DEAD KENNEDYS – PLASTIC SURGERY DISASTERS (VINYL):
Dead Kennedys' second full-length album. 10/10
What do you get when you combine two gigs, 44 units of alcohol, 2 burgers, 1 kebab and about 14 hours sleep? You got it… the last four days of my life! In celebration of surviving the week without developing scurvy and/or hepatitis/a lapse of sanity, I’m going to be reviewing one of the most ludicrously-good punk albums to date: the Dead Kennedys’ Plastic Surgery Disasters. It’s chaotic, it’s brimming with sound and pace and riffs writhing around in every direction… yet against all the odds, it still works. Sounds a bit like me on a Monday morning!
As inappropriate as the metaphor may be (considering Dead Kennedys’ previous release In God We Trust Inc. which sort of lambasted Christianity), I think Plastic Surgery Disasters’ Side A is a big fat holy DK bible full of punk truths. It sure sucks to be you if you’re a student, a mechanic, a scientist, hippie or a Yankee with a giant caravan, because Jello Biafra fits a lot of ‘fuck yous’ onto just 12 inches of plastic.
Government Flu‘s preamble, and the album’s introductory track, is a scary fairytale warped by steel-wool chaos. Advice From Christmas Past is the neat and sweet American Dream disfigured by social reality, and the Dead Kennedys will take the next forty minutes to tell you all about it. Government Flu lets us know they’re not hanging about when it launches off in every direction at once, practically foaming at the mouth. Ray’s bright and sinister riffs, Biafra’s drawls, and Peligro’s muscular drumming in Government Flu sets the tone for the rest of Side A, because it sure as fuck doesn’t get much slower. It doesn’t seem like there’s much respite from the rabid intensity of the next three tracks, what with Terminal Preppie‘s hypnotic chanting and babbling, Trust Your Mechanic‘s voodoo-like toms driving their way through you skull, Well Paid Scientist‘s burbling bass and Peligro’s incessant tom rolls layering up and overwhelming the senses
when
will
you
crack?
Even if you think, like me, that the first five tracks on this album sort of blend into one big amphetamine rush enough to kill a horse, you should still notice that Side A’s sixth track Buzzbomb does not wane into the unremarkable uproar. Buzzbomb pulls up and Peligro’s snare rears and rattles like the engine of a Mustang, building up all the primal excitement from the last few tracks but channelling and guiding it into a recognisable and more substantial sense of structure. Flouride’s thick and burly bass hook, set against all the haste and acridity, hikes up the adrenaline levels without knocking the breath out of you. Both Buzzbomb and Winnebago Warrior carry this great Western twang, making it seem that the Dead Kennedys are one of the few bands that can pull of something so tense and muscular at such a punky pace. Just like fast-forwarding through a Spaghetti Western, it’s all action, and straight to the point. No one gives a fuck about your childhood Clint Eastwood!
Once you’ve wiped the sweat off your forehead, you can get up and turn the record over to Side B. The tracks on this side are lengthier and that works well with their fullness, compared to some of the less developed fragments on the other side. It’s like Side A’s tracks and their lyrics are spelt out quickly and bluntly, but DK take their time with Side B to build up those ideas into something you can really sink your teeth into.
The first six minutes of Side B is a Biafra-narrated thriller, that manages to distil all of the adrenaline in the world into one mighty track. Riot is calm then thunderous: at one moment, its bass heartbeat is building up stealthily and the ride ticks along, and at another, electric riffs siren and spiral and the cymbals crash and explode. It’s like the entire track is twisting and turning and grinding to halts and releasing again right before your ears, and it’s fucking mesmerising. Even though Riot is one of DK’s most iconic tracks, I think Bleed For Me steals the show. Just as textured and vital as Riot, Bleed For Me is loud and quiet and fast and steady all in the right places, and its riffs, torturously sweet, plummet and climax in a way that’s slick and methodical, without sounding too cinematic. Both of these songs together take up almost ten minutes of the album, meaning the band had finally lent themselves enough space to fully develop two stunning tracks. Never thought I’d be yearning for a song longer than a minute and a half – maybe I really am growing up!
I regularly think about the last two tracks on Side B. Unlike the rest of the album, Dead End‘s lyrics are written by East Bay Ray and you can sort of tell, because Biafra pronounces the words like they’re not his own. It’s one of the only DK songs I’ve ever heard Biafra sound so expressive yet reigned in and focused, and I think it’s because East Bay Ray’s simple, sour and sad words are unsettling and different. Dead End is like a tense, bass-heavy, bitter black-and-white movie; it’s off-kilter, volatile, and it has me hooked. Beside Moon Over Marin‘s bittersweet, sun-sick riffs and Biafra’s, parody-bright vocals cheering on the beginnings of our environmental Armageddon brought on by pollution, Plastic Surgery Disasters’ final two tracks feel perverse, and their words and sounds hang in the air even after the record’s finished. A suitable end to the best half an album the Dead Kennedys have ever released.
THE DAMNED – MACHINE GUN ETIQUETTE (VINYL):
It’s been a while since I’ve written an album review. Yesterday I skimmed back through a few of my masterpieces and jesus christ, most of them were so bad they made my head hurt. My first review on here (Disorder – The Singles Collection) is as stupidly, dramatically poetic as something Edgar Allan Poe would write while senile and on the other end of the spectrum, 35% of all my writing comprises either swear words, or just anything else of the ‘completely profane and pointless’ sort. Although the latter fact is unlikely to change I’m going to university next week (NB: I’m already at university now because I took so long to finish this), so it’s on my to-do list to write something that isn’t utterly vomit-inducing before I start (didn’t quite make that one). And as if this isn’t challenging enough, I thought it’d be a brilliant idea to choose the best punk album ever made to review today.
The first thing I need to tell you is that I really do love The Damned’s debut album, Damned Damned Damned (1976), although it has been argued in retrospect that it feels quite ‘one-dimensional’, on behalf of guitarist Brian James’ heavy influence on its songwriting. Now, the term ‘one-dimensional’ seems incomprehensible when hearing Damned Damned Damned for the first time because the entire album is completely mental, but when The Damned came out with their second album Music For Pleasure (1977), the term seemed more feasible: the album proved that the initial format of The Damned was going stale. So Brian James left the band after writing the best punk debut of all time, he let everyone else in the band have a go instead.
And like the first chapter of a great novel, Machine Gun Etiquette (1979)’s opener Love Song introduces each element of The Damned and their new and improved line up, starting off with Captain Sensible’s promotion up to lead guitar, which really leaves you wondering – why the hell did he ever play bass? Sensible’s multicoloured, writhing riffs have a life of their own, assuredly carving his way through Rat Scabies’ maniacal cymbal smashing, Algy Ward’s big bass hook and Dave Vanian’s matured, velvet vocals, which work to soothe the musical storm into some obedience. While Love Song is an entire album’s worth of content in one track, I Just Can’t Be Happy goes further to introduce the first goth-inked tones associated with The Damned’s later albums; through all the organ synths, sombre vocals and chaotic rolls and crashes emerges the baroque gloom associated with their later albums. The piano continues into Melody Lee which is the closest The Damned get to a ‘ballad’, but without the mindless simplicity, and with a fuck-ton more speed, cymbals, and distortion… Ladies and gents: this is The Damned in 1979, and they’re as five-dimensional as it fucking gets.
But have no fear folks – despite The Damned’s new ridiculous eloquence, they certainly haven’t forgotten where they came from, and that they were one of the few bands that invented punk. The album’s title track Machine Gun Etiquette channels their debut’s raw energy with cruder vocals (featuring Joe Strummer and Mick Jones who I think, happened to be recording for The Clash at the same time nearby) and bulleting pace, while Antipope feels more ‘classic punk’ with Algy’s big bassline, Scabies’ (relatively!) pared back drumming and Vanian’s gleeful deliverance of unambiguously anti-establishment lyrics. I wouldn’t relax just yet however, because I don’t know how many punk songs you know that include an extended bongo/maraca interval… it’s clear to me that The Damned doesn’t suffer from any genre dictation. Every move is unpredictable, and you can sense this ‘loud and proud’ liberation through Side B’s Noise Noise Noise and Liar, which are their own quick, buoyant, whistling, zany riots.
The dusky, night-train guitar introduction signals that we’ve arrived at Plan 9 Channel 7. Smooth and languid in its candlelit melancholy, this song illuminates every part of the head when you sit down and listen to it; and you know trust the ribbon flow of Scabies’ silvery ticks and low rolls, Sensible’s velvety riffs and Vanian’s deep croons. Each instrument is part of the conversation, and they weave together seamlessly – despite the complexity of each member’s playing – into a song that every arts student with a fringe should be fainting over. It’s been years, and I’ve never been able to shake the beauty of this song. Time, nor the needle, can ever dull the brilliance of Plan 9 Channel 7.
And like the last chapter of a great novel, Smash It Up leaves us with what we began: an opulent punk saga, coursing with all the zeal, pride and delight of a band who just wrote, completed and released the most accomplished punk album of the decade. The Damned shows us in Machine Gun Etiquette that they’re gifted with giving us everything at once, wings outstretched, but with each feather perfectly in focus – and that’s happened at the hands of each member. With Brian James breaking up the band in 1977 after a second album that left punk critics questioning punk’s longevity, and the rest of the band’s decision to carry on without their ringleader two years later, I think this all can be summed up with the phrase: “one step backward and two steps forwards”.
BUZZCOCKS – ANOTHER MUSIC IN A DIFFERENT KITCHEN (CD):
Debut album by the 70s punk pioneers the Buzzcocks. 9/10
The most striking thing about the Buzzcocks – at the time of their first releases in the late 70s as well as today – is the way they could blend pink love-song emotion with the ‘virility’ of punky volume and speed, and make it work so well.
Another Music is the second punk album I owned after The Ramones’ Rocket To Russia, and back then I thought that punk was only about telling the Queen to fuck off and shouting about Colchester council being full of shit, and that there was no room for actual feelings and that bollocks. And here is the bi-sexual frontman Pete Shelley, spewing out genderless love songs at a sickly pace; it’s all about non-conformity, and as one of the first punk albums to come out in the UK in 1978, Another Music breaks a lot of rules for the first time. Don’t underestimate the importance of the Buzzcocks.
Whether it’s a pun or not, I’m gonna say the theme of this album is a kind of kitchen-sink romance, full of realness, eagerness, disappointments and frustration instead of the rich magical world presented to us in pop culture. In tracks like No Reply and Love Battery, the sudden blasts of pace along with the quick, chortling electric riffs feel fiery and frantic, while Pete Shelley’s vital vocal spells out the sad romance
no reply oh can’t you see no reply it’s ruining me
and self-indulges in Get On Our Own – his long, animalistic yell exhibiting all the displeasure in the world. Makes me feel good about my love life…
As well as its disco-punk hits, Another Music showcases bluer tones in tracks like You Tear Me Up: its melancholy incline and fall is as steady and solid as the D-beat (B-beat?) running throughout, as Shelley rants on his venom. Autonomy‘s my favourite of the album, mostly because of its compelling languidness, despite its pace. The way in which the electric guitar strolls in, studded by the steady bass, amongst John Maher’s brilliant drumming brings a smooth sense of able ease – and in the last minute of the track, Maher’s stream of cymbal ticks and snare rolls stretches, twists and turns alongside the guitar solo, like the narrative to a story. I want youuuuu, on top of me (har har har)
The five-and-a-half-minute Moving Away From The Pulsebeat carries the same kind of trajectory, with tribal toms and snares reverberating throughout and electric guitars soaring – the more you listen to it, the more you hear in it.
In some cases, namely in tracks I Need and Sixteen, the Buzzcocks’ poignant punk/sentiment antithesis strikes more unsettling than anything else. With its lyrics joyless and despondent, I Need‘s blood-sugar rush of pace channels this hot, pubescent frenetecism that feels honest and desperate, yet the power of the snare rattling and that fat fucking bass solo pulls the track into equilibrium. Sixteen‘s chirpy, Sergeant Major snare march along with Shelley’s staccato singing feels Crass-esque (both bands’ debuts were released at similar times so I’ll leave that one up to you), but the sad twist of nostalgia running through the lyrics declares itself in a stark, Damned-style descent into disturbing chaos towards the end of the track.
The Buzzcocks are subtle and clever so there’s a lot more to their music than what we hear – which is what I’ve tried to communicate in this review, compared to the more, well… matter-of-fact sounding albums, which I tend to adorn with phrases such as “and that riff is so fucking hard I almost pissed my pants when I first heard it”. I love them all the same, but I don’t think I’ve written something like this before. I did try to make it sound less poncey but after all, I am just a cunty, (almost) English university student who reads classic literature at home before going out and getting kicked out of clubs.
BLACK FLAG – THE FIRST FOUR YEARS (CD)
Compilation of American punks Black Flag's staple tracks. 8/10
Largely regarded as the punk band you have to hear if you like punk (I made that up but I think it’s true), Black Flag offers you a punk starter kit: filled to the brim with forceful, white-hot pace, hard energy and infectious tunes in all their bold, primary-coloured vibrancy.
And the album kicks off with two of the greatest contributions to punk of all time so if you’re impatient, you don’t need to wait around much longer – Nervous Breakdown‘s timeless riff bursts to life and rips along like a big, dirty engine, the filthy electric coursing through Fix Me as cymbals fly everywhere. Keith Morris’ vocal I think makes it: his acrid vibrancy really lifts the track up to ‘summer’s-day-in-the-skatepark-with-a-can-of-beer’ level. Same thing with I’ve Had It – the point-blank lyrics give off this kind of young, sunny aggression that runs alongside the torrential pace of the iconic, 50-second number Wasted. Jealous Again is one of my favourites and Dez Cadena on vocals does well to match up to Morris’ adolescent vigour because when you listen to it, all you want to do is drop out of school, tell your girlfriend to fuck off and crack open a couple with your 16 year old mates Gaz and Rick. And this feeling reigns unaged in Black Flag’s sound, preserved in lacquer like thick, acrylic paint. Jesus, I’m only 20 and I’m feeling old.
Along with Dez Cadena comes the gruffer, hardcore tone heard in tracks like I’ve Heard It Before and American Waste, which both brood and burst from cockeyed electric sirening and stormy distortion, guitars rearing and toms palpitating. Six Pack is another one with lyrics to live by, the bumbling bassline and thonk of the kick bracing us for yet another hit of focused power –
35 dollars and a six pack to my name! /SIX PACK/ spent the rest on beer so who’s to blame!
my girlfriend asked me which one I like better /SIX PACK/ I hope the answer won’t upset her /SIX PACK/
now I got a six so I’ll never run out /SIX PACK/
If Dez Cadena wrote the bible I’d never sin again.
The last two tracks on this album are special. I was staying for a few days in a place in Whitby last year that sat directly under a pub where a lot of live bands played 60s music (bear with me), and one night I looked up in surprise and wondered aloud why one band was playing some weird garage-rock keyboard rendition of Black Flag’s Louie Louie. So obviously, it’s a cover of an older song, and it’s great – snares set off a gravelly electric guitar, carving out the old major-key riff as Dez rants some apparently completely made up lyrics. Damaged I is ace too in its own soiled, dour tones, with electric chords falling along the great backbone of a measured hi-hat and snare in a way that’s so repetitively addictive, you never want it to end.
In pretty much every way, if you want to get into punk, Black Flag is the perfect place to start. And I know “unlistenable” is my favourite musical genre as well as my middle name, but Black Flag’s easy, addictive and energetic tunes will always hold a special place in my heart.
CHAOS U.K. - THE SINGLES (VINYL):
Collection of early Chaos U.K.'s most turbulent, rampageous tracks. 10/10
Now, any writer with an ounce each of credibility and dignity would’ve (and has) dismissed The Singles as a few songs that sound exactly the same, boasting the same disgusting, unrelentless distortion in each minute of every track alongside every unimaginative riff and stupid, immature lyrics. And I say: where’s this record been my whole life?
Four Minute Warning gives us a perfect display of Chaos U.K.’s gurgling, rupturing power that rips its way throughout the entire record – Chaos’ bass drones heavy through the avalanche of toms and flying shards of metal, Gieger counter overloading. Simon Greenham’s vocal thrusts free of the low earthquake of sound with the kind of fixed, top of range yell I can only compare to Ian Mackaye of Minor Threat, and the tectonic rumble only continues into Kill Your Baby, cymbals smashing and Andy Farrier’s electric guitar scratching overhead. By this time my sister, who had been downstairs following a DIY yoga session on TV, had burst into my room and told me to turn that shit off because the walls were shaking and she could barely hear the instructor. Mission accomplished! I’m the most annoying fucker on the street, and that aint gonna stop me playing my favourite record of all time!!
The ironically militaristic snares, toms and chants in Army all give prominence to the lyrical stanza ‘British army, British army, British army blow ’em up’, which renders Army a lethal combination of a catchy tune, with completely socially unacceptable lyrics (usually doesn’t stop me though). The usual heavy, anchoring bassline rattles along, the whole thing buzzing with distortion that wraps the album in steel wool. In Victimised, Potts’ toms curdle with primeval rampage as the electric guitar burns ahead, Simon’s vocals abrading with rawness and truth – makes sense, as he’s the one who wrote it “after being arrested for something or other”. I was chanting the lyrics ‘I’m being victimised for wearing strange clothes’ the other day because apparently I wouldn’t be let into gig wearing my dog collar, studded belt and trouser chain. No one got it though. I thought it was funny.
Well, guess what? Chaos U.K.’s signature, bone-rattling distortion grinds into Side B in tracks like What About A Future and Hypocrite, bass chundering into a packed, solid wall of harsh vocals, thudding kick, charged static and crushed metal. Senseless Conflict is an uproar of adrenaline with the snares calling, cymbals crashing and Andy’s electric guitar throaty and guttural in its gripping incline. It’s one of my favourites and is definitely worth hearing twice – which is convenient, as it’s on both sides for some reason. Nice one!
Oh god, I’ve been going on and on for weeks about how No Security is the best punk song ever written and now I have to use my actual brain to try and put its power into words. I was showing my neighbour this track and as the stick count began, the aerial whine of electric soared and the bass and toms pumped, I couldn’t help this kind of nauseous, innate adrenaline building up like I was about to fight a werewolf or something and then – Simon’s roar sets off that fucking huge, beastly riff that bolts through the track alongside the snare and kick, not letting up. Electric rears up, toms fall down, I’m ready to fight while shedding tears of joy: this is why this is my favourite record of all time, why I’m annoyed that Chaos U.K. are so underrated and why I spent an evening last week trying to paint ‘CHAOS U.K.’ in white Airfix paint onto my camo jacket, because this is some of the best punk in the world.
THE MISFITS – STATIC AGE (VINYL):
The Misfits' spectral debut album. 10/10
Am I the stupidest person with money in the world? Probably quite close but there’s no regrets here baby, because my (questionable) decision to buy Static Age on vinyl DESPITE owning practically every song on the album ALREADY on the remastered Legacy of Brutality turned out to be a good one, because, as I found out, the sound The Misfits carried in the 70s is something supernatural. The first album to be recorded (1978) and the last to be released (1996), Static Age is a leaden-blue electric storm, channelling both punky pace and vigour alongside this dingy, earthy rawness that bathes you like a baptism in a stagnant lake. The title track Static Age colours the album in its grey-purple hue; along with TV Casualty, Franché Coma’s steady, deep guitar stomps down, and Mr. Jim’s drumming runs along measured but intricate, with lots of rolls and ticks. Church bells gong, radio static crackles and sci-fi whirs echo – this is horror motherfucking punk!
Danzig’s vocal in Return of the Fly and Hybrid Moments glide tender and ghoulish as if sang in a church hall, and the bone toms knock about as the ride clicks perpetually. Last Caress envelopes you in the same ghostly silk, electric guitar coursing dirty and unrefined compared to the standard version. Teenagers From Mars was my first Misfits love when I first started listening to them and this Static Age rendition is almost unrecognisable from the one I’d heard… and I think I’m in love with it. Jerry Only’s bass pounds down mercilessly, and Danzig’s vocal has this kind of untouchable substance my grasp of the English language fails to justify. The best I can do is quote Dick Porter when he described Dave Vanian’s voice in Anything (1986) as “processed to near banality”, and say this is the opposite. It’s so intact and real, it feels like Danzig’s singing right next to you.
into Come Back and – what in the fuck? Five minutes long?! Mr. Jim must have some pretty decent stamina because the drums lead from start to finish, twisting and climbing alongside the bass like poison ivy. This kind of calm, tombish doom also rumbles through Spinal Remains and In The Doorway; In The Doorway was my single of the week about a month ago and I already described its sound with some kind of weird, inaccessible metaphor, so this time I’ll just throw some words (velvet, radioactivity, gravel) at you. I think Spinal Remains joins Queen Wasp in my Top 2 Misfits tracks.
Although I’ve never associated the two tracks with one another before, Hollywood Babylon and Theme For A Jackal both bounce with the same kind of skeleton, rockabilly bop, and Danzig aint nicknamed ‘Evil Elvis’ for nothing. I love the deeper, soiled recording of She, and Bullet‘s racing hit and run pace (or the opposite, I suppose, seeing as it’s about the assassination of JFK) – Danzig’s vocal carries all the crude conviction needed to pull off those lyrics.
It’s unbelievable to me that no label would release this album when it recorded in ’78, hence why it was never entirely released for another two decades. This album, especially the early versions of their later hits, sounds so good that I wish they were the first recordings I’d ever heard.
DEAD KENNEDYS – IN GOD WE TRUST, INC. (VINYL)
Psychotropic hardcore-punk EP by the Dead Kennedys. 10/10
There’s isn’t much to it. I just had to, had to, have Nazi Punks Fuck Off on vinyl. And everything that came with it turned out to be a blessing.
If you thought the Dead Kennedys were fast without hearing this EP, then get ready for your definition of speed to change: In God We Trust, Inc. is an immaculate riot.
Religious Vomit begins as subtly and moderate as a blast of dynamite, riffs leaping hot as D.H. Peligro pelts the drums flat out. If you didn’t catch any of the not-so-implicit lyrics (‘all religions makes me wanna throw up, all religions make me sick’), Jello gives us a cleaner taste in the latter section of the track, preaching bare-faced heresy to a honey-sweet gospel choir. If you think the profanity ends there then think again, because Kepone Factory is toxic with thick, callous satire, and is just as fast as the raucous Hyperactive Child – Jello’s tantrum of shrieks and chants merged with the booming of fallen toms in Moral Majority feeling like an uproar, but one that, as always for DK, is executed flawlessly.
Dog Bite is rabid, wild, untamed (please stop) – it’s a surging, one-minute concentrate of brilliantly, stupidly quick drumming, narcotic surf riffs and Jello + Klaus’ barking (literally) vocals, burning luminous and virulent and quick – it’s got to be at the top of my favourite DK tracks.
So, I sat down with my pen and notebook after finishing Side A, just as Side B’s first track begins to crackle. Then the first track finished. I hadn’t written a single word for Nazi Punks Fuck Off. I was too busy headbanging, sorry. Its ferocity is utterly immortal, and no amount of replays can wear away at its power. Best punk song (alongside Chaos U.K.’s No Security, I haven’t forgotten about saying that) ever written.
Like the Dead Kennedys’ cover of I Fought The Law, Rawhide is done so well you almost forget it isn’t a Dead Kennedys song (although Jello’s piss-take redneck drawling helps to remind us). Snares stampeding, bass big and meaty and So Co riffs rising, Rawhide is swift, sandy and injected with taurine.
Forming almost half the length of the thirteen-minute EP, We’ve Got A Bigger Problem Now sneaks into a slinky, jazzy lounge instrumental, murmuring and ticking along as Jello narrates with snide derision “I am Emperor Ronald Reagan, born again with fascist cravings, still you made me president”…
“human rights will soon go away” “join the army or you will pay” “Ku Klux Klan will control you” “I’ll make sure they’re Christian too”
…And then we’re launched into a fully-fledged California Uber Alles. Yes, laying off Jerry Brown for now, because two years on in 1981, we definitely have a bigger problem now – and you can sense that truth in their playing because everything feels even more rugged and vicious and riled and real. I think 2018 calls for a We’ve Got An Even Bigger Problem Now, please.
SUBHUMANS – THE DAY THE COUNTRY DIED (VINYL)
As I’ve mentioned before, the way Subhumans create such a journey in their music is triumphant: and The Day The Country Died is a great pilgrimage of punk. All Gone Dead is born in a storm of white noise and nuclear whines, feeling chillingly apocalyptic – but its pace removes that sense of defeat, setting you on edge waiting for the next track. The bass gorges in Minority and Killing and as the riffs ramble and push, you get a real taste of Subhumans’ animation and energy in their playing. Their pumping pace and chanting snares in the iconic Mickey Mouse Is Dead thrust the adrenaline levels up high, and the thickening of the subdued, smouldering electric guitar of Nothing I Can Do into its sudden torrential surge is so exciting. The metal clinks, the snares shout, and it feels as busy and fresh as Dying World’s jungle of sound, which weaves into fantastic chaos. Then Subvert City seals off Side A as it started, with its snares heaping and ghostly electric wailing above, like a dystopian cult film.
The kind of vivid fullness heard in tracks like Big Brother and New Age is one of the things that likens Subhumans to the Dead Kennedys (and I’ve heard Jello Biafra reference them a couple times), along with their seemingly effortless ability to thrust into the quick, blood-surging power and pace, as in I Don’t Wanna Die. The drums rampage rapid and immediate, the hard decline in electric chords clenches and bass swells, Dick yelling brazen and true. Subhumans’ lyrics are strong – the classic No is one of those tracks you know every word to, and shouting them out together with a sweaty gig-load of people is something I’ve got to do again soon. The same can be said about the jaunty, trotting nursery rhyme that is Till The Pigs Come Round, though the albums last two tracks No More Gigs and Black And White show Subhumans’ darker, sombre side. Bass dotted measured and steady, riffs in minor keys and lyrics moody (‘she said she loved me then she died’) in No More Gigs and the sinisterly conclusive feel to Black And White is absorbing, stopping you in your tracks and making you do what all punk should: think about the words. Subhumans really puts you into the grim world of their songs; and then their lyrics make it obvious that that world is real, and that it’s got to change.
MDC – HEY COP, IF I HAD A FACE LIKE YOURS... (VINYL)
Light-speed hardcore American punk band MDC's fifth studio album. 7/10
Packed full of hard, American grit, the opening track Millions of Dead Cops feels intimidatory in its steady, strong pace and prowling ‘Hollywood-Babylon’-esque bassline, Dave Dictor’s vocal rough and tough, like a bad-guy cowboy. But don’t let this track mislead you like it did me; MDC declare their hardcore edge and speed in the next track Mark of the Farmer and (my favourite) Gig and Die in LA… Electric chortles and churns, metal clatters and toms pound as they fall all about, drumming frantic and furious, vocals brutish and fierce and fucking fast – MDC are angry, alarming and exciting. DON’T SHOOT!
US War #54 is another of MDC’s measured-but-menacing tracks as its firm electric chords drag and keel back, snares chanting and riffs hanging high. The sprightly Beat Somebody Up and Nowhere to Go show MDC’s ‘melodic’ side (feels like a bit of a taboo word and it really shouldn’t) with its gripping incline in guitar and slinking bassline, and If I Had a Face‘s quick surf guitar riffs and swift drum rolls really resembles the Dead Kennedys to me. Saying that, I also really like Side B’s Moneypile because it feels like a classic 70s punk anthem – and that’s what I mean by describing Hey Cop as multifaceted. Instead of being an 80s hardcore punk band who release some fierce, fast records at first but then run out of steam by the 90s, devolving down the usual route of either clean rock or the cringeworthy hybrid of bubblegum-pop-meets-a-couple-of-electric-guitars, MDC take a cue from bands like The Damned and start playing what they want, but without totally neglecting the anatomy of their original sound.
I’m not 100% sure yet, but I think Black Christmas, Side B’s last track, is supposed to be the song that absolutely everyone hates because it’s slow, the singing’s clean, and it’s four fucking minutes long. Most of the time I would lovingly be part of that crowd of ignorant, unenlightened arseholes, but on this occasion I really like Black Christmas and its darkened, cloudy mood: the bass is heavy and the reverb on the vocals envelopes you, like an overcast rainy evening.
I quite like that I listened to this album before their first; I think it creates an unfair bias to constantly compare later albums to a band’s first release. Hearing Hey Cop before anything else of MDC made sure I knew a lot more about what they could sound like, before casting a judgement on an album full of one kind of sound. Yeah, most of the songs I like all sound the same, but even I enjoy a bit of variety once in a while. As long as it has nothing to do with a clean sounding guitar.
DISCHARGE – WHY (VINYL):
Hardcore crust punk D-beat machine's fourth EP. 10/10
So to be completely honest, I’m quite nervous writing this now. Partly because Discharge is one of the best punk bands to have existed and I doubt my words can do them justice, but mainly because Ian Glasper’s review of Discharge’s Hear Nothing See Nothing Say Nothing is probably the best thing I have ever read. It’s so spot-on that it’s hard not to completely plagiarise it, but here’s my best effort at covering Discharge’s Why, the first record I’d heard by them and one I definitely won’t forget.
As Visions of War crackled to life, I remember being hit pretty hard by its immense, dystopian bitterness. Yeah, there’s a lot of other great punk tracks about puking up Special Brew on your Maths teacher, but Discharge’s energy is sinister and real, the blasting of brass in their iconic D-beat clenches tight across Does This System Work, like a huge mechanical monster. A Look at Tomorrow and Maimed and Slaughtered feel grey and menacing with their dirty bass and distorted riffs locked together, Cal roaring injustice down on a foundation of crashing tin. I hope ‘grey’ isn’t misinterpreted as unexciting because shit, there’s something very invigorating about a record that sounds like the world is ending.
Side A’s Why is vastly harsh and powerful with its D-beat boring away, Cal’s vocal heavy with incredulity as toms tumble, but Side B’s Why (Reprise)… well. It feels so full, of a primal kind of pain as Cal wails alongside war sirens but also of a sinister foreboding, riffs inclining perpetually and the cymbals hitting shrill and screaming. Its sound is so raw, yet shiny and mechanical, a combination impossible but glorious. And then begins the descent into audial Armageddon.
Aint No Feeble Bastard hauls us up from the dirt, the bass chortling, guitar strong and steady as the snare clatters. Cal thunders alongside a current of distortion, so tangible it courses along like an instrument of its own – it’s gotta be my top Discharge track.
There can be no understating the gripping intensity of Discharge’s D-beat. It pounds relentlessly throughout Mania For Conquest, its riffs dismal and electric, and creates a metallic wall of sound in Is This To Be, electric guitar firm as it elevates. Its potency and power paved the way for an entire new sub-genre of punk – and having gone to a D-beat night myself, I can tell you that it’s something that can grasp every person in a room by the chest.
CRASS – THE FEEDING OF THE 5000 (VINYL):
Profane anarcho-punk icons' first album. 10/10
I’m here today to do you a great service. For reasons unknown and preposterous, it’d taken me a long time to get onto listening to Crass (because nobody told me about them) and I’m doing everything in my power to stop that happening to anybody else because boy, you don’t want to miss out on this one. They’ve been taken to court, discussed in Parliament and almost prosecuted by the Tories; Crass was big in the anarcho-punk movement, their political voice prominent and uncompromising and of course, their tracks fantastic.
Saying all that, The Feeding of the 5000‘s opening track Asylum is not for the faint of heart… Eve Libertine’s powerful vocal pounds out complete and utter blasphemy as the overloaded, droning buzz filters in and out
Christ forgive? shit who forgives down now from your papal heights
you dug the pits of Auschwitz fucklove prophet of death
unfair warfare warfare warfare warfare warfare warfare warfare warfare
Jesus died for his own sins, not mine.
Told you they were controversial.
Meanwhile, as the snare marches and bass licks in Do They Owe Us A Living and End Result, you can feel the extent of Crass’ big, kind of loutish sound. Their pace is clean-cut and infectious, the kick pumping and bass chugging as Steve Ignorant’s vocal bites in. They’ve Got A Bomb is my favourite – the hoarse feedback builds as the gruff bass emerges, falling about at jarring angles while the electric guitar shrieks above. The sharp period of silence that rages within it was apparently designed to cut the energy short, prompting the listener to truly reflect on the reality of nuclear war. Jesus, this takes me back to writing my A-level Drama and Theatre Studies essays. Still, this kind of stuff is what makes Crass renown in the ‘art-punk’ culture; their anarchic artwork, physical imagery and musical creativity is one of a kind.
they’ve got a bomb, they’ve got a bomb, and they can’t wait to use it on
me
More on Crass’ artistic lyrics: Punk Is Dead showcases the stunner “tired of staring through shit-stained glass” (but jokes aside, their words are seriously powerful), as well as a great, snaking bassline climbing around, Ignorant chanting throughout. Banned From The Roxy is its own triumph in its measured and militant snare, riffs hitting steady then accumulating into the chorus, bass bulging and cymbals brassy. Must take an anarchist to get banned from the supposed hub of punk, huh?
Side B presents the iconic, understated, and frankly quite self-explanatory Fight War, Not Wars, while Joy De Vivre delivers potent, feminist anarchy in Women to disturbing sci-fi whirs. Both You Pay and Angels really show off Crass’ vitriolic venom as the measured stomping of the bass and kick build up messily, snare rattling along restlessly.
Do They Owe Us A Living runs again at the end of the record, under the title Well?… Do They?
DEAD KENNEDYS – GIVE ME CONVENIENCE OR GIVE ME DEATH (VINYL):
Collection of live and studio tracks from the most accomplished band in punk.
As the electric riffs strike in tracks like Police Truck and Too Drunk To Fuck and the bass rolls along you can certainly see DiCicco’s point: each musician of the Dead Kennedys plays with such acidic animation you can hear it spilling off the edge of the vinyl. From East Bay Ray’s surf guitar, Klaus’ meandering basslines and D.H Peligro’s whirlwind drumming; each instrument is a world of its own, slotting together against the rules of physics into a single universe. Rapid tracks like A Child And His Lawnmover and In Sight in no way curb each element’s voltage in spite of their speed, and Life Sentence (my first DK favourite) proves its worth in its thundering toms and Jello’s wry jeers, blasting into its catchy, acerbic chorus.
So, last week I reviewed the Misfits’ Walk Among Us and boldly stated that nothing in this world sounds like Glenn Danzig. Well, nothing sounds like Jello Biafra either, and his brilliant, sardonic drawl in California Uber Alles to firm toms and the warbling bass confirms his vocals as one of a kind. As well as The Man With The Dogs being probably the hardest song in the world to sing (thanks Jello), it has this particularly vivid, saturated sound that’s so gripping. The instrumentals can never be accused of falling short of the frontman’s vibrancy, and that’s definitely a feat in itself.
And of course, Holiday In Cambodia is fucking masterful. We’re introduced to its trademark bassline as the hi-hat ticks, electric guitar piercing the rumbling quiet then collecting together up until the snare guns. The Dead Kennedys play with such spark you can hear the life in the bass and guitar as they drift around and cross each other, building up and releasing like a lucid current, Jello’s vocals coursing with piss-taking disdain. Imagine me, a year ago, on the smoking balcony of my favourite bar (I think after seeing GBH?), hearing Holiday In Cambodia for the first time faintly playing from inside – I remember that I stopped what I was doing and just listened, because it truly felt like something big. I couldn’t believe I’d lived 18 years without someone telling me about it.
Side B launches into what I’ve defined as the ‘perfect cover’: I Fought The Law shifted seamlessly into Dead Kennedys colours, the pace quickened and guitar sound sandy and bright. Tracks like Short Songs and Straight A’s show a more jagged sound at a stomping, almost cartoon-y pace, and I would very happily listen to an entire album of it.
Pull My Strings is an anarchic musical that shits all over the pop music industry, with sneering lyrics like “I ain’t no artist I’m a businessman, no ideas of my own” . Even as an obvious, massive piss-take, the Dead Kennedys pulls off the style so well I’m convinced they could easily make it big as a new wave band, but there’s just one problem…
“is my cock big enough, is my brain small enough, for you to make me a star?”
MISFITS – WALK AMONG US (CD):
It would be boringly obvious to talk about how much the Misfits have changed my life, so it’s probably best I don’t mention it. I bought Walk Among Us four years ago after hearing Astro Zombies for the first time and needing it in physical form, and never looked back since; managing to own every Danzig-Misfits song and practically memorising them, learning them on bass, drums, launching me into the world of – sorry. Anyway, its album art gives us such a good flavour of the Misfits’ sound (without me having to talk about it) in its ghostly, lurid brightness, balanced impossibly, but perfectly, with fierce pacing and classic punky riffs. If only there was a word, or a sub-genre, that exclusively describes their unique sound…
There’s nothing and no one that sounds like Glenn Danzig in this world, and tracks like Violent World, I Turned Into A Martian, Skulls resonate his velvet richness, sailing strong on a nuclear lake of droning (out of tune) electric guitars. You’d think this mood wouldn’t work well with the punchy quickness of 20 Eyes (it does) and Nike A Go Go (guess again) – the rapid-fire snare and major key creating this insane kind of oxymoron against the echoing moodiness.
If I’ve been understating the Misfits’ angry punk power then let All Hell Breaks Loose do the rest of the talking. I couldn’t believe my ears when I’d first encountered its rapid energy and pumping pace; primal toms and metal crashes foregrounding the overdriven guitar and bass, pounding down its classic riff. I played this at my eighteenth and almost made everyone leave – I think the Human League were on before or something. Luckily it’s only 1:46!
For whatever reason, Vampira had never stood out to mean much to me – until I heard the Walk Among Us original. Eerier, damper, dirtier, more warped and ghoulish (duh) than the standard circulated version, this Vampira is so much more three-dimensional and freakish, Danzig’s delayed, echoing vocals and squealing riffs giving the feel of the inside of a Stephen King novel. The same can be said for Walk Among Us’ Astro Zombies; this version is solid and forceful in its drumming and chanting, the reverb on the vocals lessened so that they feel strong, all without losing its haunting touch. Astro Zombies is truly unearthly in its purple vitality.
Get the lawsuit prepared kids, because the Misfits’ live version of the classic Mommy Can I Go Out And Kill Tonight is enough to give you whiplash. Danzig’s vocals are raw and crude, the bass drones and electric guitar gurgles with distortion, the toms guttural and furious and (even) quicker than in the studio version. Its crackling hardcore energy feels different to their ‘sing-along’ anthems – the Misfits can really do it all.
If you hadn’t noticed, the Misfits is such a multi-faceted band, and I think each of their studio albums shows a different side to their sound. Walk Among Us, I think, gives us all of their best; and it should be the first Misfits album you hear.
MINOR THREAT – MINOR THREAT (VINYL):
Compilation of two EPs by Minor Threat, American hardcore punk icons. 10/10
Minor Threat is ferocious. When I’d first put this record on, sitting on my bed in my room, the fastest thing I’d heard to date was Wart Hog by The Ramones. At that point, nothing in the world could have prepared me for Minor Threat’s startling speed: side A’s eight tracks clock in at under ten minutes, its thumping pace exhilarating and fresh – vocalist Ian Mackaye’s focused, sober adrenaline in every track so intense you can taste it. I raise my glass to them – cheers boys.
While listening to tracks like Seeing Red, Out Of Step (With The World) and Minor Threat, you can almost see dusty make-shift practice rooms under huge American blue skies. Minor Threat’s sunny riffs and pumping speed exudes such contagious energy it’s impossible to keep still, their youthful vigour pure and gripping.
Straight Edge rips for 44 seconds straight. Words fail it; it’s a staple every punk needs to hear.
One of the most admirable things about Minor Threat is their pedigree punkness. Their Ramones-esque self-named tracks emit such unadulterated anger in a way that’s so fundamentally punk; I Don’t Wanna Hear It and Screaming At A Wall channelling a kid in their room who’s pissed off with the world, a feeling that ignited punk and a feeling immortalised forever in their music.
Side B introduces a broader, more hardcore sound. Their tracks like In My Eyes and Steppin’ Stone feel more journeyed and full without leaving behind their blistering pace, casting the perfect balance between melody and ferocity. Even if you’re sceptical of American hardcore punk, Minor Threat will not disappoint you.
Critics may comment on the fact that… well. It might be tricky sometimes to tell where one song ends and the other starts. But the truth is that one minute per track (give or take) leaves you craving more – their colourful aggression is addictive. Even if you say that Side A is a nine and a half minute Minor Threat song, I see no problem here.
SUBHUMANS – TIMES FLIES... BUT AEROPLANES CRASH (VINYL):
* WARNING: this is the second album review I ever wrote – and it’s dreadful!! You have to admire the enthusiasm though. *
Undeniably the perfect introduction to punk: easy listening, clever, dynamic, thrilling; and underlying their intricate musicianship is an unfiltered, fuck-off attitude against systematic normality. If you haven’t heard Subhumans before, now’s your time.
Side A begins with the punchy and quick Get Out Of My Way, introducing Dick’s strong, hard-hitting vocals – some of the best in the business. First Aid shows off not only each musician’s dexterity, but their absolute sense of cohesion as a unit; the scaling bassline, sharper, edged riffing and ticking cymbals weaving together seamlessly, while Word Factory presents a more measured sound through the staccato chords and heavy bass, Dick’s vocals taking the limelight. From this point on, Subhumans’ real triumph comes into play: the creation of trajectory in their music.
People Are Scared is a living, breathing culmination of Subhumans’ musical ingenuity in its dynamism and suspense, the bass pacing and cymbals clicking as Dick narrates. The rush of snares then welcomes in a rise in clattering energy, instruments collecting and building together, Dick’s vocals furious and bitter, wired with raucous energy from the live recording. The band then loosen calmly, back to original pace, as they continue building up and falling down with such professional ease you’re taken along in their current, wondering why you’re out of breath.
While Side B holds more sombre tracks like Susan, which unapologetically broadcasts pure political irony, their vigour isn’t dampened thanks to the two live performances of I Don’t Wanna Die and Everyday Life. With that being said, even in its calmer pace, Susan could be Subhumans’ most powerful song. The antique piano, as constant as Dick’s aloof narration, is broken by clashes of guitar, the texture and contrast discordant and unsettling. Even if you can’t be arsed with listening to the lyrics (“the epitaph has faded badly no one reads it anyway”), Susan‘s chilling poignancy is untouchable.
You barely have time to process the last three minutes of undiluted melancholic anarchy when the toms rip, I Don’t Wanna Die knocking you back as the pace rockets, urgent and thrilling and alive, Dick’s vocals taking a turn from the nonchalance of Susan to an outburst of bile and grit, so bitter it pulls at you. If I’m telling you that this live version is better than the original studio track, then take my word for it – it must be pretty fucking good.
As with Susan, Work•Rest•Play•Die gives no shits – a parodical, cheery piss-take, laying down defiance to a military-eque stick count. Subumans don’t just play punk: they are, and always will be, the effortless epitome of punk rock.
Time Flies… encapsulates all facets of the Subhumans, bringing the best of all sides together in one sitting. Have a listen and see what you like most.
DISORDER – THE SINGLES COLLECTION (VINYL):
Compilation of Disorder's most hair-raising tracks. 10/10
* WARNING – this is the FIRST album review I’d ever written and it’s terrible!!! *
Today’s World crackles to life, its heaving riffs electric with distortion, grounded by the throaty toms, gripping you by the stomach. Side A showcases Disorder’s very own ‘gravitational pull’ in its full triumph – Violent Crime‘s adrenaline-inducing roar built up of the gut wrenching elevation in bassline, guitar and vocals, all tightly wound and interlocked.
As the seismic bass broods, the kick and snare ignites tracks like Insane Youth and Complete Disorder into a landscape of staticky commotion, bassline thundering through the scratching, abrasive riffing, the reverb on Boobs’ vocals drawing themselves deeper within the uproar, as if fading within their own self-made disorder. Both tracks pave the way for the masterful chaos imminent: You’ve Got To Be Someone
You’re unsuspecting as the guitar waves in its cheery welcome, then dubious as the last note hangs in the air, contorting into a single sharp tone of distorted feedback… and as the angry toms set into action, you’re hit full force with immediate power. The metal crashing of cymbals, the tumbling of toms falling about, the vocals channelling all the painful, primal frustration in the world as the electric guitar reels – you’re living and breathing within one of Disorder’s most staggering tracks.
Side B introduces More Than Fights in the same, awe-inspiring direction, the stampeding drums, grating yells and churning toms proving its worth among the ranks of You’ve Got To Be Someone. Its violent, crackling energy is echoed in Provocated War; its ferocity relentlessly driven through by the pummelling kick.
While Daily Life sees the return of Disorder’s core-gripping rise and fall, the bass, guitar and vocals dominating as a unit, the rest of Side B displays a harsher edge. The metallic crashing of cymbals and strong bassline, teamed with more brutal vocals and layered echoed screaming equips Rampton Song with a new ominosity, especially in contrast with Daily Life‘s more light-hearted lyrics. Bullshit Everyone is born amongst squealing and rumbling, twisting eerily together before being met by a sinister bassline, the clash of the ride and measured stamps of the kick and snare simulating almost evil-sounding, metallic machinery. It’s safe to say that Disorder pulls off the darker tone even with their piss-take lyrics; Buy I Gurt Pint and their cover of 3 Blind Mice chugging along more menacingly than imaginable.
This album is perfect for first-time listeners of Disorder, or just anyone who wants all their relentless, raw, pant-pissing power in one place. Though it’s probably fair to say that if you like one song, you’ll like them all, I present to you the old saying: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it