Album Review: Blind Justice - No Matter the Cost

Blind Justice is a hardcore band from New Jersey, and I'm pretty sure they only have two albums: 2015's Undertow and 2017's No Matter the Cost. This was a period when Zzz'rs and youngish millstones were still (re)discovering hardcore music, in the same way that you might discover that you left a fiver in your back pocket on laundry day, and manage to magically dig it out on a day you left your wallet at home and decide to stop by the taco truck for lunch (and yeah, you can still get pretty good tacos in Chicago for a fiver... you know, in the event you'd rather eat than save for a lead-lined firetrap in an under-resourced part of the city in 4-5 years for double its current market price). This music was always there, but greenhorns were just managing to gouge themselves on its rougher edges at a time when underground music was desperately in need of an adrenaline fix- on god, good on them. As for Blind Justice, they're named after an Agnostic Front song (Duh!). The album of theirs that I'm best acquainted with is No Matter the Cost, and it's pretty much all there in the title. Relentless, untrammeled truth and fury, unleashed without regard for life, limb, or the happiness of liars, cheats, and hypocrites. They're not metalcore; they don't play around with time signatures; they don't accent tracks with samples from action movies or French New Wave cinema; and there is nothing "elevating" about their sound that attempts to "push the limits" of hardcore. And boy, is it pure mana from mosh-Minvera. Old-school, heedless, don't-mess-with-us hardcore in the vein of Sick of It All, Terror, and Bane. Stomping guitar churns, depth-charge bursting subtonal bass, plummeting breakdowns, and relentless air-raid siren vocals. Lyrics deal with self-assertion, wanton destruction of property, building lifelong friendships, and attacking political corruption. Blind Justice will kick down your door, windmill-kick all your shabby, sunken, second-hand furniture to death, and burn the roach motel sublet to the ground just for the hell of it. They're frankly doing you a favor. No dump, no lease, no landlord, no problem. Go with the wind. God speed.

Flatspot (on your forehead where the spin kick hit) Records.

Album Review: Hiro Ama - Booster Pack EP

I chanced upon a book compiling '90s rave posters from Japan the other day, and it was pretty exciting. The use of color, and often lack thereof; the stylized and expressive characters drawn specifically to divert the eye and cause the brain to sizzle with imagined possibilities; the chaotic, trippy, and almost manic layouts and combinations of fonts and graphics—totally anarchic, fierce, and belligerently charismatic. More punk rock than the punk rock flyers I grew up with, which were mostly photocopy stills from films like Taxi Driver and Repo Man with the bands' logos superimposed over the actors' eyes, like we were pretending that Robert De Niro was in witness protection or something. No doubt, if the electronic music scene by me in Anywhere, Wisconsin, had the vibrant energy of these rave flyers while I was in high school, my life would have taken a dramatically different turn (and I'd probably have had to go to rehab for some all-too-abundant party drug too)... maybe it all worked out for the best. My tendency to cultivate a quiet, hermetic life in the sprawl of urbania is a byproduct of having already OD'd on power chords and pogo grooves in wilder years, and this more mature malaise has brought me to the point where I'm able to fully appreciate the densely textural and ruminative ambiance of the kind that producer Hiro Ama is keen on plucking from her daydreams and casting into the wind like a fistful of dandelion pappus. This is, of course, all brought full circle by Ama's latest EP, Booster Pack, which is unmistakably a trance album, but not of the kind that one might find in any of the erstwhile basements, lofts, or warehouses advertised during the high-water mark of Japan's rave era—it's highly tactile, with the grain of polished leather, a palpable kind of body-music that doesn't attempt to escape the confines of personage or personification, but is localized in the pumping circulation of energy through vessels that connect the body with the soul, and propel it to move on command. It's polished, but not barren of imperfections or the pulse of human warmth. Like her other work, it's not a collection of tracks that takes one out of the moment, but rather permits one to sink ever deeper into it, intensifying a sense of lucidity the longer the listener learns to identify with and interpret the imprint of echoes that it traces on the consciousness. The fact that these tracks are so boldly propulsive when compared to her other pieces grants a certain kinetic liveliness to the reflective reverie of the work, causing a kind of extended anthropomorphism to boil up and swirl around the objects in the vicinity, ceding them a lively and conversative plasticity, and enlisting them as rebounding partners in a volley of charades and assorted gambits of memory. If you find yourself in a full-on argument with a potted plant about the explication of a tarot card you pulled from a deck, or discussing with a nearby interior divider whether its current coat of paint possesses the proper undertone of warmth for the present season, you know you're starting to get somewhere with this record.

Girls who say PRAH (Recordings). 

Album Review: Ex Eye - Ex Eye

Welcome to Number of the Beef- the only late-night metal hash dealer this side of the river Styx. We got three hot plates here for you knuckleheads. Boy, you knaves really love your jazz-metal. Are you sure you should be ingesting something this dense so late? Ah well, I'll let all y'all's wives scold you later after she notices your spare tires have started to overinflate. Okay, we got a short stack of Dead Neanderthals, here you go. And a skillet full of Sly & the Family Drone, there you go, darlin'. And... who had the Ex Eye? Boy, hadn't had one of these on order in a while. Let me tell you a little about them. Ex Eye is an instrumental metal quartet, led by avant-garde saxophonist Colin Stetson. Stetson is joined by Shahzad Ismaily on synths, Toby Summerfield on guitar, and Greg Fox, formerly of the "black metal" band Liturgy, on drums (because of course he does- you want this man on the friggin' bassoon?). They perform tightly wound, incredibly intricate, and aggressive post-rock, with hints of free-form jazz and thick layers of hazy, void-gazing doom metal, a la Electric Wizard and Acid King, folded into the mix. Stetson's saxophone playing is always a rewarding and fascinating listen, but it is particularly astounding to hear him keep pace, note-for-note, with the blazing guitar work on this album. Ex Eye was their debut LP, and only full release to date, dropping in the summer of 2017. It was recorded live at Ismaily's own Figure 8 Studios and released on established extreme, top-tier metal bulkhead, Relapse Records. Check out the punchy album opener "Xenolith; the Anvil" with its savage, cascading drums, adrenaline-pumping synths, and the deep, leviathanized grooves laid down by Stetson's sax; "Opposition/Perihelion" with its wormhole-like, intersecting guitar tremolos, screeching synths, and, of course, Stetson's sax performance, which pours over and melts through the compositions like molten hail; and lastly, the trance-inducing and intensity-ramping maelstrom of "Form Constant; Grid." Bon appetit, assholes!

Jazzcats were the first counter-cultural junkies, and they had an unfortunate tendency to Relapse (Records). 

Album Review: Tequila Mockingbird - You Always Felt Lost

Harper Lee wrote that it is a sin to kill a mockingbird because of its inherent innocence. To snuff out a mockingbird is to silence a creature whose only earthly desire is to sing. Fair enough. But what about getting one drunk? Would it be wicked or winsome to party with a mockingbird? Is a mockingbird a shy drunk, or a surly one? After pounding un par rounds of Patrón, is a mockingbird going to drop the singing bit and start roasting my ass like a little feathery Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (Hey, where did he get that cigar?) Of course, none of these pressing moral quandaries are answered on Tequila Mockingbird's LP, You Always Felt Lost. Taking their name, I presume, from the 1977 album by the late jazz pianist and legend, Ramsey Lewis, the Lansing-based group generally runs the exposed raw nerves of mid-'00s post-hardcore through the pasta-roller of 5th-wave emo, cranking out kinky, rough-grain, and discernibly heavy guitar-pop, which translates abstract caterwauls of rebellion into plainly personal insights that peer down the narrow halls of depression, loss, and a diminishing sense of purpose, often name-checking peers and guiding confidants such as Hot Mulligan and Michael Cera Palin in their song titles and lyrics, and drawing direct influence from them in constructing their sound. The lyrical delivery of vocalist Joseph adds that extra density of circuitry and connectivity that makes the sensibilities of this passionate kinetic ordinance of sound combust and resolve like a mile-long string of firecrackers- pain and perseverance mixing in a smear of splattering, effusive elocution that brings the strength of a wild cataract to a single shuddering tear. You Always Felt Lost is a sonar beacon to locate the like-minded and lonely in the depths of the perpetual winter of stifled sentimental solidarity. Now if only they could tell me whether or not God will condemn me for getting his favorite flighted crooners plastered, then they'll have basically provided me with all the answers I need in this life and beyond. 

Album Review: Lobsterfight - My Coat Hanger Is A Necklace

My Coat Hanger Is a Necklace because I'm always just hangin' around. It's not uncommon to be mistaken for a piece of furniture. A backrest to throw a jacket on, or a stool to heave a pair of loafers over. Sometimes everyone's invited to the party except you- a troubling epiphany, especially when you're the host. Drunken renditions of songs you remember from high school, about boys coming of age and recognizing themselves in the beautiful, sleek visage of swelt, prowling jaguars from National Geographic posters hung up in the science lab. Colorfully plumed creatures sing their own praises, nearly slurred, the words already half-forgotten, in a chorus of gaily varnished martins, and the whole world sings with them; even the armchair hums a few bars, vibrating a hushed resignation to the whims of the crowd, wishing someone would perchance tilt their solo cup full of Kool-Aid and Captain Morgan over its cushion so the nauseating concoction can seep in and soak up some of the social torpor and relieve the inertia that has relegated it to mere rear support in this crowded den. Souls rise and fall, and the wind of jolly bluster goes out through the gaps in this creaky old house. The band plays; they invite a racket; they bang on all manner of things, and it makes a melody as sweet as amber scraped from a royal Egyptian apiary while they sing of dancing blades twirling in the clouds, dead men walking, dreams of misfortune as accosting as a traipsing shade, and close passes with the devil. A lamp is decked off a table; sparks course through the hot, swirling air and conversation; a flame creeps up the wall, out the window, and is hoofing on the roof before anyone is the wiser. By daybreak, the soirée and socialites are little more than a charcoal bed, still glowing, still laughing, still hot but hushed now to a crackle, inert but pensive, anticipating the day when St. Vitus will descend to their resting hearth. On that morning, the now-skeletal band will reskin their drums, stretch their own singed tendons to restring the chords of their piano, and strike up a tempo as these scorched merry bones carole in a train, off and over the horizon. And still I'll be hanging here, wondering when it will be my chance to join in this danse macabre to celebrate my so-called life. 

Album Review: Expulsion - Nightmare Future

Expulsion is the womb-pest of Matt Olivio, guitarist of grindcore legends Repulsion. It sounds like it too! Mean, ugly, thrashy, and well... repulsive! Although, Expulsion sounds a little more like a blistering, blood-thirsty hardcore band than a grindcore gremlin to my ears, and this I think is confirmed to the degree that they cleaved sustenance and influence from heavily punk-infected death metal acts like Gruesome and Necrot, pairing turgid tremolos, acidic bass parts, and savage tempo changes with undulating thrash riffs and cleaving arpeggios, replete with croaking shout vocals supplied by grindcore and death metal vet Matt Harvey (of Exhumed, and yeah... Gruesome! [Hell yeah brother!]). Think Gorguts meets Power Trip, minus the darkly festive sense of bombast that tends to soften the blow of either of those acts. With all these gory details to dye your expectations, you couldn't be faulted for anticipating that their 2017 LP Nightmare Future would have to be a hell of a ripper—in fact, it is! Strap in for the grinding, untrammeled fury of "Total Human Genocide" with its sub-tonal, somersaulting bass, roller-coaster riffs, and apocalyptic lyrical themes; the overdrive excess of "Nightmare Future" with its double-time tempo, prowling guttural vocals, and acrobatic thrash-infused riffs that rise and fall like an air-raid siren; and lastly, the heedless headbanger "Funeral Bells" with its alternating dynamic of souped-up riff-grinds which give way to sudden tempo downshifts and morbid, dragging guitar dirges. The real nightmare begins when the growling feedback and howling subsides, and you find yourself shaking, distraught, and too weak to hold back from hitting that play button again, finding yourself addicted to their savagery, and impetuously eager to crawl back into the belly of Expulsion's brazen bull of cyclonic sound, begging to lay your body down as fuel for their bellowing conflagration.

Getting back to my dumb metal guy phase. You could even say that I'm Relaps[e](ing).

Album Review: 32-Bit Operator - Trial Run

Crunchy, exuberant, and charmingly ambitious, 32-Bit operator is the pint-sized, rock-opera revue baked like a trapped, diminutive tempest within a juicy wedge of Raspberry Pi-sized ideaphoria, bursting with bitter zest and sweetly nostalgic relish. The group offers the agitated yet revealing lyrical content and delivery of an anarcho-folk-punk group with the bombastic compositional quirks and afflictedly affable pop tendencies of ophidian orators of the polymorphic cast such as Snakefinger and other lightly venomous sonic scribes, annotating the ledgers of the comprehensive repository of all human events with an index of pretty gripes and profound hemorrhaging lacerations. Trial Run is their most up-to-date sonic prototype, compressing and splitting the focus of their laser diode-like aim so that it produces a scattershot prismatic spectacle of runaway chords, overheated feedback, tenuously compiled architectures, collapsing builds, and dense releases, lushly abundant with a sparking amperage of electric emotion. It occupies superficially 2-D space rendered with the exactitude of the luxuriant realism of Strazza's Veiled Virgin, maintaining an affordable verisimilitude while crawling through a dungeon of dancing caricatures and comically embellished meshes, press-ganging the listener into their fantastic descent where reconciliations can only be achieved to the extent that they are emphatically embraced in all their messy, uneasy (dis)unity. Rated E for everyone with ears and a heart to spare.

Don't hate them because they're Beautiful Rat Records.

Album Review: Dustin Wong & Takako Minekawa - Are Euphoria

Am I writing a review of Dustin Wong and Takako Minekawa's collaborative LP Are Euphoria because I'm putting off drafting a retrospective on the previously mentioned players' 2018 collaboration with Good Will Smith, titled Exit Future Heart? I mean... maybe? I saved Exit Future Heart to my Bandcamp wishlist the week it came out, but only recently (as in two days ago) recalled that Dustin and Takako had an album out together just the year prior, and at some deep psychological level, my reluctance to cover EFH after all these years may be manifesting in a further fit of creative procrastination at the moment. As much joy as I take in floundering humiliatingly in front of you in the moment, I do actually want to take a moment to put a frame around Are Euphoria and point to it as a thing that exists today, because as far as things that exist are concerned, it's one of the pleasantest in my estimation. Are Euphoria is the third collaboration between guitarist Dustin Wong of the Baltimore art-punks Ponytail and Takako Minekawa, best known for her contributions to the Shibuya-kei pop scene in the '90s with Fancy Face Groovy Name, after which she developed her love of French pop, Latin, and electronic music over the course of a storied and splendid solo career. All of this being true and relevant, it doesn't get you to the point of departure for Are Euphoria, though, as sonically, it exists in a self-contained, if expansive, dream atrium, with an effusively tactile, yet strikingly spongy structure, where the listener is seized by the enticement of the abiding and unfurling edifices, and seduced into temporary rapture of peculiarly intimate and prevailingly recognizable motifs that lack an unequivocal origin point or visa, but instead coalesce intrinsically into internally magnified loops of mindful rendition of material precognition, embroidered with the discrete narrative overlays of the diffuse human clay whose evaporated aspirations have been condensed into a psychic biosphere, more diverse and fertile than even the sum of its parts can account for. Are Euphoria is an attempt to siphon and divert a limited sample of the spectrum captured from the combined pillar of light beaming from 8 billion brainstems in a manner that is representative of all and yet perceptible by the same, without overwhelming the senses—a reharmonization of the chorus of the heart so that it may resonate with the ecstasy of others. As I said, among the things that you may find manifest in this world, Are Euphoria is undoubtedly one of the more delightful.

What's a synonym for Joy Rider? (Thrill Jockey Records)