Last year, and the year before that, we saw the rise and peak of interest in melodic hardcore that reincorporates the textures, tones, and attitude of '90 alternative rock. This trend is not quite as strong as it was, but I believe that Stud Count's self-titled is still one of the better embodiments of said cultural thrust and likely one of the more long-lived. After all, their latest album dropped halfway through last year, and I'm about to heap a load of adoration on it like it's a fresh spring flower, miraculously preserved among the frost and slew of December. For starters, Stud Count have a supreme sense of propulsion. It's fantastic just how swiftly this band moves and I felt like I had a crease running through me from their wagon train before I even thought to blink. Also, while their self-titled is obviously riding on the knife's edge of some pretty dire emotions, they never let the heaviness of their subject matter weigh them down. When trolling through the tumult of their own subjectivity with the aid of brooding '90s nostalgia, there is a real tendency for bands to get as mopey and withdrawn as a goth kid who dumped a half-liter of Baja Blast down the front of their Jncos at the mall food court and are now waiting for a ride from their Mom to pick them up while looking like they'd completely rinsed their pants- when a band gets too bogged down in their feels, it can be just as awkward and embarrassing as all that. However, any sense of hesitation or excess moister on Stud Count's self-titled is wicked away like ash and smoke from a clove cigarette out the cracked window of a hand me down sedan. I'm going to belabor this point only a little further for emphasis's sake; it is awe-inspiring how brisk Stud Count's execution is! There aren't many punk bands that have this strong or consistent of a rhythm section- Turnstile, of course, comes to mind, and that is my closest comparison, but there is a ruthlessness to Stud Count's groove and grind that is more akin to Discharge and bands of a cruster stratum and breed of rogue than the funkier flow frothing out of Maryland. The adrenaline-peeling quality of Stud Count's rhythms plays off the more melodic components of their sound in a way that redoubles the force of the latter, offering the coppery slither and lustrous lace of Norelle Green's vocals a positively delectable hard, venom coating. It's a combination that offers a seismic gain when the group curls into a Tsunami Bomb-esque sour zephyr punch and garnishes their offering with a sharpened razory bite, providing the bubble grit of their intermittent Veruca Salt seasoning a satisfyingly acidic piquancy. As long as I'm dropping '90s references here, the waterlogged reverb and bleeding angst exuded by "Give Me Time" sounds like a rendition of Green Day's "Brain Stew" if it was run through a high-velocity blender, and "Through My Window" feels like crashing through a succession of plate glass windows while being dogged by a werewolf infected version of Letters to Cleo, the blood dripping from your cheeks and limbs from the broken shards further provoking the blood lust of your feral sundress adorned, pursuer. Then there are the chain whip disciplined, pit cripplers like "Maniacal Laughter" "Delicacy" which prove up the facts of their hardboiled nature without sacrificing any of their inherent mischievousness or flexibility. And finally, there is the closer "Avenue" which winds down on a suitably desperate tone, one that feels damp with piteous perspiration, and whose melancholic quiver lingers in its aching solace, wrapped in cutting reverb, like memories clinging to the pitted tissue of an old scar. You can count the number of duds on Stud Count's self-titled on the extended digits of a closed fist, caped in a soft-leather glove- in that there are none, and the impact, once felt, will be as smooth as it is intentional and brimming with force.
