Piss Crystals-Harn-Chemikalien wunderbare Gedichten 1. EP (2012)

 This band should be huge among noise/punk circles outside of Hungary, so download this EP and hype 'em to yr friends at yr next coke-and-punk party.

In case yr blind and can't make out the image to the left, it features a vaguely crust punk-type fella takin' a whizz on a cross. It's a good image fr this album 'cause a deftly-mixed combination of idiocy and intelligence are what, well, crystallizes this EP into something worth listening to for those who aren't Piss Crystals' drinking buddies.

I initially took umbrage at the intro to "Hug Lyf," but then was told it's a sample from something by the Olsen Twins, so sample/mock on [thanks, Ferenc]. Abruptly, just when you've labelled PC as a goofball band, they break out into fast, urgent Punk Rock that pours out the sincerity so cleverly hidden in the opening skit. "Born Old" is a ragged bit of shouted, emphatically emotional schlock of the sort I always wanted one of the D.C. Revolution Summer bands to make, but those rich Georgetown fucks never did. Even better, halfway through, it becomes savage hardcore then ends.

"Bohocxkiraply" (yeah if yr an Amuricuhn like me it's impossible to pronounce) is savage hardcore the way it was supposed to be played: fast, blurry, idiotic, angry. In fact, the middle tracks of the EP wind themselves up to such a pitch of ugly earnestness that they're as good as Muuy Biien's take on the Middle Class' best riffs. Ugly, fast, deceptively intelligent: this is Piss Crystals in a nutshell. "Glass House" develops in a clear, meditative manner I last heard with Wild Moth: swirling guitar, plodding rhythm section, plenty of reverb. Good for starting a wasted Sunday to. THe singer spits out verses like an alcoholic given one last chance at sobriety: so worried about making a good impression that it's not worth listening to the lyrics 'cause the affect means so much more. I'm guessing "FOAD" has malicious intent aplenty since I was scrawling this legend on bathroom doors when I was 13 (i.e., FOAD=Fuck Off And Die for non-native English speakerz).

The coolest thing about Piss Crystals is their mix of off-the-cuff, "I don't give a fuck" garage scuzz and earnest, emo-esque vocal delivery/instrumental crescendoes. If half of the world's punk or garage bands played like this, we'd be halfway to figuring out the dumb divisions ghettoizing all the various post-punk scenes.

Whatever, Piss Crystals is awesome. Download the EP HERE!

Flesh Lite-demo CS (2013)

It's a safe bet that the Flesh Lite guys spend a lot of time doing bong rips and throwing beer cans at each other in someone's parents' basement in suburban Winnipeg. While blasting "Bleach" and Big Black at unhealthy volumes. Their demo finds Flesh Lite deploying the full panoply of blunt instruments to clobber the listener into numb acquiescence: bricks, clubs, baseball bats, even mattocks!

"Bed Bore" is a slow-building wrecker that just gurgles a savage, shaggy riff over and over again as the singer, Bret, gurgle-burbles something that may or may not be English. "Phlegm" falls somewhere between Nirvana's sludgiest efforts and outright noise: if I was a Hessian I could totally headbang to this tune, but it's a bit too clever in a knuckle-dragging sorta way to be anything truly metal(lic). Mid-way through, a stray note of clean guitar wafts out from under the resin-encrusted wreckage, only to quickly submerge in a shower of distortion. "Fresh Baggage" strays dangerously close to "well-written song" territory, but veers away again for more burbleburblepisshiss crunching noise. I spent a lot of my youth drinking bad beer and listening to Nirvana, and if that activity is part of your past, present, or sounds like a fun idea, you'll probably dig Flesh Lite.

Get into these neanderthals here.

*p.s.-I've been told that there's at least one straight edge member of Flesh Lite, so apparently pepsi cans are involved in the can-throwing contest. Regardless, these guys are fun as hell.*

Bad Indians-Are On the Other Side LP (2013)

My best guess is that the other side referred to in the title is the other side of an 8-day acid-and-speed trip, 'cause Bad Indians display all the focused psychosis of the above allusion on their debut LP.

Granted, they rehash the songs from their 2012 debut EP, "The Path Home," which threw me for a loop-how hard is it to write new garage psych songs, seriously?-but they fit the pattern so well that I forgive 'em for it. If you dug that debut EP, you'll dig the LP. Bad Indians develops nothing surprising but digs deeper into the big-beat-meets-fucked-psych-vibes sound they perfected on the EP. I keep wanting to say that this is something hippies would like, but then again, I live with a hippy (long story), and she would HATE THIS. That's an endorsement if you couldn't tell, you putz.

Whatever, point is, if you enjoy loud, obvious, heavily mediated psych-rock that sounds like it was made in 1966 but on better equipment, you'll like this. Bad Indians continue to thrive off the shared male (loud, howling, idiotically endearing) and female (coy, clever, throwaway-lazy) vocals. Present throughout are the big beat and occasional organ vamps that bewitched me with "Path Home."

You can listen to the whole thing over at CQ Records. Then BUY IT from the same good folks.

[yeah I know I've been out of the loop for awhile, shit is real here at DrugPunk headquarters, y'dig? No? Whatever.]

A Sop to the Masses, or, Watch this:

Stumbled home blitzed outta my mind and was pleasantly surprised to find two videos in my email. So while I count up enough quarters to go buy more beer, y'all should check out these flicks, new Kent State video and a documentary of the first Deadshits Festival in Brisbane:

Aaaaaannndddd....Kent State!:

Rat King-Godsend LP (2013)

Big, ballsy blues scuzz noise that overfloweth with all the subtlety of an empty Heineken bottle to the face. Newcastle's Rat King slops together the cretinish sleaze of Birthday Party-era Nick Cave, the off-tone guitar of a No Wave band, and bass lines worthy of Prince Far-I to make something all their own. That mangled description fits the writhing, crawling, obscenely sexual obviousness of the music, I think.

With song titles like "Big Clitty City" and "Tramp Stamp," you can't lose (or absolutely will, depending on who you are). You keep waiting for Rat King's slow-churn blooz stomp to explode into punk firecrackers, but they just keep lurching along through the used condoms and empty bottles littering yr room after a night spent blitzed on Ecstasy and red wine with your boy-and-or-girlfriend. The singer just barely pulls off the chest thumping machismo required of this sorta rock 'n' roll, sorta the way that drunk at the bar in Hollywood managed to convince you he slept with a member of the Go-Gos back in '79, but only 'cause he's got a Germs burn and you've been cadging drinks off him all night. Whole thing reminds me of the much-missed, much-hated Kickboy Face.

Oh, yeah, the moosick. The bass sound is fucking huge and all over the place, closer to the sorta dub I blast when I'm baking my brain into a cake than minimal, retarded Dee Dee Ramone licks. The guitarist shoots off staccato riffs that twinkle as broken glass in the gutter, and the drums pound away like your hangover tomorrow morning.

Tired of all the metaphors and analogies? Ok, lemme tell ya a story, kiddies, that this album brings to mind. Well, no, it's too shameful to relate in all its detail. Suffice to say it involves this Drug Punk, too much booze, and his significant other in a hostel bathroom in Europe. 'Nuff said, Rat King is just that grimy.

Keep leering at that cutie at the other end of the bar, then go buy this LP at Rat King's bandcamp page. Hurry up, they only pressed 100 of these fuckers so I'm guessing it comes with sexual tips straight from the band isself. Rock out, fuck out, pass out, folks.