brought us social justice? Did it smash the state, prevent in any way the 12 years of the Imperial Bush dynasty, galvanize youth, subvert the dominant paradigm, or for one minute prevent the total commercialization of culture and the chemical digitalization of music that happened under its watch? Did it even produce good art beyond a few unintentionally hilarious ’zines and the first-rate performance art of Courtney Love’s 25-year disintegration into a caricature of the exact kind of drug-addled, silicon- and Botox-enhanced, vacuous and babbling rich housewife that riot grrrls hated most? No. Unequivocally no.

In retrospect, it’s hilarious to try to tie the stoned, self-absorbed incomprehension of the world that characterized the dawn of punk to some larger narrative of a self-aware political art movement with an objective and a plan. Picture an 18-year-old Siouxsie Sioux in a topless Gestapo uniform festooned with swastikas, spitting at bands as a form of applause and compulsively posing for cameras. That’s as much sense as punk ever made, as intelligible as the message ever was, and all the academic bullshit that followed asserting that punk was a brilliant critique of itself was retroactive gibberish. To the degree that punk has a governing philosophy, it’s a fundamentally negative one.

Punk only tells us what it hates. It has never stood for anything; it stands against things. It is not an intentional indictment; it is a reactionary spasm.

The positive things that transpired in the culture of the past 40 years happened in spite of punk, not because of it. Punk didn’t end racism, sexism, or homophobia; it didn’t stop factory farming, the New World Order, or the massive success of Creed. It did not inconvenience a single one of its stated adversaries despite being on the front lines of everywhere. Needless to say, nor did it bring about “Anarchy,” thank God.

People love to cite DIY as an example of punk philosophy in practice, but DIY is just a standard business model. It’s the primitive form of capitalism that every new business adopts. Punk didn’t invent DIY, it’s just too stupid and spoiled to realize that doing it yourself isn’t an innovation. The early punk pioneers now congratulate themselves endlessly in documentary after documentary (all with Flea and Dave Grohl providing color commentary) for having done it themselves. They did it themselves—just like every vacuum-cleaner salesman, Mary Kay cosmetics franchisee, landscaper, Mormon missionary, and Tupperware salesperson. DIY is punk rock’s signature achievement, its “man on the moon,” and it’s a mundane capitalist practice shared by every single new business since forever. It’s how Nike started. It’s how Amazon started.

The second response I get when I say punk rock is bullshit is the heartfelt “Punk rock saved my life.” This response is touching and emotional—and the hardest to refute, because former punk kids tie every positive aspect of their present lives to their punk identities. My generation is full of lost children, most of them now in their 40s and 50s, who were presumably living hellish suburban lives hearing their drunk parents fight through the wall, huffing Revell modeling glue and listening to Genesis 8-tracks until punk rock arrived to rescue them from their mullet-wearing, Camaro-driving futures. They are all Huck Finns. Punk rock is their raft and their friend Jim.

Admittedly, punk rock was a club that accepted all the misfits. It channeled adolescent anger and frustration into positive and inclusive feelings of belonging. This is not an insignificant achievement. Punk rock was an island of lost toys, a fantasy world where the kids made the rules and the hateful, hurtful world of drunk dads, preps, jocks, feathered-hair girls in Aerosmith baseball Ts, meathead campus police, racist cowboys, and flat-topped Korean War vets was overturned. It was a wonderful kind of sleep-away camp where the counselors and campers were all the same, huddled around a fire in the basement of an abandoned Catholic school telling ghost stories about the time Rod Stewart had his stomach pumped and imagining a future without “The Man” that looked like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.

But the fact that the teachers and the students were all the same quickly produced a world where dumbasses were teaching dumbasses. Punk explained that we’d always hated the Eagles and Electric Light Orchestra and Genesis, we just hadn’t realized it. Punk made us feel that not caring was noble, that not understanding something was proof of intelligence. Punk was in favor of whatever you wanted and against everything that bugged you or got you down. Like a Libertarian Party for children, punk offered a nonsensical worldview that clarified the invisible underlying order. All the vicissitudes of teenage life were soothed by this feeling of acceptance, and all the credit of growing up and learning how to cope was awarded not to the normal progression of life, but to the enveloping family of punk. It worked, as long as you believed in it.

I remember those years well, back when punks and gays and artists and modern primitives and hippies and kooks and Rush fans were all part of one big unwashed underground. The game was rigged so that only rich blonde preps could ever be truly happy, while the rest of us worked three jobs, still couldn’t pay the heating bill, got glared at by cops, and traded a smoke for a food-stamp dollar. We banded together—huddled, more like—convinced that the world of normals was a club we’d never join.

Punk rock seemed really intellectual then: a pinch of pseudo-Marxism, some nuclear-disarmament talk, sarcastic German army iconography that maybe wasn’t entirely sarcastic, and equal parts sophomoric Ayn Rand worship masquerading as anarchism and a hodgepodge of leftist-radical catchphrases under the banner of global revolution. It was a clearinghouse of ideas, with no connective tissue or overarching worldview beyond fighting the existing order, and it was powered primarily by Cold War paranoia that the gray men in their gray suits were on a suicide mission to get rich by immolating the Third World in a mushroom cloud of mutually assured destruction. The cartoon image of Reagan with dollar signs for eyes and ICBMs for teeth, his finger on the red button, silenced all counterargument.

The Cold War made strange bedfellows of a lot of outsider cultures. Oblivious to contradiction, punkers rooted for the Sandinistas, the Red Brigade, and the Mujahideen; they shelved RE/Search volumes between Mein Kampf and books about Gein and Gacy; they protested militarism in fatigues, PLO scarves, and Che Guevara T-shirts. When the Cold War ended and the Gay/Art/Punk/Hippie/Rush Fan coalition disbanded, the idea of punk rock as a political resistance movement gradually dissolved in the smoke of a million bongs. The Reaganites were patting themselves on the back for having defeated the Evil Empire and the Clinton/Blair axis was humping bags of money; there wasn’t really a case to be made that Jello Biafra or Henry Rollins played much of a role in the transition. Punk rock as a rebellious political and social movement seemed to be withering on the vine.

Then Seattle got into the act.

You have to remember that Seattle was a dismal little shithole back then. The whole city suffered from the pimple-faced inferiority complex of an untalented kid making a lopsided pencil holder in woodshop. There was no Microsoft money, no Starbucksian gentrification, no post-grunge feelings of cultural inevitability—only the low-tide stench of marine oil and clams and the calcified class system of a small Western city built on lumber, Alaskan gold, and B-17s. Punk rock made sense here: an ideology that celebrated stupidity met by a landscape of soggy borderland numbskulls. The end of the Cold War had just eliminated all the political rhetoric that no one had understood anyway, making way for the fundamental Northwest innovation of uniting metalheads, private-school jocks, and feminist-theory majors in a shared love of Schmidt beer and weed. The evil forces of government, the geo-political machinations of diplomats, and the avaricious capitalistic omnipresence that is America’s true religion all seemed so removed, so outside the apprehension or effective range of these latchkey kids still naming their bands “Fart Butt” and “Barf Scarf.” On the verge of dying out, punk found a new host.

Self-indulgent screaming and narcissistically purposeful out-of-tuneness seemed like dangerous political statements to kids still experimenting with clove cigarettes in the parking lot of Skoochies and The Monastery. Seattle and Portland were so far away from places where actual culture was being produced that messages from outside came through only sporadically, like shortwave reception in Antarctica. Northwest punk bands reveled in intentional awfulness, too unsophisticated to realize that their rebellion was the most tedious brand of art-school preciousness and spoiled-kid-who-doesn’t-want-to-practice-his-instrument crybabyism. The idea that poor kids from Kitsap County, like their heroes from Southern California and northern England, were somehow immune from being pretentious by virtue of their underclass nobility was a cultural lie that had run its course elsewhere, but we never saw the second half of the telegram here. It took us another 20 years to learn that being poor and ignorant doesn’t mean you can’t also be spoiled.

Punk rock’s anti-everything stance turned inward and personal in the Northwest. Punk became the distillation of what it was all along: a cliquish approach to a confusing world, where things were either in or out, cool or not, punk or unpunk. To be deemed insufficiently hardcore was a sweeping denunciation. The authority of the underground was paramount in the eyes of this generation of “Ave Rats” with ruined confidence, crushed by absentee parents and psychobabbling guidance counselors. There was really nothing to look forward to here, no topless Siouxsie Sioux, no Dogtown and Z-Boys, just moldy animal beer in a U District basement—maybe a bachelor’s degree in textile arts from Evergreen State.

The presumption of my generation—a presumption that spread around the world to a willing audience of disaffected suburbanites looking for an edgy trend, then passed down to the generation of emasculated indie rockers who followed—was that a punk-rock attitude kept us honest in a world made of lies. The word “integrity” became like a sacrament. Hating dishonest things was our creed, and since everything was a lie, hate was the only emotion we could express. No person or thing was so politically perfect that a flaw couldn’t be probed. The truth is, if there really was an Illuminati bent on controlling the world through a secret government, they couldn’t have done a better job of defanging the youth movement than by introducing the self-negating, life-consuming, ignorance-propagating, lethargy-celebrating, divisive and controlling, fashion-based ideology of punk rock into the mainstream. It was basically the crack epidemic of rock culture.

Seattle bands—even as the world flocked to laud them, shower them with untold wealth and influence, and anoint them as keepers of a hallowed flame—almost universally rejected the opportunity to celebrate and rejoice at their good fortune out of a fear of what Calvin Johnson might think. Every iconic star, with the possible exception of a baby-oiled Chris Cornell, renounced not only his success but the opportunity to say anything remotely intelligible to a world that hung on their every word, all out of a fear of being perceived as “un-punk” by an imaginary tribunal that sat in judgment somewhere in Tumwater. They blew it, massively.

Then the indie rockers came along, as much in thrall to punk-rock culture as the grungers before them. The era of twee undersinging and clean, complicated, plinky guitars was an expression of the belief that even loudness and energy were egotistical excesses. Indie bands applied punk-rock principles to their music and culture to the point that Laotian monks were probably living more luxurious lives. Bands refused to do interviews, have their pictures taken, publish their lyrics, or in any way risk the chance that someone might accuse them of “wanting” fame or success. The path to indie greatness was to appear to loathe any but your oldest and purest fans, to blush and whimper at praise, to stand to the side of the stage or in the dark, back to the audience, renouncing attention. The desire to project egolessness was ultimately a pathology of complete self-absorption. Both Radiohead and Wilco endured the production of feature-length documentaries about themselves in which the sole discernible narrative was “We hate being looked at, leave us alone.” Indie rock spent 15 years eating itself alive with snide fear, clinging to a punk-rock code of ethics that benefited no one in service of nothing. It was a colossal waste of time and creative energy, it was fundamentally boring, and it literally killed people.

Ultimately, punk rock was a disease of the soul, a doctrine of projecting and amplifying feelings of insecurity and fear outward and inward until the whole world seemed like an ice cave. It wasn’t necessary to judge every new piece of art against unwinnable criteria, or ourselves against imaginary standards of altruistic correctness. It wasn’t preordained that fun, lighthearted inspiration was shallow or contemptible; nor was it true that everything sucked, that life sucked, or that the world sucked. Successful art isn’t always garbage, and lazy, shitty art isn’t always teaching us something. Why celebrate whiny millionaires and indie-snob Robespierres?

I watch kids today make music and art that’s smart and clever, with no hard lessons or Marxist undertones attached, and think: Can we finally admit to ourselves that punk rock was always bullshit, that it gave us nothing but heartache? Can we let it go?

Shut it down. Kill the lights. It sucked. It sucked, but now it can be over.

Winter - Live 7-21-89 + Re-EQ

For a band that claimed sole influence from 80's stenchcore, they sure became a patron saint to the doom scene (they're essentially Jesus Christ). This particular show sounds like it was originally captured with good audience clarity, but by the time I homie hopped it in the early 2000s, it had been passed around the dub-orgy enough to acquire thick tape hiss and other bummer artifacts. So I reinserted my fingers in it's sloppy ol' mess and re-eq'd my own version in addition to the original files. Anyway, Winter was nuclear winter dreary, snails on shatter slow, monolithically heavy, and tits. MEGATITS!

Sairaus - "A Siege Of Sickness" Demo Tape & "A Sickness Called God" 2xCredit Card CDR 2010

Finnish in name only, and musically a nod to "Burning Spirits" melodramatic song structures, this very short lived side project featuring half of Kontraattaque and Cthuwulf should have been headlining local shows. I'm unsure why Sairaus/Disease disbanded so quickly, though guitarist Dirk also wanted to focus on the simple fastcore of his other band I'm Diet (as in the Japanese legislative branch, the "dee-it"). The best song on both demos is still "Who Protects Me From You?"

Dirk died on Inauguration Day from a textbook freak accident. All he did was bump his head, literally that was it, had a seizure and dropped dead. The guy was completely sXe, avoided drama like the plague, and in my scant dealings with him over the decades he was ALWAYS friendly and cordial. He nerded hard at a Total Fury gig when he saw Max Ward give me my artist's copies of the Protes Bengt LP. I only asked for 6 bucks from him, and if I wasn't an alcoholic at the time I would have just given him one. He also wore my art and kept the shirts in immaculate condition. I wasn't bestys with him, but it's so melancholy in general the memories that come flooding back when one hears of a "scene death".

Rapt - "Mind Your Head" CD 2004 ('84-'86)

Listening to Rapt ("Abduction") is like getting slapped with obese fish by Mick Harris at full blast. "French Larm" is the easiest answer, though Rapt's walls of noise erupt more violently, are of prolonged duration, and possess a characteristic "blubbery" feel to the productions not always inherent to the recording methods. If Larm affirmed optimism in their rage against the machine, Rapt affirmed pessimism at it's iciest. Complete collection of all known recordings (31 tracks in 38 minutes!) spanning demo/reh/live/comp and the aborted 12", 1984 to 1986. 

Method Of Destruction - "U.S.A. For M.O.D." LP 1987 (CD Rip)

Sometimes ya gotta listen to retarded shit. I fuckin' LOVED this record when "it first came out". It was moshier than S.O.D. and just as offensive...but more roughly played by ne'er-do-wells in flipped up No Mercy caps instead of pizza thrash party heshers. I was crybating to Napalm Death a year later, but I can't deny that M.O.D.'s debut was a twisted bridge between metal and hardcore for me (if only in finally parsing the punk out of the metal of crossover). If you're down with major label sexism, racism, homophobia, and fat shaming set to short-ish, sometimes fast-ish, but always loud songs, then take my hand (tightly!) as we board the Trump Train to auditory elysium!

http://www.mediafire.com/file/9z261f5520aybf7/MOD_-_USA...zip

Attitude Adjustment - "No More Mr. Nice Guy" 12" 1988 (CD Rip)

I dunno why this mini-LP gets crapped on...it's faster, simpler, and thrashier than American Paranoia, with a more powerful but still underground production. The overdriven guitar tone is the most noticeable change, but that's an improvement too. The record's abbreviated length (and distillation of catchy songs) should be a touchstone in hardcore's philosophical essence: getting to the goddamn point with indomitable energy. Heresy re-releasing it on their boutique label still didn't muster any praise. Regardless of other people's glaring lack of taste, this is my fave output from the band.

Vromb - "Jeux De Terre" CD 1993

This was one of two specific CDs I always played while driving into the mountains very late at night (to drink, oh and the other disc was Voice Of Eye's "Vespers"). Erroneously cited as sampling actual insects, digital wing flutters and macromolecular roars are pulped and sifted into a darktronic symphony of breathtaking majesty (it's still revered as Gerard's best work). It's too easy for me to say "this shit's cray like smokin' PCP in the butterfly tent at the zoo"...which it is...but I don't think it's intentionally engineering fear. Gerard seems to be hailing the insects, hacking their little souls to see how their view of this dimension ticks. So while the tracks can be "creepy", they have an alien disconnect to them...like they were crafted for arthropod ears and not human ones. Whatever the species, this release is flawless!

Rupture - "Orangutan Suicide Sessions" 1990-2001 4 x Cassette 2014

The very definition of "complete discography" (of home recordings). Demos, rehearsals, full sessions from the earliest EPs and splits, unreleased songs, half songs, live soundboards, and side band Mob 48 (lol) aaaaaalll duped from the masters. I really wanna hammer at how clear and loud most of the recordings and duplication came out, as though the label was shady (they even pissed off the band swapping out their original art for the "joke" cover), every fan of piss raw 4-track fastcore/thrash/nasty ass drunkpunk would fastly piss themselves raw at the care taken into the transfers. My bladder burst, but after enduring ripping these tapes in one sitting, I don't think I'll be able to revisit Rupture again for at least a decade (or tomorrow).



Uncle Slam - "Say Uncle" LP 1988 (Japanese CD Rip)

There's something about 80s cholocore that's addictive to me. In Uncle Slam's caught case, the crossover is usually upper midpace with ridiculously high school hesher lyrics (one song is even groove-metal rap). Each track is honed for supreme pit power, with airy production and riffs that chuggily shank you like broken 40s. And they were on Caroline. Fuckin' CAROLINE (for the millennials, that's a fat juicy 'member berry to old fucks). Throw on a white t-shirt and iron that bandana, tonight...you SLAM!

http://www.mediafire.com/file/ptf9q3p6i44su0i/UNCLE_SLAM_-_Say_Uncle_1988.zip

Mick Harris - '88 Troubled Times Radio Interview

I was arsed to find the tape! So here it is: the March '88 Troubled Times radio interview with Mick Harris. Topics include ND's style (which seems to amuse the host more than impress), E.N.T., Larm cheating playing fast, crustys, zines, and just about everything else going on in extreme thrash at the time. Highly informative and brutally truthful, the only downer is the host's stony disassociation from reality (his speech patterns alone are annoying). A fun and sentimental listen for those born with a Scum test press in their ass, or those who downloaded a copy to teethe on decades later.






Shock Troop - 1998 Demo

Geisha batterin', spirit burnin' trad-core from...Austria?! Cultural appropriation can fellate itself, if it was never put on blast how "foreign" the band was, you'd swear on Ishiya's trihawk they were as Japanese as cephalopod porn. Impressively produced and obsessively played, everything about their existence and ethos is rendered with the same conviction as any of the surly old black tooth cokeheads y'all kowtow to. FUCK Y-O-U! (PUNK!)


Dejecta - Demo '93


Post-Repulsion dark thrash from Aaron and Matt. There's blasts, and the drummer is human, but his entire performance is so strongly processed that I can't tell if they're bad triggers or the band got him in after this session. It's not the worst detractor, as the rest of the recording has an excellent mix and capture (and juuust enough structural commonality to Repulsion for me to cosign it). Vocals are super clean, songs aren't too long, and thematically it's still skulls-for-soup-bowls and necrophilia. Not a mediocre project at all, just heavily overshadowed by their previous band's still living legend. 

Geranium - Demos 1 & 2 (CDR / Tape) 2007

One of the substantially better 21st century noisecore bands. We all know that scene's core fixation is just Diswanky U.K., but with Geranium I "feel" an uncanny similitude to Dust Noise's own compressed and shouty copy-noisecatting. They stand out, they coalesce tropes (that name yo!) that immediately teleport the listener into the mathematical center of the pogo zone. Not for any scenester hot tub tugfest, but because they legitimately LOVED to noise!

http://www.mediafire.com/file/dagf836ihs6bejz/Geranium_-_Demos.zip

Seats Of Piss - Live '84 & "City Of Bastards" LP 2005

Gabba's tardpunk band before Chaos U.K. (and after). Disgustingly anti-pc with a penchant for fetish crossdressing on stage, their embryonically sloppy and forgettable sound metamorphosized into something pleasingly bizarre and genre-bending decades later. The LP's expert home production is just a blast, with "electronica" elements (something not foreign to Gabba's other solo efforts) playfully braided into what appears to be "classic" UK82 snot and cheek...but really perverted and warped. Instead of jacking off to Facebook...literally...Gabba should jack out more LPs like THIS!



Seven Minutes Of Nausea - "Does Abstinence Kill" Demo & Live '86, "Karen's Edge" Demo '86, Advance Tape to "Thrashbora" Flexi '88


Uranus to the titans of noise-grind! Inspired to destroy music after attending a Death Sentence gig, the nascent duo quickly decided playing 1/4 of a minute was too stoner doom for them, so they destroyed music's corpse even further...to a single second...per song...in tune...with acidically spat sociopolitical statements barely forming a single sentence or pair of words within each aural aneurysm (literally 100s of tracks...all with titles, all with lyrics!!!!!!). Two O.G. demos and an O.G. advance tape for their "Thrashbora" flexi. Demo 1 is their stoner doom days, the other demo is the style they've mostly carried on with to this very day. And Thrashbora? Nigga...kiss your SOUL goodbye!

Collapse Society - Demo '93 & EP '94

An O.G. rip from an O.G. tape, re-gifted to me the year of release (Morishita > Hometown Homie > Me). Hell yeah I'm gonna brag! Picture the transformers you see on telephone poles shorting out and arcing through your brain...that's Collapse Society. 2nd wave dis-noisecore who were among the very first in Japan's initial revival of the genre. Up tempo on the EP, oddly "groggy" on the demo (I prefer the demo), the dis is usually Doom/E.N.T. speed with noise levels into the infrared. As so elegantly photographed, I had a shithead paint pen accident that I just as shitheadidly failed to morph into the band's initials. And for the cybersadists, the cover isn't O.G. because that got TOTALLY destroyed. Real punx always party on their shit! I had no drama whatsoever with the EP, or any of my vinyl...but tapes...they saw dark things.

Christbait - "Prod" Demo 1991 & "Yeast" CD 1992

FUCK I kept some (now) ancient shit! Heavy as whale balls on your exposed lungs, Australian sludge-death and rare shock ultragrind that morphed into solemnly emotive industrial metal. Fairly low gurgles and deathliness gave way to clean shouts and a template closer to a simplified Helmet or Zeni Geva. Godflesh is the most obvious and redundant influence, noticable in the reverbed-out singular note noodling, but they "groove" more than loop themselves. Tight and well produced on the demo, and very tight and expertly produced on the CD, this was a band truly worthy of cult status that blew all the homies away upon first release...BOTH the demo and CD (and I was the nigga to dub the band for them...aaalll of them)! SO...whatever happened to the Fear Bait / Christ Factory collaboration?

Skumdribblurzz - Live 83/84, "Practice", 2nd Show May 1984 (With Tracklist)

Nine+ minutes of horrifying dogshit. According to legend (pensioner punks) the band formed just to get in free for shows, too fucked to even bother with a Shitlickers level of anti-musicianship. More Suburban Filth or Eat Shit than Anal Cunt, the "band's" biggest claim to fame was Digby Pearson joining them much later on bass (and a mention in the first Filthy Christians LP). I barely heard them in 2003, and quite frankly this is the first time I bothered with the "experience" all the way through. One live show with a surprising amount of clarity given the form of cacophony, and a "practice" that sounds like a single member dicking around on a 3rd world guitar with all the wiring completely soldered over (my trader insisted Dig is in on the practice...doing what, blowing homie on his shit-tar?). For ultra-nerds only, who will ultra say this "deserves" vinyl. So why did I upload it? People don't listen to the truth, they gotta LIVE it... 
2017 Rip: First Show/Practice...

2021 Update: 2nd Show/"Gabbas Headache":...

The Grey Wolves - "Legion Of Hell" Cassette (Year? [mid 80s])

My fave release from the U.K.'s #2 terroristronics duo. Grainy field recordings of Satan talking shit warble O-P-P-R-E-S-S-I-V-E-L-Y over chirps and blurbles of traditional dark synth (the kind heard in every mid 70s to mid 80s z-grade sci-fi flick), all mindfully enhanced with existential reverb and nihilistic delay......as it should. Some of the more identifiably synthy accoutrements have a sporadic feel to them, but I also can't quite measure the improv element considering how damn effective the rest of the recording came out. Grey Wolves always preferred to play it fast and loose, so maybe I should (over)analyze less and just get to the link...

Merzbow - "Merzbuddha" CD 2005


Masami Akita's exceptionally brutal tribute to the drum n' bass genre...massively deconstructed and weaponized as violating meditation. Pulsar-heavy-pulses decompose into subsonic rhythmic loops, while neutrino bursts quadrophonically hiss ceaselessly about like flies on it's greasy black corpse. The frighteningly engulfing mix (total dimensional dislocation yo) is so intentionally midrange it literally makes me queasy......and yet...I keep listening. Not as frenetic as he's usually known for (there's a patience to the textural sculpting that heavily reminds me of his much older work "Memorial Gadgets"), but there's no pejoratives in that either, the enhanced focus is what maintains this particular release's lingering memorability and revisitation.

Intense Degree - "War In My Head" LP 1989

I've owned this LP for 28 years. D-A-M-N! Faster than Napalm Death (and maintaining more cohesion), this Britcore quintet continues to get no respect in the history of fastcore. Maybe it's the predominantly American hXc influence, the posi melody that gracefully matched energetic tempos just wasn't "brutal" enough compared to the rest of Earache's roster. The clean guitars and Skate-Rock vocals were actually a point of contention for Digby, with him hammering the band to downtune and go the cupped mic route...a style they had absolutely no interest in pursuing (and I really don't blame them, as any ensuing sound I could speculate on would probably be as forced and disappointing as the final Filthy Christians disc). They never caved, Digby cried, and here we are enjoying them for what they always were: AWESOME AS FUCKING SHIT! Japanese CD's rip. My fave song offa this is still Skate Bored.

P.S.: CD's liner and sleeve notes (in Japanese of course) by the ultragrind homie Ogita/Awesome Mosh Power Records!