"Happy like a butcher's dog" is an outmoded phrase. It's why you don't hear it anymore. The idea behind the saying was that a butcher's dog was a particularly well-fed and satisfied animal- a creature who wants for nothing because all their desires have been maximally obtained. The saying was held up as an idealized state for a married man to achieve in the '50s- a plateau of satisfaction he could reach by the efforts of his wife- a functional domestic servant.
Now the era in which the phrase gained popularity was a tyrannical period of sex relations, full stop. And the forms of domestic relations promoted during the mid 20th Century within the United States have thankfully been defeated by years of activism and cultural conversation. But even in the light of these victories though, things still aren't great for women, for men, for anyone. Life sucks and it doesn't seem like there is much hope of it getting better. It is in this milieu of punishing dissatisfaction though that a group like Butcher's Dog can give provide solace by giving voice to our perpetual state of discontent. You might not be able to stop your suffering, but at least you don't have to suffer in silence.
The Cincinnati's group's debut Purist Piss Codes takes a bite out of the wasteland of modernity in the form of scathing, polemical, and early '80s styled hardcore punk. The angst on this record pours out like blood-colored, rust-tainted water from an exploded boiler- a spleen that vents enteral. The group rages against a sense of dislocation on the whiplash flagellator "Planned Obsolescence," trips over their failures and lack of internal mechanism of control before pivoting into a drunken roundhouse kick on "Compulsion," and finally mashes their rotten emotions into a poisonous porridge of vinegar, piss, and strychnine and serves it up on "Bad Apple."
The vocals have this sneering chop to them that overwhelms you like the onslaught of a school of piranhas- a quiver of aggression on its lips as it strips you bare with thousand serrated, knife-like teeth. The drum work is delightfully grotesque as well, with the cymbals resembling the din of dented pot lids rescued from a thrift store dumpster and the thump of the bass kick sounding like someone practicing their boxing on a punching bag full of greying hamburger meat. And then there is the guitar work, which models that signature slice and drag approach that you'd hear from early LA hardcore bands in a manner that is totally defiant of any of semblance good taste or restraint.
You can't always overcome the source of your rage. Sometimes the best you can do is articulate it in ways that satisfactorily weaponize your alienation against the culture at large. In this respect, Purist Piss Codes is perfect! I can't say that this record solves anything that is wrong with the world, but it is a sick fucking racket, and that is good enough for now.
