A little too quirky to be hardcore, too heavy to be rock, and probably post-a-lot-of-things, this record might not be groundbreaking, but it’s pretty hard to pin down. Snotty, screamed vocals that sound straight out of the early ’90s sit nicely in the mix with AmRep-style noise rock. It’s busy enough to be interesting, but not so busy that it isn’t catchy.
Here’s a whirlwind of noisy punk lunacy. BESTA QUADRADA blasts out seven tracks of gritty hardcore oozing with character. Distinctive riffs are in abundance here, striking just the right balance between catchy and tough. Top-shelf drumming lends even the dirge-like numbers a propulsive quality. The vocals, dialed a touch back in the mix, tie everything together and draw the listener down into the mire. Not quite as frenetic as FUGITIVE BUBBLE, but not far afield either, I’m reminded of the short-lived JJ DOLL and a bit of the much beloved TYRADES. Killer stuff.
Freaky clown party from this group of Memphis friends that continues their run of short and direct punk bombs. Sometimes fun and sometimes deadly serious, these eight tracks all center around a big, lizard-brain-tickling rock riff and vocalist Lucy’s distinctive and enthusiastic yelps. Every one of them is a hit. We get the instant fun punk jams like future dance classics “Frogman” and “Teeth” (“More sugar, more plaque / Please teeth come back”), hearkening back to BIG CLOWN’s excellent Gonerfest sets. However, these joyous moments are tempered with earnest and impactful songs about issues like consent (“Always Knew”) and water contamination (“I’m Thirsty”). The record is great throughout, but the last line takes the cake: “So when I drink your blood / Don’t beg me for mercy / Motherfucker / I’m thirsty.” These are honestly the only clowns I like.
Face-melting, hi-energy electro (punk?) blasts from BRUTE SPRING. There are elements that fall in line with late ’80s dancefloor industrial, with lots of skittish, erratic action that lives in a damaged world all its own. The mid-paced moments (“Furious Veins,” the six-plus-minute mindfukk “Spiritual Leader”) are where the band will likely find followers among fans of the damaged depths of the Play It Again Sam catalog and peripheral acts like CLOCK DVA, while the manic pummeling of “Orange Strain” and the opener “High Tension Wire Manipulator” hit like primitive industrial synth on a bathtub crank bender. This one is a total winner.
Stench of Morgue, Scent of Parties begins with a D-beat number, complete with spartan bass/snare thumping over reverbed vocals. The band quickly departs from that format while staying in the musical neighborhood. Throughout you’ll hear noisy, squealing guitar, a slower, blues-y beat under a fuzzy bass, and piercing single notes. Think of this as a kinda noise (not music) revue. Enjoy!
Genre-bending madness at its finest—ISMATIC GURU is here to paint your skull with the trippiest colors of a poised rainbow, and plunge your mind down the most elusive of rabbit’s holes. With this third installment of an ongoing collaboration between John Toohill (a.k.a. SCIENCE MAN) and Bran Schlia (CLUMP), we are treated to a circus of absurdist surreality where synthesizers warble, writhe, and do battle with undulating guitars and skronking bass. The cadence of the vocals calls to mind the misleadingly casual delivery of Henry Wood, with accelerated paranoia coloring the timbre. The musicianship is impressive, but never flashy or overly indulgent. Post-new wave crashes headlong into post-punk…from the wreckage emerges ISMATIC GURU. The results are dense, disturbing, and ecstatically deranged. Killer stuff. For the freaks, by the freaks.
Fidgety, repetitive math-punk meeting at the intersection of DEVO and BEEFHEART. Deadpan slice-of-life vocals remind me of URANIUM CLUB. Often this type of music is technically well- played but lacking in terms of focus or songwriting clarity. ISMATIC GURU’s six songs here layer clever guitar interplay and kinetic rhythms with defined structure and a trajectory that actually brings the listener along, while still getting in and out in under two minutes. Great stuff.
Treble-punk meets synthwave on this short and fun tape. Imagine the top-of-the-neck guitar lines of CONEHEADS with the bright and bouncy keys of CHERRY CHEEKS and you’ll get the idea. The bio describes the vocals as “goblin ELVIS,” and I can’t do better than that. Every song is a perfect bouncy rocker with interlocking guitar and keyboard elements that are catchy and danceable, with a warm bass (or maybe organ?) sound that is mixed perfectly. The last song is called “Hey, Little Fucker,” which is an A+ title. If you’re on team egg, check this one out.
Ten somber, atmospheric epics that rarely clock in at less than four minutes, yet hold my attention the whole way through. A common-enough denominator—though nowhere near the whole picture—might be some of DEPECHE MODE’s slowest points, with even more sparse percussion for the most part. A few songs are driven by melancholy organ, with a choir of soulful backups to match, while others by (electric) piano or fuzzy synth. The vocalist has a distinct baritone, and the main instrumentalist, David Kane, started making electronic music in the late ’70s, but except for the aforementioned synth, most of the electronics here are part of the ambiance rather than in the foreground. That these intricate and moving songs were created mostly by two people is an even greater accomplishment.
There’s no speed limit in Bad Boy City. No stop signs, no traffic lights, and certainly no cops. Danger lies around every corner, but trust me, the trip is well worth the gamble. Spawned from the same primordial ooze that brought us SCIENCE MAN, BROWN SUGAR, SPIT KINK, and NERVOUS TICK AND THE ZIPPER LIPS, among many others, this posthumous EP may be the touchstone of RADIATION RISKS’ catalog. These stalwarts of Buffalo, New York’s enduring punk scene rip through seven tracks of innovative hardcore punk in under twelve minutes. Welcome to Bad Boy City delivers velvet-fisted gut punches through the use of clean guitar, not dissimilar to Japan’s MILK. This EP is chock-full of hooks and surprises. When least expected, RADIATION RISKS will flip the script and downshift from blazing thrash to inflective (dare I say jazzy) interludes, only to slam the pedal back down to the floor. The pervasive sense of wild abandon is not betrayed by these fleeting glimpses of musicality. Rather, it’s clear that RADIATION RISKS don’t take themselves too seriously. Why embark on such wild rides if not for fun? Featuring absolutely killer cover art by Tommyrot and limited to an edition of 100, these bad boys won’t be available for long. Snatch a copy before you can’t. RADIATION RISKS are coming for you!!!
RADIATION RISKS’ punk rock is usually undistorted and accompanied by keyboards and sax, giving it a garage rock feel. However, they weave in different genres while keeping those trappings. That can risk sounding gimmicky or pastiche, but they make it work, mostly by finding the common musical denominator in all the styles. Occasionally, the genre jamming isn’t so smooth, though—the change from an otherwise straightforward garage track to blatant DISCHARGE riffs was so abrupt it made me laugh in surprise. The vocals are hoarse and scratchy, occasionally producing a LITTLE RICHARD-esque yelp, which sounds quite at home.
This band first caught my attention when it was just a one-person project. John Toohill (singer) has since put together a group of like-minded curiosities to record with him on Nines Mecca. The album connects the dots between MC5 and ELECTRIC CHAIR with some metal riffing to carry the weight. Might sound more interesting than it actually is? There is not a ton of variety, as the album’s tracks list all bleed into one another. Standouts for me would be the “The Sign” and “Old Timer,” which offer a bit of refuge from monotony and display a level of vocal terror that could chum around with a young Jerry A. Would be interested to see how the new group continues to formulate.
It’s a rare feat when an album can transport the listener to a place beyond the confines of quotidian cognition. Enter SCIENCE MAN. The brainchild of John Toohill, SCIENCE MAN embodies more than a band or project in that it is an amorphous entity that continually expands, contracts, and creates. Mince’s Cane is an ambitious undertaking that has spawned the seven utterly ripping songs found on this LP, along with a seven-part accompanying short film produced by Toohill and Lindsay Tripp which is available on a professionally duplicated VHS. The videos and the music are truly of a piece, however, they are crafted with such deftness that each can stand on their own. Listening to the album decoupled from the video component is interesting because the music is both imaginative and evocative in its own right. More explosive than a lab experiment gone awry, Mince’s Cane pushes the boundaries of hardcore punk in an unrelenting aural attack. Frenetic drumming undergirds blasting bass and guitar riffs that create a haunting atmosphere for the mutated wailing vocals. The lead guitar parts are forward in the mix, and provide the extent of what one could consider harmony. These leads are juicy, though! As a whole, the album is so ripe with character and perverse charm that it just oozes mystique. That’s where the sense of being transported to another realm comes into play. The songs feel bigger than their constituents, hinting at otherworldly psychotropic visions. Drop the needle and strap in, SCIENCE MAN will strip you of your mortal coil.
I thought I’d listened to SCIENCE MAN before. But I think I was conflating NATURAL MAN BAND and some of the more overtly sci-fi denizens of the egg-punk world, like POWERPLANT or RESEARCH REACTOR CORPORATION. To be honest, that impression isn’t too far off. While SCIENCE MAN (one-man project of John Toohill from RADIATION RISKS and other Buffalo bands) may be more indebted to the NEW BOMB TURKS and less to DEVO than any of those bands, he’s still employing the services of a drum machine to make some “out there” music. This is pretty much lightning-fast garage punk laid atop an incessant, driving industrial track with some metal and prog flourishes thrown in (as I’m writing this out, I’m realizing that’s quite the odd set of genre bedfellows, but it works). Although there are nine separate tracks (the physical release also includes a flexi with an additional track), II functions more as a continuous 20-minute mix—once it gets going, it never lets up. This is all really impressive stuff, but I want to highlight this vocal performance. It’s like Greg Cartwright turned up to eleven. Definitely worth checking out.
Frantic, thrashy record by one-man band SCIENCE MAN. It’s got an industrial-sounding drum machine and noodling metal guitar licks. The vocals are distorted, screechy, and dramatic. It’s loud, wild and fun.
Making music is not a problem for Buffalo madman John Toohill. My dude is never not releasing something! If I had to guess, I’d say the toughest thing for him would be deciding which of his many projects to attribute a song to—SCIENCE MAN, SPIT KINK, BRUTE SPRING, TURQUOISE WINDOW, the HAMILTONES, ALPHA HOPPER, ISMATIC GURU, etc. (I made up one of those, but I doubt he’d have any trouble cranking out something under that name). Anyway, he’s got two tracks for us here as the MIDNIGHT VEIN, his psych-rock outlet. “Kill the King Above” starts out as a stripped-down, acoustic psych number with a vocal melody that calls to mind “Sympathy for the Devil” in no small part due to the Mick-on-Quaaludes performance John gives here. The track slowly builds until it (fittingly) explodes into a Keith Richards-like lead freakout and fades back out. It’s cool enough—kinda reminds me of Goodbye Bread TY SEGALL. The real winner here, though, is “The Link.” It’s six minutes of primitive proto-punk that sounds like “White Light/White Heat” being bashed out on 80 guitars. Every now and then an unruly axe or two will emerge from the fray to absolutely blister your face, while John issues what sound like reprimands to whomever dares underestimate “The Link.” Real good shit!
Yet another unknown band knocking at my door just before Christmas, asking for a merciful review that would pave their way for glory. TORTURE AGENDA is from Buffalo, and the first impression of them is one of evil roughness. We are not talking about the pretense of rawness that many bands revel in these days—no, TORTURE AGENDA is genuinely raw, primal, and probably paying the studio by the hour so that they did not arse around during the session and arrive late to a goat sacrifice or somethig. I enjoy this more than I thought I would. The band is fast and the songwriting is simple (if not basic), not unlike early extreme metal back when it was still highly influenced by hardcore punk, like demo-era POSSESSED or SEPULTURA when they still had acne. But TORTURE AGENDA is a punk band, and they also have that rotten crust vibe, especially in the aggression of the female vocals (maybe like EXCREMENT OF WAR’s?). The overall threatening primitiveness is, I’d suggest, an aesthetic choice, and given the template, it works. I am not sure I could listen to a whole LP, but the six-song tape format is appropriate. I love the artwork, it has that ’80s serious cheesiness that defined extreme metal’s visuals. However, what is the person in the background holding in their Bandcamp profile picture? It looks like a paint roller.
