Hear Nothing, See Nothing, Say Nothing

Mind Eraser-Conscious Unconscious (Clean Plate)  The formative efforts from Boston’s Mind Eraser were less than remarkable. Their debut and sophomore LPs, “Cave” and “Glacial Reign”, provided the sporadic burst of tributary Neanderthal/Crossed worship amidst monotonous sludge and repetitive thrash hammering. Coherent song structures largely took second stage to amorphous romps championing style over substance. At the outset, the band seemed little more than spotty Slap-A-Ham retread.

Fast forward a few years and several lukewarm outings later, however, and Mind Eraser have abruptly come into their own, delivering on the oft-touted praise and promise heaped upon them by the hc hype mill. With “Conscious Unconscious” , they have developed a cohesive, impactful whole which, despite its long playing two song 12” format, manages to avoid the pitfalls of pretense and self indulgence.

Far and away the band’s strongest material to date,”Conscious Unconscious” offers layer upon atmospheric layer of icy metallic riffs, power violence blur, fluid rhythms and a viscous production scheme harboring more of a brooding early death metal aesthetic than anything in the band’s past.

Mammoth without being overwrought, the record alternately roars, grinds , drones, and lumbers its way through waves of e-chord savagery, thick vocal charring, and some of the more inspired drum fills to grace a hardcore record in recent memory.

Where previous Mind Eraser releases had more of an impromptu feel– a slipshod procession of loosely assembled passages –there is more meticulous drive to these two compositions—a depth and scale which, at intervals, bears semblance to the less grind-centric early Earache cannon (the more mammoth moments of Entombed et al). The band’s more overtly metal orchestration and unabashedly dramatic songwriting flair infuses these hymns with a surprisingly sombre, emotive atmosphere. Here, their staple hammering, thrashing violence is punctuated by a subtle ambience, foreboding fantasyscapes simmering in low-end, pulsing drone.  Never before have their extremes in tempo and pacing been executed in so epic and seamless a fashion.

In fusing plodding metallic frost with the band’s well honed (but less readily apparent) Neanderthal/ No Comment/Crossed Out/Noothgrush infatuation, Mind Eraser have taken the style to its logical extreme. The end product is modern, crushing, and inspired, not more late ’80s/early ’90s grist for the mill. Recommended. -Mike Ramek

(SHDWPLY Records, 2008 )

G regarious, meditative tweaked out thrills abound on Gary War’s  “New Raytheonport”

A waiting the listener: an exotic patchwork of synthscape chills, ’60s/’70s psych thrills, analog space jams, and  fx-dripping lounge-pop sputter…

R everb-drenched distort-o vox musings, trance-like croons and syrupy hooks blur the line between  changeup-laden songcraft and knob twiddling worm hole blackout, channeling Legendary Pink Dots-esque dark synth/coldwave washes and A.Pink-ish eight track sound collage blitz through an introspective, ethereal haze…

Y ammering, oscillating synth-heavy trippage blanket these saccharine psych-pop ruminations wonderfully, sonic caverns and crevices giving way to  third eye excursions across a psychic expanse…

W hile eliciting spectral whisps of Nick Nicely/Bobb Trimble-esque outsider esoterics,

A s well as a thundering, pulsing din not unlike Hawkwind howling at Piper’s Gate,

R etread this ain’t: recalling some but defined by none, obsessively troving the fringes of psychedelic balladry, mechanized space-age din, and careening cosmic-consciousness boogie, Gary War takes us to spaces and places hithertofore uncharted on his wondrously burnt pilgrammage.

    -Mike Ramek

Avskum-Uproar Underifran (Prank Records, PO BOX  410892 San Francisco, CA 94141-0892) 1984 was the year that a little known 7″ entitled “Crucified By The System” lacerated eardrums in Kristinehamn, Sweden and its surrounding environs.

That vomitous mohican warcry, a formative effort by a group of sullen young Swedes known as Avskum, sounded like a deconstructive, embryonic Discharge on a shoestring budget, and proved a benchmark recording of sorts among the crusty hc vanguard.  Alongside the work of  early Anti-Cimex, it troved the depths of tinitus-inducing Scandinavian punk primitivism, a heaping pile of spiked and studded offal that would go unmatched in decades subsequent.

Over a decade later, the surprising resurgence of those scabby, smelly punks on San Francisco-based Prank Records, while not a return to form per se, heralded in an era of riotous rock’n'roll-tinged dis-cord (sorry), exemplified by their comeback effort “In The Spirit of Massdestruction” (Prank, 2000). Basted in thundering Motorslog and rock/crust bombast, that record was ultimately less notable for its songwriting than its stylistic direction, one which would be echoed and popularized by the likes of Born Dead Icons, Inepsy, Reign of Bombs, a newly revamped Disfear, and many others. “Massdestruction”’s  less stylized, more Scandi-kang/d-beat-centric follow up, “Punkista”, was an improved addition to the Avskum repertoire, although the toilet bowl sonics and supreme chaos of the band’s earliest three chord aberrations were lost in the shuffle.

After years of variations on an unrefined theme, however, “Uproar Underifran”, Avskum’s latest LP, has made significant strides towards resurrecting the band’s scuzziest d-beat/kang of old, this time balancing  that air raid primitivism with the fist-pumping leads, hints of rock’n'roll combustion, and deft pacing of their later work.

“Uproar Underifran” is arguably the band’s most fully realized outing to date, capturing the better aspects of their varied evolution at once. Here, tinny, trebly skeletal Dis-racket is brought to bear more prominently than in recent years, but is adrift in tense chanegups, bits of Lemmy-ish swagger, and  layered, immense bass-heavy production.

These songs are far more condensed, unrefined, and impactful than anything Avskum had been able to offer up with their post- “Crucified” output to this point. While functioning more as a cohesive unit of blackened, hardened hc sprawl, there are distinguishable qualities aplenty amongst many of the eighteen perilously fast, abrupt rupturings. The opening buzz and howl of “Kapitalismens Yttersta”, torrential “Dagar”, and the caustic blitz of “Nationalstaten Faller” and ”Porrstork” are but a few of the anti-authoritarian  anarkopunk tirades that do  justice to Avskum’s formative legacy.

While the burn is lessened somewhat by a few repetitive-sounding numbers, particularly towards the record’s second half, the vast majority of these ruminations on military force, extraordinary rendition, systemic apathy, extreme poverty, and societal neglect are delivered with aplomb and brute force to spare.

Is this latest offering Avskum’s masterpiece?  Perhaps not, as that distinction is best reserved for an effort as astoundingly crude as “Crucified by the System”. Still, “Uproar Underifran” is one of the stronger punk/hc records of the year bar none. -Mike Ramek

Gauze -Binbou Yusuri No Rizumu Ni Notte (XXX Records (Japan) /Prank Records (USA) For over two decades, Tokyo’s Gauze have brought immense depth and technical precision to the world of traditional Japanese hardcore. Countless numbers have tried unsuccessfully to approximate their euphoric eruptions– zen-like bursts of punk ferocity and far eastern mantra, incorporating the fierce and dramatic into a dense, howling fray.

Over the span of five LPs and scores of compilation tracks, their frenzied, climactic kabuki thrash has yielded some of the more astounding speed-shifting clamor, hyperdrive ripping, and vocal savagery to grace a hardcore record.

With nary a sign of age or mellowing after twenty-six years of activity, Gauze’s fifth LP (and first in ten years) , “Binbou Yusuri No Rizumu Ni Notte” , howls forth with considerable power, brimming with the disorienting tempos, whirlwind velocity and rhythmic command that have defined the bulk of their repertoire. No less intense than what came before, this numbingly brief thirteen minute tempest hearkens back to Gauze’s most primal “japcore” roots, particularly the ear splitting damage of their oft touted  “Equalizing Distort” LP and “Fuckheads” debut.

Where later recordings (most notably the band’s mammoth third LP, “Genkai Wa Doko Da”, and thundering fourth LP “Kao O Aratte Denaoshite Koi”) boasted denser, more involved arrangements, Gauze’s latest effort is more of a backwards-looking affair, with a prediliction for the coarser, less adorned songwriting of their earliest, crudest (but no less massive) punk sprawl. Replete with what may well be their rawest production values to date, the hissing, buzzing, slashing, distortion-saturated ebb and flow of this record greatly accentuates the aural tsunami within. The start-and-stop acrobatics of this barrage veils the intermittant bout of surprisingly anthemic (dare I say downright catchy?) mid-paced riff rocking, lending an infectious tint to the maxed out, razor-precise bombardment.

This is a welcome, if unembellished, addition to a deservedly lauded repertoire. Very highly recommended.-Mike Ramek

World Burns To Death-The Graveyard of Utopia (Prank Records) “The Graveyard of Utopia” is a return to form for Austin’s World Burns To Death. Where their previous LP, “Totalitarian Sodomy”, deviated somewhat from the expected formula and was criticized (unreasonably) for its slower pacing and emphasis on low-end metallic crunch, the band’s third LP and Prank debut ratchets up the riff quotient while downplaying heavier metallic inclinations. The ensuing onslaught, while not quite as plodding or epic as its predecessor, is no less brooding or grisly.

Recorded at Tokyo’s Our House studios, the record is the band’s most distinctively Japanese hardcore-influenced outing to date. On several tracks, their blazing leads are bolstered considerably by the frenzied ‘burning spirits’-style axe wails of ex-Deathside/Paintbox ripper Chelsea Kishida (RIP) and Souichi Hisatake of Gudon and Forward.

A top shelf blend of crust-core ballast and Japanese hc/NWOBHM worship, this latest effort amplifies the strenghs showcased on earlier recordings (particularly a pair of brilliant EPs, “The Art of Self Destruction” (2003) and “No Dawn Comes…Night Without End” (2004), adding heightened sonic sheen and complexity to a familiar blitzkrieg. The resulting cacophany of war punk hammering, low-end squall, bomb-raid distort, and riff rollicking is the culmination of the band’s efforts to this point.

Lyrically, “The Graveyard of Utopia” furthers World Burns To Death’s more recent fixation on documented historical atrocity, as opposed to their earlier, simpler Discharge-inspired ruminations on war and destruction. Focusing exclusively on the horrors of the dystopian Soviet state, the record chronicles a grim assortment of topics, from the incalculable murder and oppression perpetrated against the Russian people at the hands of Joseph Stalin, to the dark legacy of Soviet antisemitism, the horrors of the little known Katyn Forest massacre of 1940, Chernobyl and its after-effects, and the crippling, lingering brutality of Soviet-Afghan warfare. So morose and unrelenting are these visions of oblivion that even the band’s past work pales in comparison-rarely before has hell as it exists on earth been so strikingly evoked on a record of this sort. Vocalist Jack Control’s articulate liner notes, which supplement each track with considerable historical background and documentation, further the impact of these recordings.

Mandatory listening for fans of DIY punk, hardcore, and crust across the board. -Mike Ramek

Discrepancies duly noted and corrected thanks to invaluable input from Jack Control.

Kurt Vile-Constant Hitmaker (Gulcher Records)  Kurt Vile (real name, apparently) has restored what little dignity there was to be had within the singer-songwriter genre. It is not as though he is cut from that cloth, exactly…heaven forbid! To be honest, his rock/psych eccentricities bear greater likeness to the gamut-running pop collages of Ariel Pink or the fx-laden weirdo warblings of John Maus. Still, such FM radio dial-influenced deconstructions, mutations, and ruminations exemplify neither the ’60s anglophile chic of the former artist nor the eclectic synth-based musings of the latter.

No, “Constant Hitmaker” provides an impressive and perplexing outsider homage to a rich tapestry of ’60s/’70s/80s Americana-lite, at certain intervals dripping with the sort of rugged small town, apple pie sheen that might satiate devotees of Melloncamp or even the boss, while at others submerged in a perplexing, vertigo-inducing swamp of blown out clamor, psych splurge, and fractured pop nostalgia.

Wrapped in cocoons of feedback and burnt reverb lies an otherworldly fascination with second hand oldies jaunts, radio rock anthems, and murky roots-inflected meandering. With effortless zeal, Vile also elicits fragments of Neil Young-esque ballads and the sort of dark country-blues six string rambling exemplified by Robert Johnson (or Charlie Patton, for that matter), channeling these sounds into his own outlandish balladry.

The stylized influences may be recognizable, but it is the way Mr. Vile subverts these things—twists them, submerges them beneath tweaked bargain basement drum machines, ambient drone, vocal manipulation, and a varied assortment of substance induced, feedback-ensconced aural trippage -that truly sets this outing apart from the pack.

A wonderful thing indeed, this knack for constant hitmaking.

Thank you Mr. Vile,

Sincerely yours,

 Mike Ramek

Repercussions-No Peace EP (Feral Ward, www.feralward.com) Hardly the benefactors of anglophile dis-worship, epic swedish crust, or retro punk clamor one might expect from the Portland/Austin/Tennesee conglomerate, lone star rippers Repercussions deliver simple, straightforward US hardcore punk–pus oozing warts and all–with a hint of crust for good measure, of course.

The band is comprised of members from a number of known DIY outfits past and present, including (but not limited to) Deathreat, Army of Jesus, Signal Lost, Pedestrians, and Cold Sweat. The considerable chops of the above-mentioned projects are very much intact (most notably the raging axe onslaught of Stan from Deathreat), and Repercussions’ sohpomore effort, “No Peace”, manages to sound even more unhinged than their debut 12″ (itself a frantically paced affair), with a bevvy of start and stop whirlwind rhythms, four chord salvos, and the occasional killer break crammed into each agile, tightly wound eruption.

Predictably, this band’s bombardment most closely mirrors that of Deathreat’s ‘less is more’ approach, though the end results aren’t as impactful. A number of songs here seem rushed, lacking the distinctiveness and attention to detail that have made similarly minded recordings so powerful. Songcraft and musical variation here largely take a back seat to brute, numbing impact, with each song functioning less as a distinctive entity than as part of the larger, start-and-stop crust-core wallop. There are no anthems to speak of.

While never approaching the heights of Deathreat’s “Consider It War” LP or the recorded output of Talk Is Poison, avid listeners will note a similarity in the dynamic delivery, musical precision, and keen ear for occasional hooks brought to the fore. The end results are seldom mindblowing, but are far better than much of what passes for hardcore or punk these days. At key moments throughout its brief duration the burn is undeniable. -Mike Ramek

Dog Soldier-At Your Throat CD (HG Fact Records http://www.interq.or.jp/Japan/hgfact/) One of the more underrated bands hailing from Portland, Oregon’s incestuous hardcore/punk breeding swamp, Dog Soldier rose from the ashes of apocalypse tripper punx Blood Spit Nights. The band maintained the UK-style spikes’n studs infatuation of their former incarnation, but dispensed with the gloriously noxious vocal fx and raucous distortion that typified the BSN-era, trimming their delivery to a metal-singed gallop which recalled the anthemic ‘hard punk’ crossover of Broken Bones and the English Dogs.

While Dog Soldier’s debut 7″ and full length LP were not without their memorable moments, they sounded somewhat rushed and repetitive. Subsequent recordings by the band, however, including two ferocious contributions to the Portland Hard Punk Compilation (released on Hardcore Holocaust in 2006-mandatory listening) and their “Ghosts” 7″ (Whispers In Darkness, 2006, ditto), were notable displays of bestial punk aggression, caustic metallic burn, and doomsday atmospherics.

Where some of their more recent material displayed considerable promise, Dog Soldier’s latest full length, “At Your Throat”, represents a step backwards for the band, delivering the expected dosage of barbaric axe squall but lacking in the standout songwriting and production of their best work.

Released on Japan’s HG Fact Records imprint, the record opens with a bang (or, more aptly, a procession of blood-curdling shrieks) that segueways into “Trade of Delusion”, a by-the-books “Dem Bones”-era Broken Bones-style ripper. Other numbers like “Devil’s Masquerade” and ”Divine Wind” exemplify the band’s ‘hard punk’ warrior crust quite well, but these songs are fewer and farther between than one might hope.

Though the formula remains the same throughout its nine song duration, bristling with the rhythmic battery, careening leads, and brutish vocal convulsions one would anticipate from these PDX crusties, the majority of the record blends into an interchangeable blur of heard-it-before rhythms, riffs, and howls.

Less musical variation means fewer memorable hooks, and the flair of earlier work is more often than not bypassed for a more generic thrash fest. The production here is also surprisingly unadorned, lacking in the dense, dank sonic stew of better material, while less tempo variation equals a near-non stop steamroller of dis-hammering that grows monotonous after a time.

By and large a below par effort by an above average group of punks. Get their previous 7″ instead.-Mike Ramek

Self Abuse-s/t (Higher Conscience Records-Arlington, Virginia) The essential ingredients on the self-titled debut from Self Abuse are spare- downbeat percussion and brawny riffs inspired by a smorgasbord of early-to-mid-’80s British and American hardcore, NYHC, Oi!, and crustier inclinations. What sets this recording apart from the pack are not merely the well honed, if unadorned, chops but also a relentlessly morose lyrical bent and grotesque vocal delivery which greatly accentuates its forlorn tone.

This nightmare vision slithers out of the same sort of primordial muck that typified GG’s most primitive rants, but there is burlier, tighter structure to the depravity, like early Sheer Terror and Iron Cross recordings on an ether binge. Alcohol-fueled ruminations on futility, resentment and isolation abound, as this ode to all things dismal, dispirited, and down-and-out lumbers on.

While the mid-paced dis-bludgeoning, three chord sludge, and primal punk hammering may seem familiar, this journey into the darker recesses of addiction and, well, self abuse, is underscored by a procession of the most fetid, subhuman vocal croakings in memory, somewhere between an ENT-esque retch and Paul Bearer-style guttural growl.

Fans of fellow D.C. crushers 86 Mentality will be pleased with the street-wise stomp-and-slash assail that Self Abuse brings to the table. There are similarities between the brick’n'mortar blue collar fracas on this record and that of the aforementioned outfit, although this recording maintains a darker, more repugnant vibe throughout, eternally on the brink of collapse.

This is a deceptively simple affair, as the individual segments coalesce into a putrid heaping of hardcore/punk sputum not soon forgotten. -Mike Ramek

Blackout-s/t (Aborted Society Records, 1122 E.Pike Street #1377 Seattle, WA 98122/Profane Existence Records PO BOX 8722 Minneapolis, MN 55408 ) With a lineup that includes members of Assrash, Scorned, Phalanx, and Provoked , it is safe to say that Minneapolis’ Blackout boasts a formidable enough crust-core pedigree. Those expecting textbook spikes’n’studs squall from this assortment of grizzled vets are in for quite a surprise, however, as the band’s debut on Aborted Society (recently reissued on Profane Existence) boasts a rollicking amalgamation of unadorned American hardcore, punk, and bluesy rock and roll, cruder and more infectious than your average crusty shindig. Indeed, this record owes more to latter-era Poison Idea (think “We Must Burn”/ “War All The Time”), Motorhead, Priest, and a junkyard-worth of hand-me-down punk/thrash/roots/blues riff refuse than anything by Discharge or Warcollapse.

Some may decry the unusually spare production values herein. After all, we’re not talking ‘crasher crust’-style walls of noise a’la Atrocious Madness or the Crust War back catalog. Nope, this sucker sounds slightly better than a poorly recorded demo cassette, with waterlogged sonics galore-a veritible treble-bleeding murk fest.

Those willing to wade through the muck, however, will be privy to a caustic and genuinely rocking hc/punk escapade, riddled with semi-coherent debauched anti-authoritarian ranting (and a winning tribute to “Apocalypse Now”), scorching leads, anthemic verve, and bits of boogie rock flair to boot, all coated in rank sonic slime for your listening displeasure. Never mind the legions of garage rock snoozers, here’s a gaggle of aging Midwestern punx to the rescue!-Mike Ramek