It's hard to overstate the mythic position that guns have within the contemporary imagination. Sources of power and dispensers of fear, they are implements that set their sights on the hinge points of history, striking them and spinning them on their axis; an exchange of smoke and blood in incalculable magnitudes; the trajectory of countless pivotal, piercing brass streaks tear through the tomes of time like a bullet through butterfly wings, rewriting the course of human affairs in their wake. One of the enduring legacies of the Mongol incursion into Europe, it was the gun that changed the tides of the Sengoku period when Portuguese traders washed up on the Southern rim of the Japanese archipelago, bringing this violent innovation full circle and changing the nature of conquest in East Asia 400 years after gunpowder was introduced to the West by the great horde. Every revolution in the modern era has leaned on this tool as both agency and arsenal, justice and deliverance, while every uprising that has seen itself smothered was choked out in a haze of hot, chalky blue residue coughed out by the same. Then there is America's specific relationship to these instruments of grandiose annihilation, a pillar and totem of popular political strength; they mostly serve as playthings for the socially marginal and declassed for performing toothless tantrums in provincial wooded areas, and as the means for settling petty grudges and satisfying venomous resentments in a litany of tragedies recounted across timelines and news feeds, landing in the lap of the public with little more than a resigned sigh. Few would aver to embody such a disputatious and complex legacy, or don such a heritage of revolution and ruin by choice, and yet New York City tetrad Gun have proven so bold. On their second LP, Neo Notown, the group compresses their insurgent energy into a progressive message of hope broadcast across a desaturated techno-surveillance dystopia, not unlike the Big Apple of present-day, or any other collapsing megacity one can find themselves slowly crushed by across the globe. A jet-set soundtrack that twists early '00s alt metal, industrial rock, noise punk, and funk into a riffled cylinder of steel by which to discharge a burst of pure adrenaline to your cortex in a colorful splash of heat-ignited, reactive rebellion. They sweep and stun from the outset on the groove-swagger slugfest opener and title track, before bouncing the turnstile and grinding the rails on "Laser Gun," directing fluctuating phaser fields of pitch-shifting guitar fluctuations to power a Cypress Hill-summiting royal with a panged, determined, and desperate trust in the direction of Stabbing Westward. Wacked-out grooves rebound off brick facades, flickering streetlights, and past spying doorway portals on the clandestine cylinder slide and delayed sizzling payload of "Bullet Town," while "Walking on the Sun" sprays straight from the hip, letting the trigger slip as they carve a full-metal manifesto in the air, bars whirling in a ballet of carnage like spent cases spinning south of heaven, all while grooves claw at the seams of sonic propriety, prying away the varnish in a torquing separation of flesh from its fetters. "Star-Crossed Fighters" brings a knife to the fray, one large and sharp enough to rive the roof clean off a Buick, surprising the interior of the cabin, and your skull, with a glistening bath of uninvited sunshine, a high point which leaves room for the downshifting reprieve of "The Armory" to follow. Once fully recharged and resupplied, Gun takes aim and empties the clip on "Ready, Set, Action!" - a rich and chewy serving of lead salad with a side of gut-ripping riffs and stomp-steady grooves that will reduce the brawn of the unworthy to a pliable pulp, a fine-grain pâté suitable for the palate of the discerning sewer-dwelling vermin, it is a triumph that is preceded by a sweeping procession of closer "Victory" a track that rolls over the vanquished with light-footed, moonwalking grooves and a Richter scale-busting beat. You've heard voices of previous generations tell you to load up on guns and bring your friends; well, presently, you and your pals just need one to seize the day, and this is it- point-blank and in your face. Fill your hands, you son of a bitch, and show what grit you've got to give! Neo Notown or bust!
