‘No, it doesn’t have to be like this, You know there’s another way, There has gotta be more to life, Than just making it through the day’ (Another Way)

From the Hillsborough Tragedy to the Grenfell Fire, the attitude of the British state to its people has been laid bare.  Negligence and systemic disdain for working class communities sowed the seeds for the original disasters, while blatant lies, disinformation, and institutional obstruction defined the subsequent responses.  In neither instance has justice been done, the legal system protecting those same interests that empower it.

Challenging this barely concealed contempt is what fuels the debut album from The Social.  All For One, One For All is hardcore punk stripped to its inner essence – the conviction is clear, the anger searingly raw.  The Liverpool trio, who include Tom Pimlott of The Flex and Violent Reaction on vocals / guitar, harness these primal instincts to unleash an uncompromising onslaught.

The muscular riffage and pounding martial rhythms set the groundwork, the quicksilver solos and boisterous sing-along choruses inject a contagious vigour.  As they sweep from the bruising On The Grift and the savage takedown of The Sun newspaper, The Scum, to the uproarious Another Way and the seething The Company, this barrelling intensity doesn’t diminish for one moment.

Meanwhile, the guttural vocals build connections between our divisive economic system, the political grifters seeking to exploit the resultant disaffection by scapegoating the marginalised, colonial legacies, and the need for communities to organise to reshape their own futures.  And amid the confrontational barrage, there is also a welcome lacing of black humour including an ode to Everton’s infamous Dogs Of War midfield from the mid-1990s.

‘Just make an impact, Don’t freeze – react, Avoid the trap of indifference, Choose the path of defiance’ (Impact)

Some albums work their magic slowly, revealing their secrets over time, insidiously working their way under the skin almost unnoticed.  Others forgo such extended preliminaries and simply grab you by the throat from the first spin.  The debut album, Peace Is A Lie, from Flux definitely falls into the latter category.

The Antwerp band deal in fist pumping, UK82 inspired hardcore.  The base elements will be familiar from the abrasive guitars and flaring hints of melody to the primitive drums, yet such is the passion of the delivery that they slam home with a raw, refreshing intensity.  The hoarsely nasal vocals lock in with a fierce synchronicity as the straight to the point lyrics rage against a society increasingly mired in surveillance, intolerance, and militarised control, while also revelling in the pleasures of a swirling, sweaty pit.

The songwriting itself is, arguably, where Flux’s ultimate strength lies – economic, free from self-indulgence, and with an unerring sense of how to maximise the impact.  The rhythmic fury of Flux Your Head, the melodic breakdown in Punk Retaliation, and the rousing finale of War Cry will all have you returning to the well for more.  Simple pleasures done really rather well.

‘Tourne en rond, On s’isole, Vieilles pulsions qui résonnent, Répulsion, Je m’empoissonne’ / ‘Going in circles, Isolating myself, Old impulses echoing, Repulsion, I’m poisoning myself’ (Gare Du Nord)

Gare Du Nord is a project conceived during the Direct Threat 2024 European tour with Instructor.  Members of both bands were keen to engage with the legacies of the 1980s French Oi bands who had been so influential to their respective musical evolutions.  Now, I must admit that I am not best placed to comment on whether this collaborative reimagining is a strictly accurate one.  What I can tell you is that Appels De Phares (Flashing Headlights) has emerged as something of a quietly unassuming treat.

The songwriting builds a tight momentum across the four tracks, while the playing itself has an engaging looseness to it.  The production imbues proceedings with a similarly enticing lo-fi, analogue warmth.  The bass tone punches through with an especially vibrant clarity.  Meanwhile, as the EP sweeps from the darkly catchy Vrille (Drill) to the melodic regret of Dans Le Tunnel (In The Tunnel), the gruff French vocals trace the blurred outlines and anxious memories of a Paris night that has rather gone off the rails.

‘Broken homes and broken bones, We reap the poison that they have sown, A generation expected to fail, When you only have a hammer, All you see is nails’ (Spirit Of Youth)

Hailing from Pittsburgh, No Time released their debut album, You’ll Get Yours, back in 2016.  They returned to the fray after something of a hiatus with their 2023 follow-up, Suffer No Fool, and now this new EP, Comply Or Die.  Intriguingly, they are band whose members have a rich history at the heavier end of hardcore including Concealed Blade, Heartless, Loose Nukes, and Masakari.  And while this pedigree ensures a welcome vehemency to the delivery, No Time is a rather different project.

An intro from The Chisel’s Cal Graham primes the scene before No Time unleash four tracks of high octane, Oi-fuelled melodic punk that brims with a rock’n’roll swagger and a catchily melodic pop sensibility.  The brightly sharp guitars contrast with the altogether burlier vocals as they explore police violence and a world that continues to do all it can to rob the young of any hope for change.  Iron Breed and State Execution get things off to a raucous start, but my personal highlights are, perhaps, the rollicking, piano fuelled title track with and the anthemic slow burn of Spirit Of Youth.

‘Everything I can do, But I don’t know what to do, And I’m the best that I try to be, But it doesn’t make sense to me’ (Boots On Your Back)

Smashing Time began life as something of a transatlantic collaboration but the band has since coalesced around its New York arm.  That said the distinctively English cadence of the vocals, courtesy of former Antagonizm front Oli, ensures that the original spirit of co-operation remains very much alive.

Brand Spanking New is the band’s debut 10-inch and it’s five tracks are immersed in the traditions of 1980s’ UK street punk given a reinvigorating refresh.  The fuzzily distorted guitar and flares of brightly gleaming melody are underpinned by a rhythm section that injects a satisfying swing to proceedings.

The three barrelling side A tracks brim with a raucous energy as they take in themes of the collective ties that help us survive the daily struggle (Battlefield, Mental Oppression) and the failure of the US government to confront the causes of the seemingly never-ending epidemic of mass shootings (Urban Terrorist).

The EP becomes more melodically expansive on the flip side, most notably on the stand-out track, the visceral Paki Scum.  Here Smashing Time rather disconcertingly soundtrack Oli’s rage at the bigotry that he and his family had to endure with a track of fiercely infectious catchiness, before closing on the woozily reflective Boots On Your Back.

‘Los demonios del pasado, Me atormentan, Con remordimiento, Es borrosa la manera, Cuando trato, De crear momentos, Se disipan en al limbo’ (Fragmentos) / ‘The demons of the past, They torment me, With remorse, The way is blurred, When I try, To create moments, They dissipate into limbo’ (Fragments)

Venenö (Poison) return with a follow up to last year’s Demo MMXXIV debut 7-inch. The trio have their roots firmly in New York’s Oi traditions and this heritage, not least the roughly hewn Spanish vocals, is subtly braided through these four tracks.  Yet, Venenö’s sound is one much more notably shrouded in the bleakly melancholic shades of post-punk.

Venenö deftly meld these competing influences.  Waves of mournfully serpentine melody, chunky bass lines, and surging rhythms ferment an atmosphere that is steeped equally in regret at wrong turns taken and an undimmed defiance to get back up for the next round.  The darkly propulsive Vició (Vice) and the bristling anguish of Fragmentos capture the mood with a particular elegiac lucidity.

‘Colonize the promised land just to exploit it all again, Expiration of us all, Infrastructures collapse and fall, Awaken celestial bodies, It’s a planned obsolescence, Fetish of commodity, We’re all just orbital debris terraforming galaxies for the gods of industry’ (Prison Planet BIOS-4)

Phase IV sees the rampaging return of Wiccans.  It tells the story of a world where people are mere units of productivity.  Where technology is used to surveil and polarise those same people.  Where morally and intellectually bankrupt notions of austerity and trickle-down economics are the unchanging rationality.  Where a planet is subject to extraction so rapacious that it is hurtling towards catastrophe.

This is the Texan band’s first album since 2017’s Sailing A Crazy Ship.  Ever since they released their first demo back in 2009, they have been forging their own very singular, restlessly writhing path.  All the core essentials of a fine hardcore record are evident in abundance, yet each is given its own intriguing accent, and the deftness of the songwriting dictates that rarely are they deployed quite when and how you might expect.

The clean toned guitars are tensely abrasive yet underpinned with a gratifying, almost metallic muscularity.  The rhythm section segues from the loosely limber to the frenetically vehement with seamless ease.  The solos recklessly squall into life yet evolve into catchily melodic exhortations.  The gruffly barked vocals provide a binding constant as they contemplate our increasingly dystopian future.  The highlights slam home with impressive regularity.  From the absolutely savage riff that defines the latter half of Crucifixion to the stomping rhythms of Primordial Sorcery, and from the infectiously forlorn motif melody of Prison Planet BIOS-4 to the freakishly unhinged In Pandemonium, this is a blistering return.

‘Nós queremos o novo, mas cercaram um muro, pelas angũstias do pov0, A onde foi meu futuro?’ (Lindas E Findas) / ‘We want something new, But they’ve built a wall around us, Because of the people’s anguish, Where has my future gone?’ (Beautiful And Finished)

This is an album about uncertainty.  The uncertainty of trying to build a life in a new country.  About insecurity.  The insecurity of finding somewhere to call home in a city that increasingly doesn’t recognise that fundamental right.  About disdain.  The disdain of a country that is built on the labour of those it views of as expendable.  About distance.  The distance from family and friends that seemingly grows longer by the day.  Yet, it is also an album about love.  The new loves, the new friendships that form and give meaning to this struggle, and steel you as you build a new life.

Fantasma (Ghost) were first formed by two friends who emigrated from Brazil to live in New York, and have now expanded to a five piece, with members of Dollhouse and Stigmatism swelling the ranks.  Their debut album, Quase (Almost), though remains very much rooted in the lived experiences that first inspired the band’s music.  Drawing with equal relish on both Latin American post-punk and 1980s’ UK anarcho traditions, it is bound by the conventions of neither.

Languidly swirling guitars, a fluidly supple rhythm section, and drawled semi-spoken Portuguese vocals from the groundwork as the album opens with the hazily brooding Me Dá Seu Trabalho (Give Me Your Work) and the insidiously catchy Onde Eu Estou? (Where Am I?).  These same guitars then spark into taut angularity on Eu Quero Você (I Want You) and Eu Nāo Sei (I Don’t Know), before sliding back into languorously melodic reflection on Lindas E Findas.  It is a blend that evokes a sense of blurred disorientation and of futures dissolving, yet also conjures fleeting glimpses of quiet hope, of progress tentatively being made.

‘Another lesson in impermanence, In the lattice of coincidence, The same actions are repeated, Like we haven’t learned anything’ (Secondhand Future)

We live in a world that seeks to desensitise us to the horrors committed in our name, or at least to the complicity of our governments.  That seeks to ensure that we are so focused on insulating ourselves from the insecurities that permeate our lives that we dehumanise those trapped at the margins.  And all so wealth can be disproportionately accumulated at the expense of the common good. Industry’s self-titled second album confronts this cycle of self-harm and exploitation with a fierce clarity.

Last year’s debut full-length was a stirring invocation of the classic elements of anarcho-punk, that this follow-up ramps up to the next level.  The metallic-tinged guitars unfurl with a darkly brooding menace.  The flaring melodies are saturated in elegiac fury.  The martial rhythms snap with a renewed spite.  The impassioned vocals morph from raw semi-shouts to venomous rat-a-tat denunciations as they explore, through an anarchist framing, a world shape by militarised violence overseas and the slow violence of austerity economics and mass incarceration at home.

The resultant onslaught is pared down to its essentials, the tightly disciplined palette ensuring that the Berlin band’s delivery is resolutely uncompromising in its intensity.  Disconsolate desolation and a bristling, combative hope for a better future intertwine throughout as Industry sweep from the sombre melodic flourishes of Manipulated Reality to the visceral agitations of War On The Poor, and the furiously insistent climax of Western Dystopia.

‘Hoard it all, grow their fortune, Belly full, still they want more, Forgetting what you’re living for, Take it all, that’s what they do, Fat cats, they take it all’ (Fat Cat)

Hailing from Brighton, Plastics released their first 7-inch, Plastic World, on Crew Cuts back in 2020 and they now return with their debut full-length.  The core fundamentals of their high octane, thrashing hardcore punk remain firmly in evidence, but as you might anticipate, the assurance and intensity of the delivery have taken a notable step forward.

Flesh Circuit sees Plastics explore an intriguing blend of influences.  The chunky bass lines and crisply punch drums inject a tight hardcore bounce to proceedings.  Meanwhile, the guitars draw their inspiration from the crunching riffage of late 1980s’ thrash metal.  Yet, there is a twist here as the guitar tone is a touch less metallic than you might expect, imbued as it is with a distinctive spaced-out fuzz.   The result is a sound that morphs between pogo punk and crossover thrash with a surprising dexterity.

The sharply energetic vocals prove adept at bridging these shifting dynamics as they map out the everyday struggle to break the constraints of stagnating relationships and a rigged economic system.  Delivered in a higher-than-average register, they lock in with a rhythmic spring in the vein of, say, Sad Boys or Exit Order, but are not shy of strutting a certain NWOBHM-inclined sense of drama when the occasion demands.  Personal stand outs are the frenetically escalating Fat Cat, the agitated stomp of Rat King, and the galloping ferocity of Swing It.

‘They say the sky is the limit, Take a running start before you leap, It’s their world, we live in it, Spread your wings with chains clamped to your feet, It’s the way it is, until the day you die’ (Kiss The Sky)

As you survey the rather bleak state of the world, hope can seem like a luxury that we can ill-afford.  Yet, it is essential to ensuring that our values are not subsumed amid the waves of socio-economic atomisation and the self-serving antics of political grifters.  Hope is the spark that ensures that resistance can ignite.

And the importance of recognising this dynamic is at the very heart of Home Front’s third album, and follow-up to 2021’s Think Of The Lie and 2023’s Games Of Power. The Edmonton band have always been musical magpies of rare invention.  The duo, who expand to an uproarious full band in the live setting, continue to meld the combative energy of the hardcore with the dark melodicism of post-punk and the sheer danceability of synth-pop with an uplifting abandon.

Amid the warmly pulsing synths, glistening shards of guitar, crisp percussion, and even rollicking piano, flares of Echo And The Bunnymen and The Eurythmics via New Order are imbued with a forceful punk velocity.  And Watch It Die finds Home Front in their most assured form yet, marshalling these influences with an ever more deftly organic touch.  They sweep from the anthemic drama of the title track to the raucous Oi!-fuelled For The Children (Fuck All), and then from the insidiously catchy Kiss The Sky to the bristling dark wave of Young Offender, with an exuberant yet seamless relish.

The theme of hope that permeates the album though should not be misconstrued for blind optimism.  Home Front are very clear eyed about the world that confronts us, one rooted in military violence, the myth of meritocracy, and the criminalisation of poverty.  But, it does recognise that the antidote can only be found in ourselves through the bonds of collective action, community, and friendship: ‘Never think that you need to be alone’ (Light Sleeper).  The glimmering shoegaze of closer Empire leaves us with the thought that even the most entrenched system ultimately devours itself, but someone does need to be around to deliver the toppling touch.

‘That’s how we found each other, To remember what we have lost, To contemplate the remains, A sky filled with stars, Scattered ashes encircling ruins from other times, Scavengers fly over decaying bodies’ (ماذا تبقّى / Remains)

À Qui La Liberté? (To Whom Does Freedom Belong?) is the question posed by Uzu on this, their second album.  It proves an emotionally charged interrogation as they plunge into a bleakly allusive exploration of memory, loss, betrayal, and isolation.  To be free is to feel belonging, a state of being ever more out of reach in a polarised world that seeks to actively ferment insecurity and division.

Uzu’s darkly melodic post-punk evocatively envelopes and amplifies this deep-seated sense of unease.  The taut austerity of their delivery gives space to both the locked-in, propulsive rhythm section and the mournfully sinuous melodies of the guitar in equal measure.  Montreal-based, the band include members of the Algerian and Colombian diaspora among their ranks, the former revealing itself in the  impassioned, quavering Arabic vocals.

What emerges is an album that is haunted by a sense of forlorn desolation, an exhaustion at fighting to achieve an equilibrium that is seemingly beyond reach.  Not an acceptance of defeat, but rather a recognition of what must be endured.  This tableau of melancholic precision is vividly embodied by the bass propelled agitation of لا تسألني (Do Not Question Me), the remorseless escalation of في خطر (Endangered), and the seething intensity of أختنق (I Suffocate).

‘Profit off everything you see, Turn everything into a fucking commodity, Maybe there’s something I can do? Probably not, same with you’ (Horrible Future)

We’re fortunate to be enjoying an era where the creative boundaries of hardcore are constantly being pushed in intriguing new directions.  Yet, every now and then, there is a yearning to get back to the essentials.  And that is where Negative Charge are more than happy to oblige with their utterly bracing self-titled debut album.

Negative Charge is a fiercely unadorned statement of intent, one without even a hint of unnecessary extravagance.  This singularity of purpose primes an onslaught that slams home with an unremitting intensity.  Gruffly barked vocals and muscular riffage are underpinned by a rhythm section that is as frenetic as it is burly.  It brims with a primal pit provoking energy that is gratifyingly organic – the breakdowns are bruising without being leant on too heavily – while the squalling solos cut through with a reckless abandon.

The fury that propels this unforgiving battery is similarly uncompromising.  It rails against a society locked into a warped logic that it seems unable, or unwilling, to challenge.  A rationality that commoditises every aspect of existence and works relentlessly to protect privilege, while punishing the marginalised for their predicament.  Personal highlights are the barrelling opener Horrible Future, the bleakly surging Rotten Leather, and the viciously careering Shut Me Off.

I still vividly recall seeing Earth Ball when they played Cafe Oto in May last year touring their debut album, It’s Yours.  It was an evening of quite remarkable sonic intensity, one rooted in improvisation that fashioned a soundscape where the intricacy and experimentation were dedicated to feeding the most utterly unforgiving melding of discordance and groove.

The Vancouver Island band are now back with their second full length, Outside Over There.  The band’s ability to throw a dummy to the listener remains undimmed as the album opens with an excerpt of comedian Stewart Lee amid jarring scrapes of saxophone, before a slab of savagely metallic riffage is unleashed and the saxophone erupts into a full-bore scream to herald the searing opener Helsinki.

Earth Ball’s emphasis is on relentlessly building and layering waves of instrumentation to peaks of cathartic fury, before deconstructing them all over again until nothing but a dissonant whisper remains.  The path to these ecstatic releases is never linear.  The percussion takes its starting point from jazz influences, before locking into to fierce passages of methodical, industrial-accented vehemence.  This provides the foundation for the venomous skronking of the feral saxophone and the guitar, which segues throughout from the melodically serpentine to the altogether more abrasively brawny.  Meanwhile, trumpet, clarinet, and atonal electronics flare amid the barrage.

There is an innate tension as dread and euphoria entwine in seething, cacophonous confrontation.  This disquiet is reflected in the vocals as they morph from spectral murmurs to rhythmic chants and disembodied spoken word.  As Earth Ball sweep from the infectiously choppy Hellfire Relations to the darkly squalling contortions of Where I Come From, and then from the bass shrouded reflections of Behind The Mall to the tempestuous oscillations of And Music Shall Untune The Sky, you have little choice but to submit yourself to the maelstrom.

‘Peace, For the price of tyranny. He explains, At first freedom is the process, He explains, In the end, The Republic, Is the process’ (سر / Secret)

Haram (Forbidden) first emerged in New York a decade ago, exploring through vocalist Nader’s eyes how the horrors of the September 11^th attack had irrevocably reshaped the relationship between the city and its Arabic community, as well as his own struggles to reconcile the conservatism of his upbringing with his own identity.  This first phase saw the band release a full-length, 2017’s ليش الجنة بيتبلش في الجهنم؟ (When You Have Won, You Have Lost) and three EPs, culminating in their 2019 7-inch, وين كنيت بي ١١​/​٩؟ (Where Were You On 9/11?).

They now return in utterly rampant form with their second full-length, ليش الجنة بيتبلش في الجهنم؟ (Why Does Paradise Begin In Hell?), provoked by the murderous military onslaught on Gaza and the paramilitary brutality of ICE on the streets of the US.  The fundamentals of the band’s sound remain firmly rooted in primitively rhythmic, swirling hardcore.  Yet, it has also become notably more expansive, without diluting its essential ferocity.

The production sounds much fuller, which in turn enables each element of the band’s instrumentation to assert itself more forcibly.  The sinuous Middle Eastern guitar melodies and Arabic chants are braided even more ambitiously though the band’s song writing.  Meanwhile, the distinctive cadence of Nader’s Arabic vocals is a touch less harsh, but more assuredly strident and intriguingly varied, providing a powerfully rhythmic counterpoint to the wider battery.

This progression ensures that an album of thrillingly forward thinking hardcore unfurls. Highlights abound.  The moment when the cow bell cymbal segues into the scorching climatic solo to the fiercely contagious كافر (Sinner).  The serpentine rhythms that fuel مسئولية من؟ (Whose Responsibility?).  The woozily swinging bass line and chanted vocals of خبي جميلتك هذا لالك (Hide Your Beauty, It Is For You).  The searingly atmospheric riff that shrouds the bleak spoken word of بدون طيار (Drone).  Throughout Haram reaffirm their desire to confront and to expand the boundaries of hardcore.  Not through performative provocation, but by posing the uncomfortable questions and taking their music in ever more inventive directions.

For more background on Haram check out, The War On The Other.

Streetlights cast pools of shimmering light on the rain slick pavements.  Windows glow with the warmth of home, others remain silently darkened.  Ambitiously angular towers soar above tightly packed terrace streets, before increasingly morphing into glass and steel blocks that reek of investment yields.

This is not just a journey through the night.  It is a journey through a city’s history.  From the post-war determination to build a city for the public good, to the decline of the 1970s fostered by paternalistic neglect, and then the wholesale disposal of public land for private gain that has swamped London since the 1980s.  A city now designed for rentier profits, rather than its people.

Our guides for this nocturnal tour are London Clay, a duo comprising Hygiene drummer Pat Daintith on electronics and Gema Oliver on vocals, on their debut full-length, Private View.  The atmosphere is an ever shifting one – claustrophobic yet expansive, immersive yet resolutely allusive.  It sweeps from the throbbing dark wave of Desire Lines to the languorously shimmering, Jesu-like shoegaze of Apricity, and then from the deceptively hypnotic Smashing Time to the crisply percussive Straphangar with dextrous ease.

Drawing on the writings on London of Maureen Duffy, Olaf Stapledon, and Patrick Hamilton, the vocals deliver a spectral narrative.  For the most part, they are hauntingly ethereal presence, before the unsettling lullaby of Faraday and the uneasy murmurings of The Midnight Bell startle you from your reverie.  What ultimately emerges is a defiant ode to the resilience of a city.  Much has been squandered, but all is not yet lost, a sense of optimism reflected amid the skeletal piano and melodic drone of the closer, Clifton Rise.

‘There is no language of freedom, People have been exploited, There is no hope for justice, Rights have been suppressed, Oppression, oppression, We will fight’ (Atyachar / Atrocity)

Shatki hail from Barcelona and this is their self-titled debut album.  They feature members of Belgrado, including Patrycja Proniewska dusting off the drum sticks she yielded to such effect with her first band Sect.  Yet those place markers are in many ways misleading.  Shakti, which speaks to the Hindu concept of the cosmic power that gives life to the universe, is a project that is very much driven by the Indian heritage of vocalist Nirzar.

Bouncing bass lines and punchily limber drums unfurl a rhythmic base that gets even the most reluctant of feet urgently moving, while the guitar follows its own tautly writhing path.  Well-judged samples are intertwined throughout and set the scene for the strident, combative Marathi vocals.  Rhythmic snarls, boisterous chants, and ominous whispers are woven together with an irrepressible energy.  Personal stand outs include the frenetic agitations of Lahan Pani (Small Water), the pulsing exhortations of Matala (To The Opinion), the darkly infectious Andolan (Agitation), and the raucous finale of Purvichi Adchan (The Previous Problem)

The album maps out a sarcasm laced lyrical exploration of what it is to be a member of the South Asian diaspora.  It questions why after such a long period so many western societies still struggle to culturally accept these communities and the legacies of the colonial dismemberment of India itself.  But amid the dark humour, the analysis is cognisant of the complexities that further shroud these issues, not least the rise of Modi’s right-wing Hindu nationalism.  The determination of power and wealth to preserve its privilege is, perhaps, the one universal, immutable constant.

‘Anti-social cruelty, Mind is broken, no empathy, It’s a choice, Cities choose every day, They don’t care, There’s no will, so there’s no way’ (Ruins)

Hailing from Iowa City, I was rather excited to see that Bootcamp’s ranks include members of Beyond Peace, whose two EPs I must confess I was rather partial to.  And this new venture is equally enticing.  Following up on to last year’s debut 7-inch, Controlled Burn, they now return with a truly venomous first full-length, Time’s Up.

Imagine a straight up, blisteringly fast US hardcore base, fuelled by furious d-beat rhythms, with a healthy dash of rock’n’roll swagger to finish, and you’ll start to get the picture.  And while the base elements are relatively straightforward, the sheer unbridled intensity of the delivery as the band rampage through ten tracks in just fourteen minutes is utterly invigorating.  The surging Freak Show, the deliciously catchy Ruins, and the bruising despair of Decision all land with a particularly lacerating velocity.

The rasping vocals inject another layer of ferocity as they passionately deconstruct the malaise of contemporary America.  The propping up of overseas dictatorships, the ravages of financialised healthcare, the disdain for the homeless rather than the causes of homelessness, the dehumanising attitudes towards immigrant communities, and the tyranny of the car are all firmly in the crosshairs.  But there is also an undeniable fury at ourselves, at our own complicity in allowing these forces to shape our world for so long.  Even now, with ‘the waters and fascism rising’ (Decision) we seem frozen in denial.

‘Solace in silence, Downpouring rain, Welcome the nightmare, Mankind enslaved, A final cry, Forgotten corpse smiles as we die’ (Screams At The Sky)

Now, this is an absolute battering ram of a record. The debut album from Philadelphia’s Psych-War is a savage statement in the finest traditions of Swedish hardcore.  The base elements of galloping metallic crust riffage and remorseless d-beat rhythms are, of course, firmly in place.  Yet, it is the sheer unbridled conviction of the delivery that sends you reeling for cover.

There is a really satisfying muscularity to the riffage, while the darkly melodic leads and squalling, blues-fired solos cut through the sonic violence with a piercing clarity.  The roared vocals harshly evoke an apocalyptic vision of endless war and climatic collapse fuelled by imperial delusions and systematic greed.

The barbarous impact is further heightened by the skilful manner in which the band marshal this intensity to reap its full effect – each track hits home with a sledgehammer velocity all of its very own.  The highlights come thick and fast.  From the swaggering brutality of Screams At The Sky to the utterly spiteful riff that defines The Blood, by way of the groove-laden propulsion of Horrendous Stressor, Psych-War leave you nowhere to hide.

‘Claiming to be on the side of right, But so entranced by the spotlight, Enthralled you steal, From mouths you should feed, Taking the moment, From those that need’ (Complete Outsider)

Portland’s Hellshock, having initially made their mark in the noughties, first returned to the fray in 2022 with their self-titled fourth album.  That was their first release in thirteen years, igniting the band’s return to touring, and the next instalment has now arrived in the form of XXV.

The heart of the band’s sound remains rooted in its original stenchcore roots, the gutturally barked vocals, crushing slabs of riffage, and steamroller rhythm section evoking the spirit of early Bolt Thrower with a dark relish.  However, XXV also sees the band continue to build on the more melodic expressions that were first in evidence on Hellshock.  Neocrust melancholy fuels the elegiac aura that is riven through the album, while the soaring solos lean notably more towards NWOBHM inclinations than the thrashier eruptions of the band’s earliest releases.  This impressively organic evolution can, perhaps in part, be attributed to the arrival of Todd Burdette (Tragedy, Nightfell) to partner Brian Hopper in fashioning the band’s dual guitar onslaught.

Hellshock’s evolution is most vividly captured by the funereal melodicism of Dead Hands, the venomous velocity of The Hero Returns, and the bass fuelled swagger of Oblivion.  Lyrically, the band continue to deploy bleakly allusive imagery to explore a society increasingly at the mercy of a corrupt political class and self-serving tech barons.  And it is certainly a timely soundtrack as Portland once again finds itself at the epicentre of resisting America’s increasingly brazen flirtation with the apparatus of authoritarianism.

‘Silhouette, ombre scadenti, sguardi inesistenti, è più facile incolpare chi si ama, che indistinte figure, apprezzare ciò che non esiste’ (Ombre Scadenti) / ‘Silhouettes, decaying shadows, nonexistent gazes, it’s easier to blame those we love than indistinct figures, to appreciate what doesn’t exist’ (Decaying Shadows)

Astio (Hatred) make a thoroughly welcome return with their debut album, Tempio Inganno (Temple Of Deceit), and follow-up to the 2023 EP, Bocche Stanche (Tired Mouths).  Hailing from Trento in northern Italy, Astio fuse rhythmically surging, melodically sombre post-punk with semi-shouted, anarcho-punk leaning vocals to infectious effect.

Conceptually, the album builds on the themes of their debut to construct the notion of Tempio Inganno.  It speaks of the devices, both consciously and subconsciously, that we construct to allow us to turn a blind eye to the realities of our world.  The veil that enables us to ignore that our comfort is frequently rooted in the suffering of others.  A cognitive dissonance that protects us from our own complicity, normalises inequity, and justifies our inaction.

What emerges is an album of starkly competing tensions.  Taut yet fluid, uplifting yet unsettling, an intrinsic conflict further amplified by the warm clarity of the production versus the angular agitations at the heart of Astio’s energy.  Personal highlights include the swirling, almost Middle Eastern-tinged melodies of Poco Di Me Ricordo (I Remember Little Of Myself), the mournful escalation of Carezza Violenta (Violent Caress), and the skronking saxophone lacerations that fuel Astio Totale (Total Hatred).

‘I’ve seen a dead man walking, I’ve seen his heart rot on the vine, I cried for ages trying, Just to shake him outta my mind’ (Dead Man)

Nyx Division are back with the follow-up to their 2022 debut, Dark Star.   Midnight Lights sees the Portland band continue to explore the edgelands of where the uplifting swing of 1980s’ new wave and the melancholic shades of post-punk intertwine and fuse into new forms.  Musically and aesthetically, it is an album that draws with equal relish on both of these influences to conjure a claustrophobic, gothic shrouded tableau.

Beneath the glittering veneer of neon lights and late-night hedonism though lies a much darker reality.  Midnight Lights tells the story of vocalist Domino Monet’s escape from a relationship mired in domestic abuse, and how it is only on breaking free that she has been able to comprehend the resilience and strength that it took for her survive, and to shed the chains of normalised violence.

Mournfully serpentine melodies that morph into boldly strutting metal-tinged solos and a punchily limber rhythm section form the band’s bedrock.  Yet, perhaps, it is the vocals that deliver the defining energy as the waves of catchy hooks and soaring choruses vividly contrast with Monet’s own lived experience.  It is a heady blend of baroque theatre and infectious pop sensibility that comes together to particularly striking effect on the darkly propulsive Dead Man, the defiant euphoria of Soldier Of Love, and the anthemic bombast of Desert Rose.

‘Submit to evil, Makes you feel strong, Slaying the innocent, For flag and freedom, There’s no peace in that’ (Hell On Earth)

Last year’s debut 7-inch from Traumatizer was a lesson in raw, metallic, blown-out sonic violence.  If anything, their searing new five track EP, Nuclear War Machine, is an even more visceral detonation.

The Haarlem band continue to furiously meld thrashing guitars in the vein of Sacrilege with blistering d-beat rhythms and viscously unhinged solos.  Meanwhile, the rasping, fiercely confrontational vocals denounce the brutal horrors inflicted on the people of Gaza, wider global militarisation, and our seemingly inexorable march towards technologically enforced feudalism.

Amid this truly uncompromising onslaught, Traumatizer still find scope to deftly expand their sound. This is, perhaps, most vividly captured by the contagious vocal climax to the title track, the raucous swinging groove of Dead End, and the discordant melodicism that flares during Murder.