Nnevtelga-s/t CS (2013)

Apparently weirdos do indeed live in a city overflowing with technocrats and bankers. Brussells' Nnevtelga (say that five times fast!) warps and woofs layers of sonic brutality around your austerity-weary mind on their debut. These Flemings traffick in a nasty brew falling somewhere between ambient drone and noisecore, with a dash of the Swans thrown in for good measure.

Monotony is an essential part of much noise, but Nnevteiga's controlled use of rhythm & guitar breaks up the glacial slide of synthshittery. The first five tracks are straightfoward beat-noise-beat-noise nastiness, but "Soko Inede" shows how dynamic the band is. It's nothing but a propulsive beat and a repeated vocal line, but damn is it catchy, in an abrasive sort of way: throwing this on at a shitty '80s dance party would totally clear the floor, allowing you to dance alone while huffing up the blow left behind by irate revelers.

The second half of the LP finds the band walking this same delicate line between "fuck-you-listener" and "nah we're really just a noise band": just when you want them to settle down into sadism they drop another disturbingly punchy bit in. It's really quite catchy in its own perverse way, especially "tshlobl:" imagine a zombie on Xanax singing for the Vyllies.

Check out this piece of Flemish fuckery here. Then, go buy a cassette copy from Tendresse Records!

Dungeon Kids-Oh How it Hurts EP (2013)

 Dungeon Kids' upbeat, off-kilter garage thrumming doesn't really fit with what you expect from Baltimore, s a city best known for Edgar Allen Poe, The Wire, and grinding poverty.* I guess it's just further evidence that the internet has completely decentered physical space and its influence from how musicians work?

Getting off my pseudo-insightful high horse, Dungeon Kids offers thee five tracks that fall somewhere between garage rock and Fugazi-style postpunk. It's a strange mix that I've never really understood, but these kids is good at it. The lead song, "Is there Light?," perfectly encapsulates their sound. It opens with fullforce guitar fuzz and a mushy rhythm section that propels the band forward. Then, around 20 seconds, the song jerks into a midtempo verse that sounds like the chorus. It comes complete with the noodling guitar leads that never break through into catharsis. This is the third band in the last year that reminds me of the Unicorns without really sounding like them at all. Anyway Dungeon Kids are more interesting if only because it sounds like they in fact give a shit about the music they're playing. Same goes for Celestial Shore & Shopping Spree, the other two bands.

The "sounds like____" formula is escaping me right now, but this is the sort of album that my friends in Olympia would blast when it's noon, we're stoned and unemployed, and the sun hasn't come out for about a week. That sorta stuff.

Get stoopid then get a job with Dungeon Kids, over here!

*Oh, and this band!

Death Evocation-s/t 7" EP (2011)

This one's a bit of a throwaway post, but that's not to disparage Death Evocation. Personally I can't stand most metal-between the Nazi undertones of a large part of contemporary Black Metal and the overall macho wankery of the genre as a whole, there ain't much goin' on with metal power.

Death Evocation, however, delivers the goods. Those goods consist of colossal, wailing, [fill in the blank hyperbolic adjective ehre] guitar blitzkrieg,a  pummeling rhythm section, and a singer who just barely manages to stay within range of the rest of the band.

These three tracks are suitable for doing activities that make you angry, feel powerful, and/or outraged at [fill in the blank injustice here: war, the NSA, Obama, Asad, whateverthefuckthisismetalwhogivesashitreally].

YOU CAN'T COPE. Death Evocation seems to be one of those "mysterious" bands with no internet presence, so I can only recommend that, if you're interested in buying this record, go find the nearest junky crustpunk nodding out in a gutter, and offer him $10 and/or a bag of heroin in exhange for his/her copy.

Crazy Pills-Restless LP (2013)

Behind all the gloop 'n'glop,  many of us-even at this late date of the beshitted year of our Lord 2013-still prefer bare bones, moronically straightforward rock 'n roll over contrived, overly-complicated gimmicks and/or too-kool-for-skool-retreads. Of course, doing your best to sound like Jerry Lee Lewis' band fronted by a woman is fundamentally reactionary. But the last couple of years' worth of subcultural (anti-)cultural slop have largely focused on rehashing the 1990s. So takin' it back to the '50s seems downright revolutionary-by-way-of-reactionary at this point.

Whatever, in Crazy Pills, Brookyln belches out yet another sweet rock 'n'roll group that strips away all pretense and just dishes out snazzy tunes to dance to. This sort of rock is exactly opposed to longwinded disquisitions on why it's good; it just is.

So crack a beer, comb some pomade through your hair, and go down to the local sleazy rocker bar. Pop a quarter in the jukebox, then get irate with the bartender when Crazy Pills doesn't show up. Then insis, at top volume, that he look this band up HERE, and FUCKING ROCK OUT DOOD. Yeah. I totally impressed a girl enough with this sort of gimmick for her to make out with me last weekend, Scout's honor.

Multiple Man-s/t CS (Major Crimes Records, 2013)

Yeah, I'm as surprised as you are that I crawled out of an alcoholic slumber to start posting rad new shit but there ya go....

....and the "there," as is often the case these days, is Brisbane, Australia. Multiple Man is twins Sean & Chris Campion and they deliver the goods with five tracks of weirdo, minimal synth fuckery. "Built Wrong" is a slow-burning bit of persistent, almost-menacing goof-goth with percussion that sounds like someone kicking a piece of aluminum siding with steel-toed Docs. Things get nastier with "Photo Arrays," which shortens the beat to autistic levels while ramping up the distortion. It sounds like how you feel after a night of drinking 15 light beers and wrecking your bike while out on the town. That good.
"Typecast" is the best track here, and could easily have crawled out of some Viennese synth-geek's lair circa 1984. Clean, crisp, automated ambiance washes over a hysterical rhythm and mindless, monotone vocal tracks. It creates the illusion that the Iron Curtain is still just across the Danube and it's always raining so fuck it gimme another beer and turn up that bootleg of live Joy Div you just smuggled in from France. 

The next two tracks are just as good but I don't wanna ruin the fun for you fuckers (clue: settle in with downers and whiskey for "Whipping Boy"). Those of you who enjoy the benefits of the European welfare state are just getting back from summer holidays. This is the perfect piece of cold, fuzz-fucked minimalism to usher in fall and yet "another year with nuthin' to do," as Iggy Stooge said so majestically in 1969.

Listen to Multiple Man HERE or HERE. Major Crimes is sold out of the cassettes, but email Matt over at Eternal Soundcheck Distro and he might still have copies kicking around.

Cacaw-Get a Brain 12" EP (2010?)

Tips on being a successful mid-20-something in the U.S.A.:

7 a.m.: Wake up, preferably hung over, preferably unable to recall how you wound up in your own bed (or in someone else's bed, even better). Clutch your head in a paroxysm of pain, hoping that this is all a bad dream. Repeat.

7:30 a.m.: Finally crawl out of bed because that stupid alarm clock won't shut up, and because coffee will not-despite your best efforts-make itself. If you woke up in another person's bed, add the fact that s/he is starting to wake up, and ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT want you next to them when they do sober up and wake up.

7:45-9:00 a.m.: Sip coffee and munch on day-old bread, preferably alone, preferably in your underwear, alone. As you do so, ponder the deeper mysteries of how it is that, despite your best efforts, it is in fact Friday and you have in fact been this hungover every Friday for the last month (at least).

9:15 a.m.: Muster up enough courage to check your cell phone and/or social media device. Figure out how many friendships you destroyed. Make initial efforts to heal the wounds, or throw them all away. It depends on how much you drank, and how much horseshit your friends are willing to tolerate.

10:00 a.m.: Disturbed by knocking on your bedroom door. The rent's due again. Pay it, or, alternatively, think of some horseshit excuse that doesn't trick your room mates-let alone landlord-into giving you a one-day extension.

10:30 a.m.: Feel so elated about accomplishing the major feat of paying or ducking the rent that you manage to take a shower.

11:00 a.m.-noon: Make your way to your place of business. Wisecrack with your friends about last night's peccadillos, hiding the fact that you may have picked up an STD, and certainly should not be mixing with civilized humans at such an early hour.

1:00 p.m.-5:00 p.m.: Avoid a mountain of work. That mountain has been here since early May, but God knows that you adamantly refuse to start tunneling beneath it like a good gopher. Stare at it. Hate it. Feel reassured because it ain't going anywhere. Repeat.

~5:00 p.m.: Duck out of work as early as possible. Make your way to the local bar and/or cafeteria. Your friends-who have girlfriends (boyfriends), careers, and in general have a clear sense of real priorities, will meet you there soon.

~5:30 p.m.: Scream and shout about Marxism, the dialectic, and the newest, most awesomest punk records with above-said friends.

 ~8:00 p.m.: stumble home, reeking of beer and/or whiskey. Continue drinking while playing Cacaw or Black Flag (don't make no difference) at top volume.

~midnight: pass out in a pool of drool, sweat, and vomit. You should be too disgusted by yourself to be capable of forming coherent thoughts, by this point. In the unlucky and unlikely event that you are, however, they should be centered on the fixed idea of how dumb you are and how boring your dirtbag, degenerate life is.

CACAW IS PREEMO-PRIMO NOISE ROCK SWEETNESS, SHITBIRD.

*EDIT, 7.15.14: Just re-up'd the file, get it HERE*

No Balls-Problems That Will Solve Themselves EP (2004[?)

"Yeah, well, life's strange."-Slim Charles, The Wire, season 4

Swedish noise is always a good choice when you wake up with a head full of booze, an empty wallet, and a pile of work you don't have the energy to do. Because really, what's more cathartic than pressing your ears up to the stereo and letting these Scandi slugs blast your sensory perceptions to smithereens with a few slices of carefully (sloppily) conceived torment?

Nothing. Nothing at all. No Balls is an on-again-off-again side project of the legendary, also on-again-off-again Brainbombs. Same personnel, mostly the same sound, so really the two projects complement each other. The sound is slightly different: there's a bit more rhythmic propulsion on this EP than your typical 'Bombs slab 'o' vinyl. But this amped up energy doesn't lead anywhere, of course, except further down into the black pit that is your tormented psyche. "Black Nerve" goes in an undulating circle, a circle not as harsh as a 'Bombs circle, but still pretty abrasive. "Countdown to Kill" features a guitar riff worthy of Kurt Cobain's golden days, but there's no catharsis, just monotonous repetition. Fuck teen spirit when you've got black tar heroin and Mad Dog, right?

I AM THE SLAYER.

P.S.-I'll get back to regular posting, and posting new stuffs, once I finish teaching this godawful summer class. Yeah, who'da thunk it? This Drug Punk has been charged with educating the youth. Joke's on them, eh?

The Bezzoommies-Garmata EP (2012)

I shoulda spun this EP in 2012 'cause it woulda been in my Top Ten for last year. I'm four beers into the evening and it's just what I need: mid-tempo, sludgy garage rock with a singer who vaguely resembles the dood from DER TPK: atonal, Eastern European howl-singing.
"Madonna's Dead" is a squalling mess shaped by anarchopunk-style guitar fuzz and humblebumble rhythmic movements that don't really constitute rhythm.
The middle tracks are a mixture of ambitious psych noodlings and clangorous punk brattiness. The standout is the closer, "St. Magdalene Girls." The psych-punk stumblings gel into a beautiful mess: 7 minutes of cavernous, squalling spite worthy of the Electric Eels. Halfway through it enters even weirder ground, a sort of could-be-Velvet Underground territory where most of the instruments fall out so that you hafta focus on the shuffling guitar magikry. The Bezzoommies make ya work'n' wait for it but fuck is this song great.

Hang out with The Bezzoommies HERE. Make sure to check out their TOHIC+ EP, which they released just last week. Very cool new noise from Ukraine.

Anadelta-Vita Brevis LP (2013)

Anadelta is an example of a weird offshoot of the  '90s fixation sweeping the nation(s). Instead of simply ripping off MBV or Godspeed You! Black Emperor wholesale, the group explores the connections (yeah, there are some) between ambient electronica, shoegaze, and the spacier end of post-rock. Yeah, I know, you're probably saying to yourself "geez, how many discordant genres can one person throw together? And why the fuck would I want to listen to a mixture of those three? Fuck you."

Well I sorta had the same impression when the album crossed my desk, but after a month of listening, this LP has grown on me considerable. This is not music you can dance to, nor does it strike a visceral emotion such as anger, excitement, or passion. It's not hippy-dippy jamband dogshit, either. Rather, the LP moves between aggression, brooding, and exuberant bursts of catharsis.

Having alienated almost all of you with those first two paragraphs, I can now exhort those of you still reading to buy this thing. "Where are you/Where am I," begins very, very slowly with sedate synthesizers and minor notes washing in and around themselves. Things get a bit heavier on "Oceans:" the flighty guitar line is mixed with clang-bang electronic beats that finally plateau in a squall before fading out. Anadelta's debt to electronica is more evident on side two: "A Garden with No Colors" sounds like Russian Circles being lulled into submission by Boards of Canada.

If you can put your inner savage in check long enough, this is a great soundtrack to a stoned Sunday at the beach. Hell, I'm amazed something this chilled out came from Greece, the cockpit of the current capitalist crisis. Throw it on, pop a Mythos, and watch Syntagma Square burn.

You can preview the album, then BUY IT, here. The first 200 copies come in a fancy-schmancy photobooklet thing. Lowtronik mixed and mastered it. Dig it.