‘Poverty and violence will keep us in line, The earth’s like a bloated corpse, Covered in flies, Civilisation burning up in front of your eyes’ (Crucified Minds)

People’s lives are saturated in an unsettling discordance.  It is one born of a society slowly cannibalising itself.  Hollowed out by austerity economics, entrenched in inequality, and mired in state sanctioned violence.  Flags Are False is the debut album from Acid Casualties and follow up to their 2021 demo, Victims Of Psychick War.  It seethes with a bristling antagonism toward those responsible for this malaise as it unleashes a truly unhinged onslaught that brings the rabid frenzy and the burly stomp to bear with equal relish.

Hailing from New Jersey, Acid Casualties derive their name with pride from a track, Acid Casualty, by early 1980s’ Knoxville hardcore outfit KORO.  Then, they take this influence and ramp it up to an almost overwhelming level of intensity.  The rhythm section locks-in with a frenetic ferocity, propelling forward the blistering waves of scuzzily fuzzed out riffage, all bathed in lacerating feedback that seemingly pulses with a serpentine life all of its own.

Meanwhile, the frantic, desperation drenched vocals confront the self-serving interests that seem intent on gorging themselves at the trough as the world burns.  The highlights slam home with a relentless consistency. The fevered escalation of Why Decide?. The venomous convulsions of Crucified Minds.  The searing riff that defines Southern Cross is utterly insane.  The louche swagger of Officer Down.  In short, this is an absolute scorcher.

‘Sinister bodies, Tethered for command, Subliminal power, Eternal nightmare’ (Gods Of The Grim And Dismal World)

Hardcore bands confronting the invidious effects of religious fundamentalism has been a constant since the first chords were struck, the first vocals barked.  You almost wonder, at times, what more there is to say.  Then, you read of US generals quoting the Book Of Revelation as they tell soldiers that they are doing the work of God in attacking Iran.  This involves wreaking murderous havoc on a civilian population that has, of course, itself been under the yolk of a ruthlessly oppressive theocratic regime for some 40 years.

At that point, you realise that it can never be said enough times and Black Phosphorous Dungeon sees Cryptid Spawn savagely evoke a world that still remains in thrall to zealots of every hue.  I must confess that this is not an album that would necessarily have sung to me from the shelves unbidden – the band name, the album title, all feels quite on point.  But I’ve learnt over the years to trust Iron Lung’s judgement.  They are what you might call a ‘Ronseal Plus’ label – their releases invariably do rather more than they say on the tin.

Sonically, the Singapore based band root themselves in doom mired death metal, enriched with the flares of black metal melodicism and the rhythmic textures of hardcore.  The vocals are demonically spewed and the rhythm sections segues from frenzied eruptions to more supple expressions with a crushing yet disciplined velocity.  The heart of the band though lies in the sheer heft of the down tuned, buzzsaw guitars and the skilfully crafted progression of the song writing itself.

Across the five tracks, Cryptid Spawn evoke a bleakly suffocating atmosphere.  Yet from the brutally squalling convulsions of Gods Of The Grim And Dismal World to the sludge fuelled grooves of the title track, and from the hauntingly viscous Byssal Thread to the bludgeoning climax of Primal Sorcery, one that you find yourself only wanting to immerse yourself in ever more deeply.

‘In the garden of sorrow where nothing grows, haunted by faces I used to know, thorns of grief pricking skin, blood for roses that no longer bloom’ (Flowers For Ghosts)

A bleakly resonant bass line is enveloped in squalling feedback.  This subsides into mournfully roiling, darkly melodic guitar and sparsely restrained percussion.  Sombre spoken word evokes a stirring mantra to the power of community and collective action.  Another World Is Possible is quite the opening and one that Hope? do not squander.

Hell On Planet Earth sees Hope? following up on their 2023 7-inch, Your Perception Is Not My Reality.  As much as I enjoyed the latter, it barely prepares you for the sledgehammer fury of this, their debut full-length.  The Portland band have taken their trademark metallic crust and dialled up the intensity to the maximum, while also bringing a razor-sharp focus to their song writing.  It is a compelling combination.

There is a notable muscularity to the guitar, a fierce clarity amid the distortion as the riffage unfurls, alongside a d-beat fuelled rhythm section that locks in with an unrelenting precision.  From the surging Mycelium to the agitated Five Of Swords, by way of the haunting oscillations of Flowers For Ghosts, the velocity is savagely marshalled.  The defining force though is, perhaps, the vocals.  Harshly rasping, frequently duelling with the guttural roar of the guitarists, they lurk on the spectrum of sheer rhythmic vehemence somewhere between Flower and Sacrilege.

Lyrically, the album challenges the warped logic that builds a society based on human exploitation and planetary extraction.  Yet it is shaped throughout by an unquenchable defiance.  A defiance that recognises the importance of maintaining hope.  That recognises the power of creating alternative social networks.  And that recognises that nothing is inevitable, nor is power eternal.

‘Altre case senza gente, altra gente senza casa, In un mare di mura vuote, di porte blindate, Un altro sgombero, un’altra farsa, Un altro macigno’ / ‘More houses without people, more people without homes, In a sea of ​​empty walls, of armoured doors, Another eviction, another farce, Another boulder’ (F.D.S)

We live in the age of manufactured anger.  Resentment has become a resource to be fermented and exploited by political opportunists and grifters.  Yet despite this suffocating prevalence, it is remarkable how easy it is to still sense the real thing.  An unbridled fury that seethes in opposition to the world we have built.  One not born of self-interest, but a desire to do things better for the common good.  Per Tutto Il Male Che Avete Fatto (For All The Evil that You Have Done) is ablaze with just such conviction.

This the debut album from Milan’s Apoptosi (Apoptosis) and follows up their 2024 7-inch, Verso Un Futuro Di Completa Anestesia (Towards a Future of Complete Anaesthesia).  Driving d-beat rhythms that seamlessly morph into fierce blast beat eruptions are then fused with elements of both anarcho-punk and metallic crust.  These influences are all crafted together with an assured confidence, but the glue that truly binds is the sheer rage and brutal velocity of the delivery.

The combative, bristling vocal tirades build breathless connections between housing justice, socio-economic inequality, the commoditisation of culture, and animal rights.  The ten tracks rampage past in just 16 minutes and yet fizz with unexpected flourishes as the band hone a battery that is unrelenting as it is intriguingly varied.  From the bruising slabs of Per Il Tuo Piatto (For Your Dish) to the manically mutating Inesorabile (Inexorable), and then from the raucous exhortations of the darkly melodic Ancora Una Volta (Once Again) to the frenzied closing title track, you are simply left reeling.

‘Onhan meillä varaa, Olla hiljaa, Huoneet täynnä raskasta ilmaa, Kun hengität sisään, Jotain takertuu nieluun’ / ‘We can afford to, Be silent, Rooms full of heavy air, When you breathe in, Something gets stuck in your throat’ (BS)

Modem are a band with deep roots in the Finnish punk scene, comprising Ville – of Foreseen, Kohti Tuhoa, and Yleiset Syyt – along with Tytti from pop punks Plastic Tones.  But, before you leap into imaginings of thrashing guitars and swirling pits – stop.  This is a very different project.  You need to shift to that parallel universe, the one where we can all dance with a clinical yet animalistic elegance.  Modem are here to entice us once more into the beguiling embrace of their vividly realised synth punk, on this follow-up to their 2024 debut full-length, Megalomania.

The Helsinki duo retain the high velocity delivery that their punk influences demand, while crafting a soundscape that is grounded in dance music with an undeniable 1980s’ sheen and a keen eye for a catchily melodic pop hook.  Ville handles electronic duties.  There is a wonderful analogue depth to the synths as they are layered and intertwined with the crisply motorik percussion.  The bottom end pulses with a rich depth, while the melodies throb assertively or skittishly flare as occasion demands.

This provides the perfect amphitheatre for Tytti’s clean sung Finnish vocals.  Stridently melodic at their core, yet also vibrantly nuanced, segueing between moments of whispered introspection and dramatically soaring abandon with a seamless, playful ease.  Amid this uplifting euphoria, the lyrics mine a rather darker seam – one of self-doubt and fractured self-worth, of refusing to take refuge in nostalgia, but instead confronting our current realities.

From the brooding fervour of BS to the pulsating drama of Ave Maria, and then from the slyly contagious Image to the hauntingly pared back Paino (Pain), the pulsating intensity doesn’t diminish even momentarily.  So, bust out the those dancing shoes, you know you want to.

‘Ascolta il vento senti la voce abbandona il destino segui il cammino, Nella nebbia segui una luce, oltre lo specchio i loro cuori non cederanno mai’ (Nella Nebbia) / ‘Listen to the wind, hear the voice, abandon destiny, follow the path, In the fog, follow a light, beyond the mirror, their hearts will never give up’ (In The Fog)

Festa Del Perdono (Feast Of Forgiveness) are the wayward yet undeniably charismatic sibling of any number of Milanese hardcore projects, perhaps most notably Spirito Di Lupo, Kobra, and Kalashnikov.  L’Arca Dei Nuovi Maestri (The Ark Of The New Masters) is part two and follow up to  last year’s 7-inch, Galactic Jazz Night Part I: Nella Regione Della Notte Infinita (In The Region Of Infinite Night).

Once again, they fuse together anarcho-punk and dub influences, studded with flaring organs and brass flourishes, to create a thoroughly intoxicating atmosphere. This second act continues to see the band evocatively explore themes of shadow worlds and secret gatherings through an impressionistic lyricism drawn from the natural world – a mystical anarchism.

Side one kicks off with the raucous eruption of Nella Nebbia, which for anyone who enjoys Spirito Di Lupo is a particular treat, reuniting the vibrantly duelling vocals of deadpan Fra with the energetically impassioned yelps of Vittoria, amid the elastic bass lines and martial drums.  The title track then sees Fra’s semi-shouted vocals vigorously interplay with shards of sombre post-punk melody and swells of swirling organ.

The flip side opens with the dub drenched Città Segreta (Secret City), juxta posing a fierce vocal tirade with its organ fuelled, cosmic otherworldliness.  The EP climaxes with the instrumental Galactic Jazz Night III, skeletal piano and woozily serpentine saxophone intertwining in a plaintive, Jazz Noir-tinged finale.  It really is quite the ride.

‘Well, there’s no reason to fight the cause, I’d rather sleep than change the world, This depression, it seethes and burns, I dream a world that never was’ (Conditional)

The Crawlers were originally active in the second half of the 2000s, releasing a slew of EPs before heading off on hiatus after their 2009 debut album, Level The Forest.  A new EP followed in some ten years later – Planned Obsolescence – and they are now back with their second full-length, We Told You So.

The Portland trio’s sound remains rooted very much in stripped back, no nonsense 1980s’ US hardcore.  Think, perhaps, Government Warning with a healthy dash of Verbal Abuse and yeah, an affectionate nod here and there to the Portland originals, and you’ll be heading in the right direction.  The riffs come thick and fast and lock into a fiercely unrelenting synchronicity with the rhythm section, while the raspingly snarled vocals contemplate the hollow refuge of nationalism amid a society literally grinding all but the privileged into the dust.

Side One careers along with a vigorous intensity, not least on the barrelling opener, Lobby Dwellers.  The flip side then sees the band flex their shoulders just a touch more with the melody laced Flat Broken and the louchely swaggering Pain Relief, before closing on a raucous reworking of I Wanna Be An Eco-Terrorist, originally from Level The Forest.

‘Another condo coming up, Another hole in the ground, Tearing down our history, Just to build another box’ (Renovict Arnold)

Knife Manual hail from Victoria, British Columbia and their name calls back to the solitary 7-inch from 1980s’ Seattle punks, Silly Killers.  This is the European press of their debut single, Step 1, and it similarly takes its inspirations from that first wave of West Coast hardcore punk.

The eight tracks are unleashed in ten helter-skelter minutes, none lasting beyond the ninety second mark, each packed with an acerbically fizzing energy.  Indeed, Fucking Metal Song acts as their admirably concise musical manifesto (‘Gotta keep it short and sweet, two minutes is the max’).

The jerking rhythmic patterns of the vocals rather unexpectedly spin me back to early Bad Religion, albeit a rather burlier and irreverent delivery.  Meanwhile, the lyrical themes dissect the relentless gentrification of the band’s home city and the mental toll inflicted on us all by the age of surveillance capitalism.  The bruising Renovict Arnold and the atavistically spiralling Cake Jumper land with a particular relish.

‘Pink and orange strokes, In silent applaud, On the day’s retreat, As I retreat, From humanoid ant hills, And swarms alike’ (Humanoid)

As the self-titled debut album from Dust Collector erupts into life, the swells of savage riffage brace you for an onslaught of unforgiving, blown out noise punk.  Yet what emerges is something subtly different.  Yes, the guitars are fiercely distorted, hissing and spitting with venomous intent, but also in possession of a lacerating precision.  This affords space for the rhythm section to take a greater prominence and lay down a formidable foundation – the bass lines throbbing with a supple clarity, the drums altogether more primitive and absolutely unrelenting in their monochrome cadence.

It some becomes clear that the Los Angeles band don’t wish to simply overwhelm.  They want to create a discordance that gives you no choice but to move.  And this they assuredly do as the positively louche breakdown to Scalpel Life, the groove fuelled Canvas, and the pogo inducing fury of Midori bear testament.  Meanwhile, the raw, shredded vocals plunge us in a world of poetically invoked nihilistic frustration, morbid reflections, and haunting desolation.  This is a cacophony with a purpose beyond noise itself.

‘I write down my thoughts and throw the page away, No use in keeping it, I wrote the same thoughts down yesterday…I see no change, because I won’t change’ (Little Man)

Malaise is the debut album from Class Act and they hail from Kansas City.  By way of context, that is about all I can tell you.  But who needs a backstory when you’ve got tunes as fine as these?  There has long been a school of thought that hardcore that emanates in the Midwest, away from the historic punk epicentres, evolves in intriguingly distinctive ways – a theory that Class Act are more than happy to sustain.

Their sound is one that fuses the energies of stomping hardcore with abrasive noise punk dissonance and a dash of garage velocity, before saturating everything in their own wildly off-kilter aesthetic.  Not to mention some splendidly offbeat instrumental interludes.  It works an absolute treat.  The rhythm section lays down an ever-shifting battery, utterly frenetic at times, unashamedly rugged at others. The semi-shouted vocals unleash a haranguing tirade, one part nihilistic polemic questioning the potential for change, the other a self-disgusted diatribe at our own lethargic failure to even try.

This is all bound together by the tautly stretched, discordant guitar – somehow clean and filthy at the same time.  And be assured, there are riffs aplenty – twisting, writhing, and bludgeoning as appropriate.  The highlights slam home in quick succession.  The juddering angularity of Peachy.  The brooding indolence of Big Man.  The agitated unfurling of Temple Run.  The pounding fury of World Peace.  Who knew our malaise could sound so good?

‘Everyday I get up, Gotta get on the street, Get my head in a book, So I don’t look at my feet, Am I making work now? I don’t know, I can’t tell which way to go’ (A Race)

Thrills is the debut full-length from Richmond, Virginia’s K9 and it proves a thoroughly engaging one as the band artfully fashion a myriad of contrasting influences into something very distinctively their own.  Shimmering jangle pop and a certain indie punk raggedness strike first.  But as the album evolves the underlying hardcore snap that binds their sound becomes increasingly apparent.

This is, perhaps, most evident in the song structures themselves.  It can be in your face, such as on the tautly coiled Who Ya Know and Bootstraps, but it is a subtly perceptible influence throughout.  From the languid country twang of the opener, Arms Fall Off, to the sombrely roiling melody that propels Shades of Red, by way of the jauntily upbeat The Island, K9 succeed in marrying their tightly crafted song writing with some intriguingly unexpected twists.

The dual vocalists – one laconically drawled, the other sweetly melodic – add another vivid layer to this dynamic.  They weave an eclectic path as they muse on the entrenched status quo, the myths of meritocracy, and the dangers of sleepwalking into authoritarianism, alongside odes to the flawed delights of living on the James River and the quiet pleasures of drifting through life.  Thrills flashes a bright and breezy smile.  But don’t be deceived – the bite that lurks beneath is a sharp one.

Burning Future is the utterly uncompromising debut EP from New York raw punks Arson.

Arson return with their debut 7-inch and follow up to their 2024 demo, Más Noize.  We are talking unforgiving raw punk rooted in the traditions of crasher crust, its shape rooted more in the original hardcore expressions than the more metallic interpretations that followed.  It is not a coincidence that one of the six tracks is a cover of Gloom’s Disgrace from their groundbreaking 1994 EP, Speed Noise Hardcore Rags.

The guitars are absolutely blown out, unleashing waves of just shy of white noise riffage, while the cymbal awash rhythm section is without mercy.  Amid this sonic carnage, the guttural, desperation drenched vocals contemplate with little hope a society mired in violence and corruption.  My personal highlights are the closing tracks, Damage and No Shame, where the band allow their sledgehammer groove the fullest scope to pound us into submission.

‘Maniacs on iron horses, Foam from their mouths at the gates of hell, Reality is constant death’ (Visions Of Impending Death)

Featuring members of Mexico City’s Elektrika and Philadelphia’s Psych-War, Zyclone arrive with their debut EP, Visions Of Impending Death.  They are purveyors of truly savage d-beat fuelled raw punk.

The base riffage nods towards Scandinavian käng but is filtered through a more distorted Japanese lens.  The rhythm section is remorseless as it locks into a thunderous onslaught, while the rasping vocals survey a world locked into a cycle of entrenched inequality and indiscriminate warfare.

Each of the four tracks is executed with a punishing intensity – rigorously tight, blisteringly fast – with the flaring melodicism of the rampaging Life For A Life and the searing finale of Exterminate Them All landing with a particular velocity.

‘Ja niby jestem tutaj, Ale nie ma mnie, Marzę o powrocie, I nie rozpoznasz mnie’ (Bezsenność) / ‘I’m supposedly here, But I’m not, I dream of returning, And you won’t recognise me’ (Insomnia)

Belgrado underwent something of a dramatic reimagining between 2016’s Obraz (Image) and their fourth album, 2023’s Intra Apogeum (Enter The Apogee).  Gone was the dark, guitar driven post-punk and in its place was a rather more brightly propulsive, synth fuelled incarnation.  This reinvention is now further embedded on the Barcelona band’s beguiling new four track 12-inch, El Encuentro (The Meeting).

The drums have again been shorn in favour of crisply motorik programmed percussion and then intertwined with thickly throbbing bass lines.  Pulsing synths now form the melodic core, displaying an intriguing ability to glow warmly and seethe icily as the mood shifts.  The resulting soundtrack has an almost cinematic quality, clinical yet catchy and ineffably danceable.

Yet, beneath the surface level sheen, there also resides a languid melancholy that calls back to the band’s origins.  The shards of shimmering guitar and the hauntingly ethereal Polish vocals infuse the likes of Moje Myśli (My Thoughts) and Labirynt Marzeń (Labyrinth Of Dreams) with a hazily evocative, hallucinatory sense of the unrequited and the unresolved.

The EP also comes with a twenty-page lyric booklet that builds on the theme of the modernist cover art to explore the importance of music and culture in building towards a more equitable and just world.

‘I’m suffocating and evaporating, The present is squeezed to dust, Snow is melting down in my cup, And I fill my bottle with your sweat’ (Drip)

Deep Fried Bitches is the debut album from Parisian trio My Dog’s A Bear.  It is an exploration of the experimental hinterlands of post-hardcore, laced through with a distinctive art punk inclination. As such, it marries two intriguingly contrasting elements.

The first is the sense of space, a willingness to allow the songs to breathe and find their own equilibrium.  This expansiveness is nurtured by the resonant clarity of the production – the warm thrum of the bass lines, the crystalline guitar, and the crisp punch of the percussion (deliciously accented by the deft cymbal work) – which feels lush yet somehow spartan at the same time.

The second is a restless sense of invention that seems to assert itself ever more confidently, almost as if the album is deconstructing itself as it progresses.  Flirtations with no wave minimalism and noise rock fervour are indulged with equal relish.

Meanwhile, the lead vocals segue from the stridently melodic to the conspiratorially whispered, aided and abetted by the energetically off-kilter backing.  They delve with a fractured obliqueness into nightmarish web of climatic breakdown, predatory behaviours, and vulnerability in the face of an exploitative economic system.

From the tautly convulsing opener Drip to the brooding escalation of Warm And Soft and the agitated exultations of Chain Hoist, it proves an entrancing blend.  One that lulls you into its languorously unfurling soundscapes, before jarring you back to reality with an unapologetic delight.

‘Good things may pass away with time, And good people can be hard to find, Until you find them, In yourself’ (Can’t Kill The Love)

The Love is an album that speaks to something that often seems to be in short supply in our lives at the moment.  A willingness to walk in someone else’s shoes for just a moment.  To take a breath and consider what struggles others may be confronting.  To not allow ourselves to be sucked into the knee jerk intolerance that feels so pervasive.  To resist the almost constant pressure from those seeking scapegoats to punch down on those at the margins.

Destiny Bond are back with their second album and follow-up to 2023’s Be My Vengeance.  The heart of the Denver band’s sound still resides in high octane, youth crew leaning melodic hardcore.  The rhythm section is as fiercely propulsive, the gang vocals as vigorously robust, as this would imply.  Yet amid its more muscular eruptions, the rhythm guitar often has a looser, more ragged texture than might be expected, while the solos fizz with a notable rock’n’roll strut.

What strikes most though is the sheer verve of delivery.  It brims with an unbridled energy and sincerity that is tied together by the galloping, rasping, yelping vocals.  Rooted in the trans experiences of two of the band members, they call universally on us to be more generous spirited to both those around us and, indeed, to ourselves.  It is a breathless ride with the ferociously freewheeling Free Me, the metallic slabs of Debt Perception, and the raucously oscillating Fix capturing the spirit particularly vividly.

‘Black mold seeps while I wake from fever dreams, Walls cracked, sink broken in this city full of thieves, All dignity lost while I break my back’ (Scumlord)

Hailing from San Francisco, and featuring members of Everybody Row, Tørsö, and Profile among others, Urban Sprawl have always felt like a band shaped very explicitly by their home city.  Or at least, by that stratum of hyper-financialised ‘global cities’ that have been relentlessly contorted to serve the needs of capital rather than their communities.

They are now back with their third EP, following up 2021’s Concrete Altar, and the savagely growled vocals once again dive into the entrenched inequalities of exploitative rentiers, the hollowing out of gentrification, and the militarised violence that is increasingly riven through US civic society.

The foundations of the band’s sound remain similarly steadfast.  A burly USHC base is interwoven with both d-beat and UK82 influences, before being fiercely moulded through a more metallic crucible.  Each of the six tracks lands with a bone shuddering velocity, with the bass fuelled Scumlord and the stomping fury of Compulsion being my personal highlights.

‘Así que y la solucion fue el neoliberalismo? Así que la democracie existe en realidad? Así que el ejercito defiende al pueblo? Así que los medios nos dicen la verad?’/ ‘So the solution was neoliberalism? So democracy actually exists? So the army defends the people? So the media tells us the truth?’ (EZLN)

Repression of Mexico’s Indigenous population has been endemic since colonial times, morphing from military brutality to slow economic violence.  This entrenched socio-economic marginalisation dramatically worsened as neoliberalism arrived in Mexico during the 1980s.   In response, rural communities began to explore political alternatives – Zapatismo – rooted in land reform, class struggle, and communitarian organisation, filtered through the lens of their Indigenous identity.

Mexico’s neoliberal turn culminated in the North American Free Trade Agreement in 1994, which sparked the Zapatistas in the southern state of Chiapas to declare war on the Mexican government.  The armed struggle lasted 12 days before an agreement was reached that granted greater autonomy to rural municipalities.  It was a system that survived under informal Zapatistas stewardship until its dissolution in 2023, as a direct result of escalating cartel violence.

Revolución X were a band born of that Zapatistas movement in the US border state of Chihuahua.  They formed in the direct aftermath of the 1994 revolt and were active between then and 1997, maintaining their anonymity throughout, and largely distributing their music by copied cassettes.

Revolución Permanente (Permanent Revolution) brings together all of the band’s recorded material – their 1994 self-titled debut, 1995’s Política Y Esparcimiento… (Politics And Entertainment), and 1997’s Canciones Electorales (Electoral Songs), plus a live performance in El Paso in 1996, and a bonus track recorded in 2015, Esto No Es Una Democracia (This Is Not A Democracy).

The album opens with the solemn spoken word of the EZLN’s original declaration of war to sparsely martial percussion, before plunging into a barrage of raw, politically charged hardcore punk, barring a satirical leap into pop punk on I’m Making My Future With The Border Patrol.  It is an intensity perfectly captured by the chaotic live set.  Lyrically, they challenged the state violence endemic to Mexico, its rampant socio-economic inequality, and democratic deficit as well as the malign history of US intervention in Central American politics.

The insert includes a short Spanish essay from the band, placing their original message, and their understanding of what punk is, within the context of a contemporary world defined by surveillance capitalism, growing authoritarianism, and the paramilitary violence of ICE on the streets of the US.

Two of the most spiteful purveyors of contemporary d-beat join forces, contributing seven tracks apiece to this split album, Död Åt Tyranner (Death To Tyrants)

‘Permafrost shall wield, The new breed of terror, Prehistoric nightmare, Shall thrive on human error’ (The Terror Rises From The Grave)

Seattle’s Nighfeeder, who feature members of Consume and Deathraid, have been building a bleakly impressive body of work since their 2021 self-titled debut 7-inch.  Their contribution to this split is as brutal as you would anticipate.  The d-beat fuelled rhythm section injects a distinctive rock’n’roll swagger, but one that is absolutely saturated through with the darkly thrashing crust of the guitar onslaught.

Meanwhile the roared vocals confront a world mired in the degradation of both humanity and animals, together with our shared planet.  My personal highlight amid the carnage is Life’s Foul Pit.  The dissonant opening melody feeds into a truly venomous riff, which is in turn allowed the scope to fully breathe in the stunning groove laden, melody laced climax.

‘Education and healthcare, All up for sale, Keep the stockholders pleased, So that profit prevails’ (End All This Crap)

Verdict’s pedigree is equally impressive, reading as it does as a veritable who’s who of Swedish hardcore from Exploatör to Totalitär.  They take off from exactly where they left on their fiercely intense second full-length, 2023’s The Rat Race.  The emphasis is on blistering velocity and perpetually shifting d-beat rhythms, although the band are not averse to letting their natural sledgehammer groove lock-in amid the squalling solos.

Lyrically, the harshly rasping vocals take aim at the remorseless financialisaton and polarising echo chambers that are tearing apart our social fabric.  It is a potent blend and one that comes together with particular vehemence on the bruising I’m Not Built To Last and the chugging stomp of Narcissistic Piece Of Shit.

‘Upprepade bombregn, I blodiga räder, Systematisk terror, Mot befolkningen I städer’ (Eliminering/Kolonisering) / ‘Repeated bombardments, In bloody rows, Systematic terror, Against the urban population’ (Elimination/Colonization)

Hot on the heels of their split EP with Destruct, Svaveldioxid (Sulphur Dioxide) celebrate their tenth anniversary with a savage sixth album, Misär O.D (Misery O.D).  The Stockholm band continue to hone a thoroughly distinctive onslaught, ferociously melding Sweden’s varying hardcore traditions.  For while their rhythmic dynamics are firmly grounded in the käng idiom, their guitars are notably more indebted to the thick buzzsaw riffage of early 1990’s death metal in the vein of Entombed.

Meanwhile, the echo drenched, semi-shouted Swedish vocals confront the rising tide of authoritarianism and the military violence being inflicted on civilian populations by zealots of every hue.  As it careers from the searing Inre Uppror (Inner Rebellion) to the seething riffage of Religiös Ondska (Religious Evil), not to mention the searing solos that ignite amid the carnage of Eliminering/Kolonisering (Elimination/Colonization) and Mänskliga Facklor (Human Torches), it is a powerfully intense barrage.

‘None stole my heart, But there’s still been a theft, Asked not to jump, But I’ve already leapt’ (In Lieu Of Flowers)

Hailing from Bellingham, Washington, MEM//BRANE were active from 2023-2025 and bow out with their self-titled full-length.  They were fierce advocates of trans rights, and the album provides a harrowing insight into the traumas and insecurity being inflicted on marginalised communities amid the authoritarian turn currently engulfing the US.

MEM//BRANE meld driving d-beat, cymbal awash rhythms with ferocious metallic crust riffage.  They instinctually segue from doom laden reflection to squalling solos through baleful breakdowns.  However, the very heart of their sound lies in the band’s iron grip on their remorseless groove. The unvarnished ferocity of What You Have Smeared On The World, the melancholy braided In Lieu Of Flowers, and the surging fury of (sirens approaching) are personal stand outs amid the unforgiving barrage.

The album’s bark meets roar, death metal inclined vocals delve into the loneliness, abandonment, and depression that can stalk the lives of those struggling to find equilibrium in an unforgiving world, while trenchantly confronting the political opportunists who are currently fuelling social intolerance and violence for their own grasping needs, ‘the thieves of peace’ (The Sheer Veil Of Fascism).

‘Sit in your bed, Pretend you’re on trial, Feel the sting, Of imagined betrayal, Hallucinate the bars, Of the social cage, Wanna be erased?’ (Memory Ward)

Imagine stumbling through a thick, swirling fog, so viscous that it seems to cling to your very skin.  Fleetingly it clears, only for you to be swiftly swallowed by the next swelling bank.  All the while, stinging blows rain down on you incessantly and from the most unexpected of angles.  There is nowhere to hide, no respite to be found.

This is the self-titled debut album from Phoenix’s Memory Ward, and it is a viscerally claustrophobic one.  It is an intrinsically abrasive, densely layered battery, one that continually threatens to overwhelm, while never losing total control of the aural chaos as each track bleeds into the next.  The atmosphere is fraught with unease and anxiety.  You are left reeling as the convulsions violently unfurl from the punishing Drowned Fool to the lacerating Social Order, and the psychedelic tinged grooves of Vivid Blue.

The blown-out distortion can’t hide the nimble angularity of the blisteringly rapid guitars, while the welcome flares of dissonant melody are swiftly smothered by the next wave of discordance.  The rhythm section is utterly frenetic, complex patterns delivered with a primitive abandon.  The caustically raw vocals lock-in with these manic rhythms, drenched in despair as they contemplate the isolation and self-doubt that flourish amid the detritus of an atomising society.  The throbbing atonal feedback that closes the album comes almost as a cleanser, clearing the mind before you plunge back into the tumult.

‘I refuse to fall in line, And live my life submissive and blind, No high king in the clouds for me, Your last day is your reality’ (Last Breath)

Denver’s Negative Degree were initially active in the 2010s, releasing two EPs before going on hiatus in 2017.  Just before they did so, they actually recorded a third EP, and it has now been released as the perfect primer for the band’s return to action.

The four rampaging tracks capture their almost timeless style, one rooted in 1980s USHC, yet also spiced with a more contemporary youth crew sensibility.  The delivery is as high octane as that would imply, with a keen eye for tension ratcheting builds, and brimming with a fiercely urgent intensity.

The impassioned, rasping vocals tackle the oppressive influences of religion and the self-serving political consensus that laid the groundwork for the rise of authoritarian opportunists, as well as the relentless militarisation of the police.  The tautly bristling Last Breath and the barrelling Beat The Crowds land with a particular velocity.

‘We have the will, A battle cry will sound out, Shrill against the night, And with it our retribution, The warren is empty’ (The Fall Of Efrafa)

Fall Of Efrafa were a Brighton based crust band, active between 2005 and 2009.  They formed with the express aim of releasing a trilogy of concept albums – The Warren Of Snares – based around the mythology of Watership Down.  The 1972 Richard Adams novel explores the trials of a group of rabbits whose warren is destroyed, and who find themselves trapped in the police state of Efrafa, under the tyrannical rule of General Woundwort.

The band used this mythology to explore themes of anti-authoritarianism, animal rights, atheism, and the power of community action.  Each of the three albums Owsla, Elil, and then Inlé takes its name from the Lapine language of the novel, and the trilogy is structured in reverse order, with the first album, Owsla, dealing with the climatic rebellion that sees Efrafa fall.

I must admit I rarely need much encouragement to delve into Fall of Efrafa’s discography.  However, the news that Alerta Antifascista are planning to reissue all three albums over the next year, beginning here with Owsla, is as good excuse as any.

Owsla was the band’s debut album and was released in 2006 and represented the first movement in the trilogy.  It opens with the sombre swell of cello and ominously foreboding spoken word, before immersing us into an evocatively conjured world.  Bleakly melodic crust forms the bedrock, soaring melancholy fuelled by waves of darkly metallic riffage, and braided throughout with mournful cello and flourishes of haunting post-metal.  It builds relentlessly towards cathartic peaks, where hopeful defiance succeeds in subverting the atmosphere of dread and fear.

From the raucous climax to Pity The Weak to the brooding escalation of Last But Not Least, it is a powerfully crafted album, reaching its euphoric zenith on The Fall Of Efrafa itself.  Indeed, it would take someone of admirable self-restraint not to find themselves roaring the ‘The warren is empty’ at the album’s rousing finale.  As those words die to a whisper on your lips, it is clear that the stirring impact of Owsla has not dimmed one iota since its release, and the themes that it examines are now more relevant than ever.