‘盗まれた街, 資本の奴隷, 分断は続く, 音も無く’ / ‘A stolen city, Slaves to capital, The division continues, Silently’ (Colony)

Tokyo’s Klonns have released a slew of EPs since their formation in 2016, their palette constantly evolving as they absorbed influences from black metal to d-beat into their hardcore groundwater. However, for their debut album, last year’s Heaven, there was a clear sense of that palette being tightened and honed, a process that has been further reinforced on this their second full-length, G.A.M.E.S.

Their current iteration is leaner, less chaotic, yet this increased precision does not in any way dilute their base ferocity.  This is darkly metallic hardcore that seethes with menace and ominous intent.  The bleakly barked vocals, segueing seamlessly between Japanese and English, provoke thoughts of a blackened Roger Miret as they explore a world fracturing under the weight of greed and self-delusion.

Amid the waves of catchily surging riffage, there are two other aspects that seize attention.  The first is the unabashed bounce of the rhythm section, which injects an unexpected elasticity to the battery.  The second is Klonns’ sheer mastery of the breakdown.  Too often a fig leaf in the wrong hands, their deft handling of the mid-paced groove, and then the even slower reworkings, ensure that they slam home with an unforgiving intensity and impeccable timing.

This is an album that does not deal in half-measures.  The savage climatic breakdown to Pledge. The monolithic riffs that define False. The almost euphoric swagger of Fanatic. The stomping ferocity of Ghost.  The bruising swing of In The Seasons Of Terror.  It is the sound of a band absolutely nailing it.

‘In the eleventh station, Watching myself repeat the sin, In the eleventh station, Guilt, shame, useless flagellation’ (Fled)

The cover art to Through The Slow Dusk is strikingly visceral.  It’s apocalyptic tenor, intertwined with that of the title, is infused with a sense of mourning for a civilisation that has now passed the point of no return.  Trapped in a cycle of rapacious exploitation of both people and planet. That even now attempts to avert catastrophe, while essential to nurturing a sliver of sustaining hope, will only postpone the inevitable.  An increasingly dystopian delay of execution.

New York’s FRKSE has been an active musical project since 2009, releasing five previous albums and numerous EPs and split collaborations over that period.  Through The Slow Dusk feels like an important step in the band’s evolution, seeing the band’s unsettling atmospherics moulded into a still insidiously discomfiting, but more structured, assemblage.  It remains slippery to categorise, flirting as it does with the mechanical yet limber soundscapes of Mai Mai Mai and the electronic dissonance of Scorn, together with fleeting flares of more dance inclined rhythms in the vein of Freak Genes.  The atmosphere that unfurls is intriguingly as slyly infectious as it is bleakly claustrophobic

The semi-shouted vocals are more prominent within the mix and present on all tracks bar the two instrumental tracks, most notably the shimmering Oaf.  This adds further solidity to the song construction as they are deftly interwoven with the looping electronics, ominous effects, and brooding restraint of the percussion.  The opener, Foam, sets the tone perfectly (I particularly love the moment when the chant of ‘The Power Of Prayer’ locks in with the taut underlying rhythm) and it is matched in its industrial exhortations by the equally pulsating Ink.  In contrast, Wrote offers a more lo-fi yet no less immersive embrace, while a bristling climax is delivered by the sparsely seething agitations of Fled.

‘Cameras in the living room, microphones listen to you sleep. Every home a cell, panopticon stalking us’ (Stalker)

My grindcore sweet spot is admittedly quite a tight one – I tend to like it to inform music rather than to represent its very essence.  I’m delighted though that I checked out Fake Dust.  They are a grindcore band down to their very boots, but they deploy those boots with an uncompromising intensity.  This is the Portland band’s debut release – following their 2022 demo – and it takes me back to the first time I was exposed to Napalm Death’s Scum and From Enslavement To Obliteration.  They share an energy of something that is utterly unhinged, wholly disinterested in compromise, and yet delivered with a brutal precision.

Spewed growls, banshee yowls, and guttural roars.  Drums that at times hit genuinely bewildering speeds and revel in fills aplenty but also know exactly when to ease off.  Bleakly filthy bass lines.  And riffs that when they assert themselves amid the carnage, do so with a brooding violence that would spark chaos in even the most restrained of pits.  As you might imagine, with twenty tracks being unleashed in under twenty minutes, the lyrics are straight to the point, conjuring the panopticon of technological enslavement and monetised surveillance that we are all now imprisoned within.

The album is, perhaps, best understood as a single sweeping, merciless onslaught.  And it is one that you will find yourself more than willing to submit to as they sweep from the rollicking breakdown that closes Implanted Imperative to the doom-laden heft of Lost Signal, and then from the jagged Starvation Field to the savagely crafted Little Bottle (Public Transportation Pt. 2).  The quality of the individual songwriting though is not to be underestimated.  Indeed, when the band become a touch more expansive on the closing tracks to both sides – Cooked At Conception and Paranoid Epiphany – none of their merciless intensity is diluted.  This is grindcore executed with a rare flair.

‘A system that just can’t perceive you, Beyond mere commodity, It’s rotten from the broken promise, That all good things just trickle down’ (Manic Commodities)

This is the debut EP from Perth’s Gunner, who feature members of a myriad of fine projects spanning Helta Skelta to Gaffer by way of Semtex 87.  Sonically, the shortlived latter are the most relevant reference point.  Across the eight tracks, the band unleash a truly searing onslaught of blown out guitar, filthily strutting bass lines, and utterly remorseless drums, the latter balancing blistering pace with an unabashed love for the fill.

Meanwhile, the rabidly barked, echo drenched vocals drip with contempt as they dissect society’s unerring focus on reducing humanity to mere units of productivity, expendable fuel for the economics of greed and excess.  On side one, the swaggering savagery of The Bad Lieutenant and the choppy fury of Imbalance provide particular highlights, a gauntlet that the venomous title track and the bleakly surging Here Come The Warm Jets prove more than willing to pick up the flip side.  A deliciously gnarly treat.

‘You bought the lie, Because you thought it would help, You blamed a scapegoat for your personal hell, Bur the cannibal system devours its own’ (Collaborator)

Fight Another Day is a snarling denunciation of modern-day America.  An economic system built on endless consumption that is devouring itself, the burden carried by those least able to afford it.  Political grifters serve their paymasters by pointing the finger at those least to blame for it, while unleashing paramilitaries to stalk the streets.  But, above all, the importance of never giving up the fight.  What better soundtrack to this spiralling decline than six blasts of classic 1980s’ USHC?

This 7-inch is the Dimension’s debut vinyl release, following up their 2023 demo, a whirlwind of cleanly sharp guitar, rapid-fire rhythms, and sneering vocals.  The Western Massachusetts band are well-versed in the fundamentals of those that have inspired their sound – this is lean, taut hardcore that puts a premium on brevity and intensity.  Yet, they also understand the virtues that can elevate it to the next level and the songwriting chops to make that happen.  Each of the six tracks slams home with its own thoroughly distinctive identity.  The sledgehammer breakdowns that define Active Duty and My Life, My Terms are absolute bruisers, but the stand-out track is, perhaps, the murderous mid-paced stomp of Collaborator.

‘Back in a corner I’m left to die, Carried by the Thames and the tide, Where my body drifts I will lie, Beneath the ruins I reside, Internal war’ (Black Milk)

Stingray are back with a new 12-inch and follow-up to 2023’s searing Fortress Britain.  The anger remains undimmed, the sheer ferocity unrestrained.  But, there is also a new assurance to the London band’s delivery that allows them to give even fuller rein to their thoroughly instinctual hardcore.

It is, perhaps, the twin guitar onslaught that proves the defining force.  From the galloping velocity of the title track opener to the coruscating climatic breakdown to Like Dogs and the slab-like grooves of Impending Doom, the band draw on the muscular heft of mid-1980s’ thrash metal and then force feed the riffs through a much darker, crustier Japanese hardcore filter.  In contrast, the solos are steeped rather more in a classic, unabashed heavy metal flamboyance – the closing volley to Failed Harvest is nothing short of unhinged.

The barbarously roared vocals and the bruising rhythm section provide a resolutely unforgiving backbone to this feral virtuosity.  A new element is also added courtesy of guest vocals from (I believe) Hellscape’s Ciara – first, a gothically drawled incantation during Black Milk and then her fierce dual vocals are deftly interwoven through Like Dogs.  This visceral battery conjures a world where hysteria grips, divisions are stoked, and we once again career towards a world at the mercy of military brinkmanship and authoritarian impulses.

‘Je vois la vie sourire, Je détruis mon empire, Je me sens dépassée, Il est temps de recommencer’ (Fatigueé) / ‘I see life smiling, I’m destroying my empire, I feel overwhelmed, It’s time to start over’ (Tired)

Brussels trio, Cœur À L’Index (Heart On The Index) are playing their final show later this month.  But, before they bow out, they are treating us to a farewell 7-inch.  The two tracks build very much on the dreamily vibrant power pop of their debut album, 2024’s Adieu Minette (Goodbye Kitten), drawing with relish on early 1980s’ influences that are equal parts punk and indie pop.  Think perhaps of Chin-Chin and Shop Assistants hazily intertwining and you’ll be heading in the right direction.

The bittersweet vocals, and delicately layered backing harmonies, sit front of centre amid the crystal bright jangle of the guitar, subtly teasing melodies, and crisply limber rhythms. Fatigueé unfurls with a sombre restraint to match its tale of starting over again.  While the gently infectious Mes Héros (My Heroes) builds to a rousing finale as it yearns to regain a sense of optimism that all is not yet lost.

‘Everything is burnt behind you and in front of you! Streets, cars, and mosques, There is no god left, Neither on this side of the pond, nor on the other side’ (They Decide For Us)

It is hard to imagine the conflicting emotions that must currently grip the Iranian people and the country’s wider diaspora.  Over forty years on from a stolen revolution, after four decades of brutal theocratic tyranny, it felt like the regime was finally on the verge of toppling.  Then, fuelled by their own self-serving imperatives, the US-Israeli axis blundered into the mix, deepening the bloodshed and the economic hardship, crassly calling for the Iranian people to rise up, and reinforcing the extremist grip on power, just when it seemed at its most fragile.  To want one thing in the world to end more than any other, but in any way other than this.

Corrupt / فاسد is the second 12-inch from Siyahkal, following up their steamroller of a debut, Days Of Smoke And Ash / روزای دود و خاکستر.  Anyone who had the good fortune of catching the Toronto band on their UK tour last year will already be bracing themselves.  The intensely rhythmic, semi-shouted Farsi vocals are locked in merciless synchronicity with the bludgeoning rhythm section and then braided through both with savage howls and chanted invocations.

Meanwhile, the metallic-tinged riffage flares with psychedelic smears, discordant squalls, and soaring melodic leads.  This fusion of infectiously stomping rhythms and brutally precise riffage is fiercely intoxicating from the bruising grooves of Freaky Bedbugs to the surging density of Anarchy In Iran, and then from the kick drum fuelled discordance of Time To Hunt to the venomous closer They Decide For Us.

The band take their name from a 1971 prison break that is widely viewed as the spark that ignited organised resistance to the Shah’s regime.  A resistance that ultimately overthrew an oppressive monarchy in 1979, only to itself be subverted by an equally oppressive theocracy.  Lyrically, the Iranian people’s fight to regain their freedom remains at the heart of Siyahkal’s music, fuelling a wider message of anti-authoritarianism that has never been more powerfully relevant to us all.

‘Is your blood on boil? Is your flag unfurled? Do you hear the sound? Of savage lust, A primal scream, A fatal thrust’ (Apex Calling)

Good ideas should not be thrown away lightly.  This, in many ways, is the defining mantra of Station Model Violence.  They need to be refined, draped in nuanced detailing, layered with a deft subtlety, and allowed to breath to the point where they are all enveloping.  What emerges is an album of relentlessly propulsive post-punk.  It is a sonic massage that is warmly immersive yet also simmering with a nebulous sense of sinister foreboding.

This is the debut release from the Sydney based band, who feature former members of R.M.F.C., Straightjacket Nation, and Total Control among their ranks.  The album’s scaffolding is built around Heat, a hypnotically monolithic, eight minute slab that kicks off the second side.  The brightly jangling guitars and the limber rhythm section lock-into a remorseless groove that is braided through with serpentine saxophone.  At the same time, the sombrely deep vocals lean into the power of repetition, inviting the listener to lose themselves in the song’s embrace.  The fact that it barely registers as a fraction of its run time speaks to that undeniable allure.

These are the fundamentals that the band rework and reshape with intriguing invention throughout.  Melody bathed groove and vocal reiteration provoking each other into an atmosphere of fevered introspection.  And each track pulses with its own fierce clarity.  The darkly urgent Leisure with its call of ‘And no one knew your name’.  The haunting vocals of Apex Calling that prime a euphoric, saxophone fuelled finale.  The plaintively escalating Falling Down.  Station Model Violence proves a richly mesmerising introduction.

‘Keeping falsehoods on a one-legged pedestal, Concocting lies and keeping it criminal, Spewing trash on the highest pulpit accessory, The blind eyes are lawless and divisional’ (Red State)

‘What is your line?’. This is the simple, ever more pressing question posed by Blind Eye.  As our civil liberties are eroded with increasingly brazen abandon.  As our privacy is thrown open to those least interested in safeguarding it.  As our public discourse is poisoned by opportunists and charlatans seeking to sow division and to blame those least able to defend themselves.  It is an insidious cocktail and one that threatens to slowly, but ever so surely, submerge us.  And yet, whether through fear or convenience, self-preservation or self-interest, we allow the red lines that define our decency to continue to shift beyond what we ever thought to be acceptable.

Hailing from Nottingham, Blind Eye share an impressive pedigree spanning as it does Bloody Head, Heresy, and Pitchshifter.  However, it is the intensity of their present-day convictions that vehemently define their second full-length, Mistrust Your Nation.  The band’s soul feels like one rooted in 1980s’ anarcho-punk and then refracted through a prism that calls with equal relish on a Japanese hardcore inspired snap and an uncompromising metallic heft.  Intriguingly, the latter influence evolves in unexpected shades.  There is a louche swagger to the guitar and the filthy bass lines, not to mention a jazz-tinge to the solos, that can’t help but evoke whispers of Handle With Care-era Nuclear Assault.

Similarly, the vocals call upon a fierce anarcho rat-a-tat-tat but are, perhaps, even more indebted to the NWOBHM influenced vocals of the pioneering mid-to-late 1980s’ thrash bands, before they were later subsumed by the pincer movement of hardcore snarls and death metal growls.  The verve of Anmarie Spaziano’s vocal performance is absolutely barnstorming.  Powerfully strident, defiantly melodic, but not afraid to get down and dirty with a venomously sneering tirade, she takes aim at misogynistic constraints, our drift into demagoguery, the pollution of public life by oligarchical money, and our own quiet complicity.

From the seething escalation of Blitz Can to the raucously crushing closer Who’s In Control, the ferocity is as invigorating as it is unrelenting.  It arguably reaches its zenith at the midway point as the confrontational stomp of Red State, and the bludgeoning grooves of What Is Your Line? leave nowhere to hide.  Are you ready for the fight?  Because Blind Eye most certainly are.

‘I watched my parents kill themselves at work just to feed me, And I’m killing myself in the same way, But I struggle to feed myself’ (Death To All Oppressors)

I first came across Lágrimas (Tears) through their searing 2023 split album, which brilliantly juxta posed their savage eruptions with the expansive atmospherics of Habak.  This is the Los Angeles band’s first vinyl release since then, and features the band’s latest five-track EP, I’m Not Strong Enough For This, and then on the flipside a reworking of their first four-track demo, 2019’s Like When I Was A Kid.

Their melodic crust continues to ferociously fuse detonations of viscerally cathartic hardcore with passages of beguilingly introspective melody.  The earlier material is, perhaps, more rooted in the classic dynamics of late 1990s’ screamo, with the band’s subsequent evolution placing greater emphasis on the soaring intensity of their neo-crust influences.

The harshly roared vocals build connections between the forces of capitalist extraction that are ravaging the planet (Our Decline), relentlessly grinding our communities into the dust (Death To The Oppressors), and fuelling the murderous violence in Gaza (They Get Paid For It).  Following the serpentine vehemence of the opening I’m Not Strong Enough For This, these latter two tracks land an utterly venomous, darkly anthemic one-two, before the fiercely writhing finale of Devil Wind.

‘I’m in love with my conflict and I’m in love with my pain, I’m in love with what makes me feel in love with what I hate’ (Love What You Hate And Love That You Hate It)

New Orleans is often cast as a city of folk-devils, personified by its notably distinctive cultural history and its uniquely perilous geographical location.  Fewer hardcore bands have, perhaps, emerged from the city than might be expected.  But, whenever they do, they bring with them a swagger that tells you exactly where they are from, a tradition that D. Sablu are more than happy to continue.

D. Sablu actually began life as a solo project for their vocalist. But, after a slew of demos, they evolved into a full band for their 2024 debut album, No True Silence. Righteous Light is the follow-up 7-inch and sees the band continue to revel in a blend of classic USHC, rapid-fire garage punk, and energetically wailed vocals, all delivered with an exhilarating relish.

Side one opens with Electrified Beat, a frenetic blast blessed with a swashbuckling climatic solo, before feeding into the contagiously stomping grooves of Love What You Hate And Love That You Hate It.  Side two comprises of the bass fired Socialized, which sits somewhere between the two – all riffs, attitude, and sheer rock’n’roll fervour.

‘Under the grip of the not-so-pleasant man, he’s taken power from our sweat again. We stumble, we cry, we’ve moved an inch of the mile.’ (1%)

Policy Of 3 are a hardcore band from Philadelphia / South Jersey, who were first active between 1992 and 1995.  This remastered 17-track discography brings together all of the band’s released material, featuring their sole full-length, 1993’s Dog Dead Summer, together with two EPs – 1993’s self-titled 7-inch and 1995’s American Woodworking – and a variety of compilation contributions.

The band originally began three years earlier as Matter Of Fact, born of New Jersey’s straight edge scene.  Their rebirth as Policy Of 3 was a conscious response to the increasing militancy and growing political ambiguity of elements of the East Coast straight edge community.  In this form, playing with everyone from Antischism to Undertow via Groundwork on their first US tour, they emerged as a notably influential band.  Not just musically, but also in terms of their commitment to the DIY ethic and reasserting the political dimension.

The band are, perhaps, best understood as a bridge between the Washington DC scene of the late 1980s and that which later coalesced around Ebullition and Gravity Records in the mid-to-late 1990s.  Although, elements also speak to the more indie punk expressions that also evolved in that latter half of the decade.

The key to the band’s dynamics lies, perhaps, in their restraint and patience, the desire to explore the introspective and the cathartic in tandem. They are not afraid to allow the momentum ebb and flow, before locking in and building layer upon layer, ratcheting up the tension as they go.  The release of the culminative eruptions is almost cleansing.  The energetic, often dual vocals imbuing them with a vibrantly impassioned intensity.  The serpentine convulsions of Improve Kulture Kill and Of The Wolf contrasting with the coruscating detonations of 1% and Drone.

Reanimating the political component of hardcore is also central to the band’s identity.  The lyrics are often allusive in flavour, yet are used to explore themes of social justice, endemic violence, animal rights, and wider environmentalism that the band promoted through benefit gigs and literature at their shows.

The band broke-up late in 2015, having just completed a seven-week tour of Europe.  It was an unexpected split, one that saw the band remain friends, but left them collectively feeling a sense of the unrealised that took some time to resolve.  Members went on to play in Four Hundred Years and Margot & The Nuclear So And So’s, before reforming last year.  If you’re interested in digging a little deeper and not least reliving the joys of DIY touring in the early 1990s, I can highly recommend an extensive 2014 audio interview with the band courtesy of loudfastphilly.com.

‘Intérêts complaisants à peine voilés, finiront vite exposés, Derrière les drones les accords et les traits demeurent les ruines, les vies broyées’ (La Loi Du Marché ) / ‘Barely veiled, self-serving interests will soon be exposed, Behind the drones, the agreements, and the lines, the ruins and shattered lives remain’ (The Law Of The Market)

Toulouse’s Nightwatchers are back with a new four-track 7-inch and follow up to 2024’s split album with Accidente.  They once again treat us to a lesson in thoroughly well crafted, darkly melodic punk, harnessing in equal measure a brooding post-punk sombreness and a bristling hardcore abrasiveness.  The result is both anthemic and austere in equal measure, with the evocatively layered vocals and flaring melodies bringing to mind the similarly deft songwriting of Red Dons.

Qu’importe La Mort (What Does Death Matter) is largely a meditation on war – its existential horror, the economic compulsions that drive it, and the self-serving myths that underpin much of the security narrative.  The hauntingly brooding opener, Atomisés (Atomised) contemplates the aftermath of the atomic bombing of Japan, the surging La Loi Du Marché tackles France’s complicity in the global arms trade, and the anarcho-tinged fury of Dommages Collatéraux (Collateral Damage) maps out the threats of rapid escalation in an increasingly insecure world.  The focus shifts to a reflection of the nature of grief on the melodically reflective closer, Malemort (Cruel Death), to round off a sharply impactful EP.

‘A faceless man waits for his wife, Outside the nail salon, And when she comes out, he makes her cry, Hell in every bed you lie in,  Hell in everyone you meet’ (Model Actress)

Hailing from Cleveland, Saw You With The Weeds is Suitor’s debut vinyl release.  First impressions are of precisely fashioned, darkly lush post-punk, a more expansive and fully rounded evolution from the band’s cassette-only 2021 debut, Communion.  Hooky, crystalline leads and mournfully chiming melodies lock in with a resolutely resonant rhythm section to richly dramatic effect.

Yet, as you immerse itself, two further striking elements begin to emerge, introducing some intriguing new dynamics.  First, is a searing vocal performance from Emma Shepard.  It segues effortlessly from the laconically nonchalant to the stridently melodic, shrouded throughout in an exuberant 1980s’ new wave sense of theatre.

Secondly, is the band’s willingness to lean into their more abrasive instincts with an unbridled relish, which draw in equal measure on noise punk and post-hardcore influences.  Indeed, this inclination yields some of the album’s most dramatic highlights.  The squalling shards of guitar that fuel the soaring chorus to Model Actress.  The slow burn gothic simmer of Factory.  The cymbal awash, feverishly cathartic escalation of Generator.  The finale to Televangelist, when Shepard simply let’s rip with a spine-tingling velocity.

The densely allusive, bleakly poetical lyrics also add another dimension.  They unfurl as if a film noir narration, one concerned with finding a revitalised resolve among friends and community amid the travails of failed relationships and the daily grind of a fracturing society.  The final touches are added courtesy of production from Sweeping Promises’ Caulfield Schnug, Suitor having struck up a bond with the duo while playing with them a few years back (indeed, Lira Mondal lends backing vocals to a couple of tracks as well).  It adroitly matches the album’s dexterous balancing of sheen and grit with a similar fluidity.

‘Finance my hands, Finance my brain, Finance my heart, Finance my pain, My body has a really high interest’ (Finance)

Dead end jobs and lives bought on credit.  Living hand to mouth as a wannabe dictator and his tech bro lackeys gorge at the trough.  We try and scroll away the anxiety on the same tools that entrench and enrich those same forces.  Who better to guide us through the fevered psyche of a nation on the brink than Cincinnati’s Choncy?

They are back with their third full-length blast of hardcore fuelled, wryly abrasive post-punk, following up 2024’s 20X Multiplier.  Scratchily agitated guitars writhe amid the taut bass lines and spryly resonant drums.  Everything is charged with a fizzing off-kilter energy, songs jerking and jolting with an almost demented sense of autonomy.

Meanwhile, the semi-shouted, sardonically repetitive vocals acerbically weave together an absurdist deconstruction of the twin forces of technology and consumerism as they contort, confine, and monetise our lives.  From the bristling convulsions of Scroller to the manic ‘la la las’ that grace the bouncing fervour of Job You Want, and then to the boisterously coiling Version Of A Version and the sinuously caustic climax of Finance, the energy, despite the palpable air of frustrated despondency, is utterly irrepressible.

‘The emergency cannot be identified until it is taking place and reflected in your eyes, The peril is presented face-to-face, You know your own lies’ (No Crisis Goes To Waste)

We often speak of disasters as if they are exceptional moments. In reality, they – and the frequently exploitative responses to them – are often rooted in long entrenched socio-economic inequalities.  The notion of the unforeseeable tragedy becomes society’s defence mechanism to absolve itself from responsibility.  Our refusal to confront these realities, from climate catastrophe to the surveillance state, forms the bleakly dystopian backdrop to Iris Paralysis’ fourth album, Extinguish The Sun.

It sees the Bielefeld / London synth duo, featuring Tobo Schazmann on electronics and Marco Palumbo (Trenchkoat / Zuletzt) on vocals, continue to hone their fusion of post-punk and dark wave.  It also sees the band lean more assuredly into their 1980s’ new wave influences, introducing a more pronounced sense of drama to their aesthetic.

The synths coldly pulse with a quivering elasticity underpinned by the crisply resonant, motorik percussion.  Meanwhile, the gothically drawled, often layered vocals survey a world knowingly suffocating itself with the detached disdain and darkly evocative imagery of one who long ago lost hope in humanity’s potential for redemption.

The slyly enticing invitation of Well-Rehearsed Future and the pulsating Inferiority Complex set the tone for the album, a restless joust between emotions of disenchanted resignation and insidiously infectious songcraft.  It is one effortlessly fermented by the fevered oscillations of No Crisis Goes To Waste and Retroflex View, before the tensely throbbing Eels Of Deceit.

‘Divisive streets turn into division highways, No way through, Build a bridge, Build a wall, This is what it’s come to’ (Division Street)

26 songs in 25 minutes.  And each one of them hits home with the velocity of a runaway train.  Given the scaffolding of downtuned riffs and blast beat eruptions, it would be easy to reach for a powerviolence descriptor.  Yet, the fluid morphing of the song structures is closer to the more organic dexterity of early Napalm Death.  Then other, less expected, influences begin to seize your attention.

Nods to 1980s’ USHC certainly, but the more prevalent influence is the metallic inclined hardcore of the mid to late 1990s – flares and flashes of Endeavor, 108, and All Out War all barge into view.  As I dug into the band’s background, the origins of this thoroughly distinctive blend began to emerge.  Burned Up, Bled Dry were first active themselves during the latter part of that decade, releasing a trio of EPs between 1996 and 2006.  With all of the members now living back in Fort Smith, Arkansas, the opportunity to resurrect the band after a nearly two-decade hiatus proved irresistible.

The onslaught is a touch cleaner than might be anticipated, but this in no way dilutes the sledgehammer intensity and helps lend a striking clarity to each track.  The band’s deft handling of pacing – see the bludgeoning mid-paced dissonance of Don’t Care – further amplifies the album’s flow.  The highlights slam home with a fierce regularity.  The utterly venomous climatic breakdown to Drawing Board (I love the moment where the double bass drum fleetingly kicks in).  The rhythmic, melodic fringed swagger of Not This Time.  The unhinged, discordant angularity of Translucent Mask.  The spiralling, Entombed leaning riffage of Unseen Warfare. The punishing grooves of Future Of Intangibles.

The vocals are rooted in a rasping, classic hardcore cadence and the tautness of the song structures is mirrored by the lyrical directness as they deconstruct a society that is not only eating itself but remorselessly punching down on those already most marginalised as it does so.   Next Stop…Dead Stop… is hardcore at its most instinctual, untamed and unfettered.

‘I’m the never ever learnt lesson, I’m the freedom that creates your inner prison, I’m the reason, the desire, the demon, It’s too late, too late, to stop me now’ (Embodiment Of Denial)

Berlin’s Cosey Mueller returns with her third full-length and follow up to 2024’s Softcore.  Embodiment Of Denial continues to hone her darkly intoxicating blend of synth fuelled post-punk melodies and pounding dance beats, one that is intertwined with pulsing melodic motifs and swells of languid guitar.

The coldly elastic synths and pneumatic percussion, not forgetting the strangely infectious, skittering cow bell, of the title track kick off proceedings with an ominous sense of foreboding, evoking that moment on the dance floor when frivolity ends and the hard yards begin.  The groove laden Nimm Mich (Take Me) and Der Politiker (The Politician) are utterly contagious floor fillers in the classic Cosey mould, while the jarring gyrations of Neue Ungemütlichkeit (New Discomfort) and the deadpan insouciance of Verlogen (Deceitful) work their own beguiling spells.

Cosey’s vocals continue to revel in their own austere restraint, equal parts whispered warning and uplifting invitation.  Insidious repetition and spectral urgings conjure an atmosphere of ambiguous, shapeshifting unease.  She slips seamlessly between German and English as she unpicks the lies (those we tell ourselves and those close to us) and hypocrisy (in the guise of political and media narratives), that shape our lives.

‘Bajo la luna, Haciendo tiempo para bailar, Y espacio para enamorar, La alegria no podemos rindar, Arriesgo contra sociedad mecánica’ (Fracasos Victorías) / Under the moon, Making time to dance, And space to fall in love, We cannot surrender joy, I risk it against a mechanical society’ (Failures Victories)

Screaming Fist hail from Oakland and feature among their rank’s members of Acts Of Sedition, Silent Era, The Separation, Tørsö, Urban Sprawl, and Vaaska to name but a few.  Santa Plaga (Holy Plague) is the band’s second 7-inch, following up 2019’s excellent Templanza.  It sees the band continue to hone their bracingly fast, combative hardcore.  It is laced with an uplifting melodicism that brings to mind a burlier take on Iberian punk in the vein of say Rotura and Suicidas.

The brightly sharp, hook laden guitars are particularly evocative of this style, while the rhythm section injects a rapid fire yet decidedly muscular heft.  Meanwhile, Jasmine Watson hands over her usual bass duties in favour of delivering an absolutely blistering vocal performance that, at times, echo the exuberant drama of Faucheuse.  She brings an impassioned aggression and melodic nuance to bear with equal relish as the poetically framed lyrics contemplate themes of entrenched poverty, the power of community, and religious misogyny.

There is a revitalising vigour to each of the five tracks, with the galloping twists and turns of Gotas (with its imperious NWOBHM tinged vocal crescendos), the vibrantly layered vocals of Fracasos Victorías, and the martial fury of Está Detrás de Ti (It’s Behind You) delivering a particular slap to the senses.

‘Face aux épreuves, nous serons, toujours la, Mains dans la main, jusqu’au judgement dernier, Nous resterons fideles a nos valeurs, meme dans la douleur et pour l’eternite.’ (Et Jusqu’à La Mort) / ‘In the face of adversity, we will always be there, hand in hand, until the final judgment. We will remain faithful to our values, even in pain and for eternity’ (And Until Death)

Prisonnier Du Temps (Prisoner Of Time) is the one-person project of Jacky Cadiou, who also plays in Syndrome 81, Grisaille, and Fine Équipe among others.  This is PDT’s second solo album and whereas his 2022 debut, Comme Un Lion En Cage (Like A Caged Lion), was situated very firmly in the traditions of French Oi, Prendre Le Pouvoir Par La Force (Take Power By Force) is notably more expansive in its framing.

While emerging sonically quite distinctively, PDT closely mirrors Home Front’s ability to deftly meld the raucous melodicism of Oi with a burly hardcore energy and a rich lacing of post-punk melancholy.  And that is not to ignore a certain pop leaning élan and a plentiful braiding of fine SoCal inspired ‘woahing’.  Think, perhaps, of the anthemic fervour of Enemic Interior and Enyor in partnership with the barrelling velocity of Criminal Damage and you’ll be heading in the right direction.

The boisterous exuberance of La Liberté S’Obtient Par Le Sang (Freedom is Obtained Through Blood) and Et Jusqu’à La Mort joust with the brooding regret of L’Armée Des Ombres (The Army Of Shadows) and Dans La Douleur Et Les Larmes (In Pain And Tears).  Meanwhile, the gruffly impassioned vocals explore the importance of community and collective resolve amid the toxic fallout of our rigged economic system and self-serving political institutions.  What emerges is an album that seethes with the raw instinctual energy of its influences, yet harnesses them with a refreshingly thoughtful nuance.

‘Follow trends to lands promised, You know they know the way, Pressed for your own opinion, Ain’t got fuckall to say’ (Crowd Cloud)

Brutishy effective riffs.  Frantically desperate vocals.  Drumming that goes from 0-100mph at the drop of hat and doesn’t relent for even a moment.  This is what happens when a drummer forms a solo project and decides to savagely wrestle his own demons into bloody submission.  It works an absolute treat.

Vince Kopefenstein has played with a myriad of projects – including Loose Nukes, Sickoids, and White Stains – and Shaved Ape sees him take the reins across the board.  Side one features five new songs, side two the five that comprised his 2022 demo, with barely a track breaking the sixty second barrier.  Personal highlights include the fevered ferocity of the title track, the rabidly unhinged Potatofish, and the swinging groove of Worm Food.  No airs, no graces, just fast, raw, heartfelt hardcore.