‘You’ll always have a chance to joyfully create, Something that’s still fierce and raw, You tell me what’s good or bad, Can’t stand this no more’ (Spiritual Law)

Prepare to be well and truly stomped.  This is the self-titled debut full-length from Bavaria’s Spiritual Law and it’s an absolute bruiser.  The burly yet, at times, blisteringly fast fuzzed out riffage is studded with shards of bleakly ominous melody.  The whiplash solos initially carry with them a thrashier exuberance but are coloured an increasingly psychedelic hue as the album evolves.  The rhythm section locks into a groove fuelled d-beat onslaught, cymbal awash and imbued with an innately limber swing.  Meanwhile, the barked, echo drenched vocals confront a world mired in wilful ignorance, militarised violence, and strangled potential.

The sledgehammer velocity is utterly unforgiving.  There is always a temptation to immerse everything in waves of distortion (and don’t worry there is plenty of that).  However, any potential overkill is resolutely resisted and instead space is afforded to each constituent element of their sound.  This adds, despite the overriding sonic brutality, a really satisfying granularity, from the lumbering menace of the bass to the deranged hi-hat eruptions.

The venomously shifting dynamics of Slander Me and the agitated grooves of I.H.R.K. unleash the punishing body punches, before the kick drum propelled title track and the unhinged euphoria that grips The Cleansing land the killer blows.  It is an utterly frenetic and richly detailed onslaught.

‘Hi hag holl verc’hed an dispac’hoù, Disprizet hag ankouet, D’ar re a faot dezhe chanch an traoù, Trugarez da vout bet’ / ‘Her and all the women of the revolutions, Despised and forgotten, For all those that want to change things, Thank you for being’ (Nathalie Lemel)

Spont Ar Stad (State Terror) is a stirring exploration of how the constructs of power so insidiously shape our lives.  How those who exercise them seek to create a hegemonic grip on the public consciousness, disavowing the potential for change, and breeding resigned acceptance of the status quo. How they attempt to present these outcomes as just plain common sense, to silence debate as if they are a technocratic inevitability that must simply be endured.

This is the self-titled debut album from France’s Spont Ar Stad and it calls back to the roots of 1980s’ UK anarcho-punk in the vein of Zounds and early Karma Sutra.  The production is undistorted, rather than clean.  This imbues the guitar with a brittle resonance as it weaves its sombre melodies and, similarly, the rhythm section bathes in an understated analogue warmth.  This affords an unexpected clarity to the instrumentation, revealing a subtle detailing without diluting the velocity of the delivery.

The Breton vocals sit front and centre, fiercely ardent as they segue from the semi-shouted to more melodic, folk tinged, and on occasion dub leaning, expressions.  As they sweep from the powerfully layered climax to Nathalie Lemel and the deft melodic flourishes of An Arnev (The Thunder), to the rousing dual vocal chorus of Massive and the bristling Hurle Brûle (Howl Burn), Spont Ar Stad reanimate their influences with a fresh fury.

‘Spineless authoritarian, Cowards like they grovel, For an inch of kick, The white knight bathed in piss, Of a future, Unbearable’ (Swabbed)

I had the good luck to catch Pleasure on tour last year as they and Mother Nature laid waste to New River Studios.  The set kicked off with the lead singer, as I remember it, emerging from some sort of makeshift coffin.  It wasn’t entirely clear why, other than that was what he fancied doing.  It does, however, speak to the fevered, instinctual energy that permeates through every pore of their abrasively fraught debut album, Manic Phase.

And have no doubt, the Leeds band, who include members of Frisk, Total Con, and The Wound among their ranks, are in rampaging form.  A twin guitar attack forms the cornerstone – one teases out the sinuously dissonant leads and squalling solos, the other brings a more metallic brawn to bear – while the rhythm section goes about its work with a frantic relish.  The atmosphere is tensely claustrophobic, priming the desolation drenched vocals as they struggle to escape the suffocating tentacles of the surveillance state and entrenched consumerist compulsions alike.

The desperation contorted title track and the savagely seething Motivational Speaker suck us in, before the despairing urgency of Sneak and the bleakly chugging chorus to Homeowner spit us out.  Disconsolate, unsettling, and yet in a way that undeniably sparks your limbs into life.  Manic Phase is proof that amid our collective pain there is still pleasure to be found.

‘Males herbes, Creixent al nostre voltant, Llengües enverinades, Amb discursos inhumans, Manipulen i corrompen, La llibertat, Els seus cors podrits d’odi’ (A Cop De Falç) / ‘Weeds, Growing around us, Poisoned tongues, With inhuman speeches, Manipulating and corrupting, Freedom, Their hearts rotten with hate’ (With A Sickle)

Nationalism is a toxin that seems to be coursing ever more freely though public life, sowing hatred and proffering cruelly misguided panaceas.  Yet there is a much more positive flipside to the idea of belonging.  Ground-up pride in our locality and our community can be a powerful force for the collective good.  And it is this sense of place, framed through the rural anarchist traditions of Montserrat in Catalonia, that fuels Enyor’s deeply emotive second full-length, Sola D’Espart.  Indeed, the term ‘enyor’ speaks to a sense of longing, not just for that which has been lost, but even more importantly, the better futures yet to be realised.

As with their debut, there are no half-measures.  Every element is delivered with an impassioned sincerity.  The gruffly hoarse vocals, the warmly hazy guitar tones, and burly UK82 rhythms vividly conjure a very specific melancholy.  It speaks equally to the traditions of both late 1980s’ UK punk and more contemporary Iberian expressions.  Think, perhaps, of the guitar work of Frankie Stubbs braided through the anthemic stridency of say Enemic Interior and Gurs.

The mournful melodies and uproarious choruses will be what first seizes the attention.  Though, as you immerse yourself, the deft use of differing textures will be just as persuasive in bringing you back.  The cascading Stubbs-esque guitar work that propels the climax to Un Milió Més De Cops (A Million More Times).  The heart swelling layered group vocals that define Ceba Tendra (Spring Onion).  The jagged riffage of A Cop De Falç.  The fiercely dualling vocals of the climatic FTM.  It proves to be a thoroughly evocative declaration.

‘La IA avanza sin control, Sarah Connor lo advirtió, No confíes en un robot, Llegas tarde, ya eres otro…’ (Esclavos De Internet) / ‘AI is advancing unchecked, Sarah Connor warned us, Don’t trust a robot, You’re too late, you’re already someone else…’ (Slaves To The Internet)

Esclavos De Internet is the debut full-length from Ficción (Fiction), who hail from Algeciras in southern Spain.  Despite its futuristic sheen, this is something of a throwback to an earlier time in its carefree eclecticism.

Ficción forge an atmospheric blend of garage punk energy and more languid, darkly melodic post-punk restraint, which they then shroud in an understated 1980’s new wave sensibility.  The defining force throughout though is, perhaps, the keyboards as they inject a barrelling, Snuff-like hammond organ vitality that binds everything together with gusto.

Meanwhile, rather belying the album’s essential playfulness, the nasal Spanish vocals consider the growing threats to society, ranging from AI to corrupt legal systems, and ever escalating militarisation and fanaticism.  The brooding intensity of Pacto (Convenant), the mournful melodicism of the title track, and the rather more languorous closer Mujeres Armadas (Armed Women) capture the mood particularly vibrantly.

‘I want a model life, You hear they’re all the rage, I want to live it right, But I’ve got bills to pay, Another pointless form, Be sure it’s never late’ (Clocks)

Longevity can be born of many admirable virtues – friendship, trust, the shared confidence to experiment.  But, by the same token, it can also become mired in less attractive qualities – inertia, staleness, paths of least resistance.

The dangers of the latter taking root in a band who have been together for twenty plus years, and some fifteen albums, would seem almost overwhelming.  But Hey Colossus are vibrant proof that it is by no means inevitable.  That such experience, such bonds can be harnessed for the positive and certainly need not be a chain that constrains.

None of this happened by accident mind.  The band consciously set out to push themselves and each other.  They took their new material out on the road, playing four sold out shows in four nights in four different corners of London, refining and honing each track in the live setting.  They then took this same ethos straight into the studio – just five days, playing live, playing loud.  Heaven Was Wild is a vivid testament to the success of these efforts.  The trademarks of Hey Colossus’ noise rock infused post-hardcore are all firmly in place, with each now smouldering with a fresh intensity.

The supple muscularity of the rhythm section provides a fluid yet rock solid cornerstone.  The sinuous waves of brightly sharp riffage morph and reformulate as they lock into surging grooves or disassemble into more reflective excursions, without ever losing sight of their original identity.  The vocals add another dynamic layer as they segue from crooning drawls to more stridently assertive expressions with an impressive dexterity, bringing to mind an unholy, yet strangely considered, union of Jack Terricloth (World/Inferno Friendship Society) and Conrad Keely (And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead).

There is so much to get your teeth stuck into.  The richly layered dual vocals of Clock and the contagiously driving intensity of Death And Deliverance provide an exhilarating one-two.  The death rock-tinged Consequences and the languid swing of Party Of Fleas offer more restrained but no less enticing pleasures.  Heaven Was Wild is an album born of an instinct to get down raw and fresh, and it has paid off in spades.

‘There’s a thousand ways, A thousand ways to pray, There’s a thousand different ways to, To bend down and kiss the ground’ (Bend Down And The Kiss The Ground)

Bend Down And Kiss The Ground explores one of humanity’s most enduring frailties.  Our willingness to take solace in empty promises and knowing refuge in convenient excuses.  From the glib solutions of politicians and the self-serving narratives of populist opportunists to the endless promises of delayed celestial reward.  Anything but to face up to the true causes of our malaise.

Hailing from Nottingham, and featuring members of Army Of Flying Robots, Blind Eye, and Moloch, Bloody Head are back with their follow up to 2024’s Perpetual Eden.  Despite this being the band’s fifth album over the past decade, I must confess that this is my first encounter with them – and I’m rather delighted to have made their acquaintance.

Bend Down And The Kiss Ground sees the band continue to hone a sound that brings a pronounced metallic heft to bear on their already burly post-hardcore heart and then braids it through elements of doom and sludge, before finishing with a squalling noise rock aesthetic.  It is a powerfully immersive blend and one that Bloody Head handle with an assured confidence, and no little craft.  It evokes, for me at least, shades of both Corrosion Of Conformity’s Blind and The Rollins Band’s The End Of Silence, not least in the shared dynamics of how brooding menace is so deftly married with a slam hard hardcore velocity.

Side one comprises three tracks.  Children Of The Dusk is built around a savagely compelling central riff, while the title track is defined by the sledgehammer rhythm section, before the bleakly ruminative instrumental, Vibratory Affinity.  The flipside features just a single track.  Time, As Veiled Eternity unfurls through three distinct phases.  It opens with wah-wah guitar tones, industrial rhythms, and anarcho-style, semi-shouted vocals, before subsiding into a more introspective passage of spoken word and haunting melody, and then locks into an utterly bludgeoning groove for the finale.

The album spans 32 minutes.  I mention this only because I know many of us get sweaty palms at the thought of hardcore bands getting all prog with their three-minute odysseys.  But you needn’t worry.  The dynamics of the four tracks are constructed and layered with such skill that they never even hint at outstaying their welcome.  Indeed, the end invariably catches you slightly by surprise, so all enveloping is the onslaught.

‘They dispossess us, Try to fix it, Around a cup of tea they already spat in, A presentation, Always a circle, Dreamy plantations you’ve always been longing for’ (Concrete’s Discipline)

Slumber Between Rotten Walls tells the story of how the all-pervasive forces of real estate capital are reshaping the cities that we live in.  Homes become merely units to realise investment yield.  Communities are told that they no longer warrant their place in the heart of the city.  Infrastructure becomes governed by the demands of segregation and surveillance.

This is the first vinyl release from Toulouse’s Nohz.  Their savagely blackened hardcore perfectly embodies this cycle of decay, deceit, and displacement.  The guitars are bleakly atonal yet also cleaner than we might expect, the scrappy leanness of the riffs eliciting unexpected thoughts of black metal suffused garage punk.  The burly rhythm sections injects a limber swing to the battery, while the bestial, echo drenched vocals dissect a world that is slowly dissolving around us, our histories erased by the shameless pursuit of profit.

The searing opener Concrete’s Discipline sets the tone with an unforgiving authority, and it is one that is remorselessly maintained as Nohz sweep from the groove fuelled Broken Teeth, to the venomously cascading squall of DPDR, and the melancholy flecked Dull Crown.  A darkly insidious debut.

‘And I would fall in love with anyone, Who showed a little bit of kindness, I never knew how to give it to myself, Now I see it was blindness’ (Dynamo)

Musical genres are by there very nature open to interpretation, but few are quite as slippery as that of power pop.  But, if I had to point someone to a record that I felt captured the essence of what I think it is, We’re All In This Together by Plastic Tones – the Helsinki band’s third full-length – would be pretty much at the top of the list.

So, what are the ingredients that we’re talking about?  Classic new wave forms the base and is then laced through a healthy slug of the punk vitality, together with a notable indie pop melodicism, and is then rounded off with a shed load of sing-along choruses that relish a certain 1980s’ rock bombast, even including a knowing nod to Bonnie Tyler.  Think, perhaps, of Chin-Chin and The Go-Gos whipped up with Supercrush and you will be heading, at least partly, in the right direction.

The guitars are brightly melodic with a hint of shimmering fuzz and just enough underlying heft not to float away, while the rhythm section bounces along with a languid restraint.  It is, perhaps, the vocals though that bring everything resolutely into focus.  Vocalist Tytti, who also fronts synth punks Modem, is in imperious form.  The key is that for all her strident, clean sung melodic power, she retains the dexterity to ensure that the shifts in emotional nuance are never overwhelmed. The album’s jauntily upbeat energy, however, belies some rather darker lyrical themes as it contemplates our lack of grace and understanding towards both ourselves and those around us.

The standout moments come thick and fast, from the irrepressible We’re All In This Together and the soaring climax to Dynamo, to the infectiously chugging Change My World and the sheer drama of Waste Another Day.  Sounds to kick start your summer in style.

‘I say I wanna do it again, But what life is now, Is not what life was then, Not better, not worse, just different’ (Fun Is Always Brilliant)

Dog Chocolate return with their fourth album, So Inspired, So Done In, their first since 2018’s Moody Balloon Baby.  Sinewy guitar and a spryly fluid rhythm section remain at the heart of their frantically anxious post-punk.  They are intertwined with a raggedly off-kilter art punk instinct that in turn wrestles with a more strident, constantly simmering noise rock discordance.  At first glance, these latter two influences might seem unlikely bedfellows, yet their mutual inclination towards the abrasive provides a fruitful common ground.

The nasally agitated vocals, with plenty of drawled detached backing, wryly meditate on both the mundane and the absurd that shape our daily lives, covering everything from unfortunate rashes to unfinished tattoos.  The evolving role of work emerges as a recurring theme and not least how society increasingly seeks to disguise insecurity and precariousness as flexibility and opportunity.

So Inspired, So Done In revels in its contrasts.  Playful yet tense. Whimsical yet serious.  Restless yet contemplative.  As it roves from the rhythmic tirade of Employee to the tautly writhing Springfield Library Haunting , before exploring the dissonant electronics of No Pavement Story and the sombre, richly layered Worst Jobs In History, it proves an album of jarring, restless invention.

‘Terrible feeling pulls the rug beneath my feet, Retreat, recoil, I think I change my mind, Now you think of what you’ll leave behind’ (At Peace)

Mother Nature are back with a new 7-inch and follow-up to last year’s debut 12-inch, Living, Joyful And Free.  The Leeds band, who feature members of Perspex Flesh, The Flex and Mob Rules among others, are once again in rampaging form, bringing the stomp and the serpentine, the burly and the weird, to bear with equal relish.

Both tracks – At Peace and Language Of A Peaceful Mind – are brilliantly crafted.  Tensely claustrophobic and anxiously convulsing, they draw us remorselessly into their unsettling embrace.  The tautly angular guitar smoulders with a delicious off-kilter twang, while the rhythm section brings a rugged yet loping swagger to proceedings, not to mention some typically bruising bass lines.

Meanwhile, the guttural barked vocals are deftly intertwined throughout with ominously whispered spoken word.  This only adds to the air of insidious unease as Mother Nature explore themes of mortality, nurture, and finding a way to live amid the pain and uncertainty.  Donor Records, as always, do a bang-up job pulling it all together.

‘From victim to oppressor, Life cycle of abuse…Made to be productive, Productive’s what they tell you’ (The Farm)

Right, we’re talking raw d-beat hardcore.  Imagine every element dialled up to what you think is the max.  Now, just push it that little bit further, further than perhaps feels wise, until every bone in your body is shuddering.  There you go – welcome to the sonic violence of Birmingham, Alabama’s B.O.R.N.

The band’s acronym stands for Belligerent Onslaught Relentless Noise, which is undeniably pretty apt.  Having honed their sound across a slew of cassette-only releases since 2022, this represents the band’s debut vinyl release.  The trio are not seeking to dramatically reinvent their influences, but what they do with an unabashed zeal is deliver every element with an absolutely venomous intent.

The guitar tone is filthily blown out.  The waves of surging riffage are leavened only by squalling, blink-and-you-miss solos, while the primitive drums lock in with, bar the occasional indulgence of a fleeting tom roll, a thudding singularity.  The barked vocals are delivered with more of a classic hardcore cadence as they build connections between economic exploitation, gentrification, escalating militarisation, and a society programmed to punch down.  The eight tracks are unleashed in just twelve unforgiving minutes, the velocity vividly embodied by the seething Local Outsider, the choppy fury of Moved West, and the pneumatic groove of the closer, Reprise.

‘Punk ei oo mikään vaihe nuoruuden, Mä tiukin sanoin kiistän kyllä sen, Se mulle on yhtä kuin elämä’ (Uskon Punkkareihin) / ‘Punk is not a phase of youth, I strongly deny that, It is the same as life for me’ (I Believe In Punks)

This is a reissue of the long sold-out debut album from Tiikeri, Punk Rock Paumaus!!! It was first self-released in Europe by the band, who hail from Turku in Finland, back in 2023, and has since been followed up by a trio of equally well received EPs.  The band’s core inspiration is very much drawn from late 1970s’ punk, which is then laced through with more contemporary pop punk influences.

And while all of that is stylistically true, the essence of Tiikeri lies much more in the sheer energy and joy that permeates every aspect of what they do.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I suspect that some of the more whimsical elements of Tiikeri’s aesthetic might well grate in the wrong hands.  But those possible hang ups rather melt away in the face of the band’s enthusiasm and sincerity.  Punk Rock Paumaus!!! is a very personal celebration of punk and what it has brought to the individual lives of the band members, both in terms music and, just as importantly, values.

At first listen, the music itself can strike as straightforward.  Yet, this belies the band’s unerring ear for a hook and capturing a melody that you simply won’t be able to shake.  Not to mention their absolute mastery of a well-placed layered harmony and a well-judged ‘woah’.  The dexterity of their song writing whips each of these elements into a jauntily raucous ride as they sweep from the rollicking Atria Ja HK (Ei Oo OK) to the more plaintively melodic Uskon Punkkareihin.  This is a record made with the express intention of putting smiles on faces and it is an invitation that is hard to resist.

‘Algún dia escaperé de aqui, de mi familia y lo que, quieren de mi, Franco ha muerto, campo abierto’ (Campo Abierto) / ‘One day I will escape from here, from my family and what they want from me, Franco is dead, open field’ (Open Field)

This is the debut album from Barcelona synth punks Colegiata and it is quite the unassuming treat.  The synths pulse with a certain analogue warmth and the percussion is crisply motorik as the duo conjure an atmosphere that ambiguously lurks somewhere between mournful regret and quiet euphoria.  The tonal palette is an essentially austere one, yet subtle melodic shifts, partnered with rather more abrupt changes through the rhythmic gears ensure that it never veers into the monochrome.

The vocals closely mirror those oscillating rhythms, largely bathed in a drawled detachment, but not averse to launching into rather more strident proclamations.  Lyrically, they are born of a very particular juncture in Spanish history.  The moment when the optimism of finally emerging from the fascist shadow of Franco ran into the implacable grip of the all-pervasive Catholic church, a slowly suffocating influence at both home and school.

As it spans the menacing escalation Señor Director (Mr. Director) and the brooding restraint of Labor Omnia Vincit (Work Conquers All), before the languorously infectious El Graduado (The Graduate) and the combatively throbbing closer Soy Una Punk (I’m A Punk), it proves a thoroughly evocative journey.

‘No quiero salir al exterior, Hace años quey a no veo el sol, Mis músculor ya no servirán, Mis amigos nunca más me verán’ / ‘I don’t want to go outside, I haven’t seen the sun in years, My muscles will be useless now, My friends will never see me again’ (Mis Amigos Nunca Más Me Verán)

Unless we’re careful, we can find ourselves living amid a maelstrom of never-ending notifications and ceaseless updates that serve to fracture attention and prime an endless doomscroll, aided by an app for every neurosis that technological intrusion sowed in the first place.  300 Noches Sin Dormir (300 Sleepless Nights) is a relentlessly hyperactive manifestation of this malaise.

This is the second album from synth punks Sistema De Entretenmiento (System Of Entertainment), who hail from Mollet del Vallès in Catalonia, and follows up their 2022 self-titled debut.  The band refer to their music as ‘Arcade Punk’, which certainly captures the essential spirit of their sound.  It is effervescently restless synth punk that is refracted through an abrasively lo-fi lens to conjure an utterly frenetic exuberance that stalks the line between nervously glitching agitation and unhinged hedonism.

The crisply precise bass and drum machine, together with the brittle shards of guitar, form the scaffolding of the sixteen tracks.  But it is the manically skittering synths and energetically layered vocals that put the flesh on those bones.  Intriguingly for an album drenched in such primary colours, including its anime artwork, it is fuelled by an exploration of the rather less wholesome, and often intentional, blurring of what is real and what is fake that increasingly defines our lives.

Indeed, the tracks when these darker impulses gain the upper hand – the ominous pulse Zona Desconocida (Unknown Zone), the languorous swing of Soy Un Rocker Y Perdedor (I’m Rocker And A Loser), and the futuristic melodies of Fantasma En la Maquina (Ghost In The Machine) – are perhaps the standout moments.

‘Pitting me against you, And us against them, But we won’t take the bait, Can’t give them the satisfaction, Because all we get is smaller cages and shorter chains’ (Smaller Cages, Shorter Chains)

Tear It On Down is an album born of bristling defiance and tentative hope.  At times, it can feel like we have front row seats for the end of days, entrenched interests flailing ever more desperately to protect their power.  This can lure us into being trapped in a perpetual present, susceptible to a despair born of forgetting.  Forgetting how far we have come and how powerful we can be when we act together.  And it is only by remembering this power that we can resist and create a different future.

This is the Los Angeles’ band’s third album and follow up to 2024’s Love Child and their sound continues to be defined by an undying adoration of the riff.  Metallic in their heft, hardcore in their snap yet indelibly imbued with a 1970s’ rock strut and fizzing with garage punk urgency, the onslaught of tautly surging riffage is at the very heart of Tear It On Down.  The fleetingly flaring solos and the limber bounce of the rhythm section further fuel the rock’n’roll swagger, while the rampaging vocals frenetically dissect the need to break free from the self-serving narratives of division and to build our own resilience, both individually and as communities.

The fiercely choppy A New Love Language kicks thing off with an unapologetic bang.  It sets a high-octane tone that doesn’t relent for even a moment as the infectious agitations of Surveillance State and the muscular stomp of Bloostains are deftly intertwined with the impassioned melodicism of Smaller Cages, Shorter Chains and Tension.  What unfurls is a rousing call to wake up and regain our humanity, and our independence of thought, ‘The end of raids, The end of incarceration, The end of indoctrination, Tear it on down’ (Citta Violenta)

‘Bienvenida inversión extranjera…Primer mundo, Nos tienen en guerra…¡Robando! Burlándose de las costumbres, Para después venderlas’ (Nuevo Mexico) / ‘Welcome foreign investment…First world, They have us at war…Stealing! Mocking our customs, Only to sell them off later’ (New Mexico)

What is the characteristic that elevates the most compelling hardcore?  For me, it is the intentionality that shapes both why and how it is being played.  Mexico City’s Annapura are a band who literally seethe with it and the band’s fifth release, V (they are, however, not big on titles), is a visceral statement of that intent.

The origins of the band are very much rooted in d-beat fuelled crust, but as they have progressed, another element has come increasingly into play.  It is one that brings to mind mid-2000s’ bands in the vein of say Black Kites and The Separation, who married together influences drawn from the metallic hardcore of the early 1990s with the more chaotic, faster expressions that emerged later in that same decade.  It proves a thoroughly rewarding evolution.

From the desperation drenched opener No Llegó (He Didn’t Arrive) to the bleak melody laced Todo A Todo (Everything To Everything), and then through the bouncing grooves of Espíritu de Fuego (Spirit Of Fire) to the double bass drum propelled tumult of El Desastre (The Disaster), the intensity is remorseless.  Each track is a savage two-minute eruption, before the album closes on the more expansive, darkly atmospheric instrumental Ocaso (Sunset).  Meanwhile, the dual vocals, one gruffly barked, the other more harshly desperate, explore how the colonial economics of globalisation exploit and exacerbate the violence and inequality embedded in daily Mexican life.

‘Es la hor de las bestias, Quién se conoce aqui? En la ciudad de la furia, Te tocas pelear o morir’ (Inténtalo o Muere ) / ‘It’s the hour of the beasts, Who knows anyone here? In the city of fury, it’s fight or die’ (Try It Or Die)

Abyecta return with their third 7-inch, following on from 2022’s Enemigos De La Razon (Enemies Of Reason).  Comprising two tracks – Inténtalo O MuereInténtalo O Muere and Amo Y Esclavo (Master and Slave) – that both come in at around the five-minute mark, it is undoubtedly the duo’s most ambitious release to date.

Originally hailing from Chile and now based largely in the US, the fundamentals of their sound remains a fierce blend of Japanese Burning Spirits hardcore and mid-to-late 1980s’ thrash metal (think more Mustaine than Hanneman).  Which, when you think of the classic heavy metal influences that shaped both, makes for a powerfully organic partnership.

The departure comes in the song writing itself, which sets aside short, sharp hardcore blasts in favour of more expansive structures that evolve through distinct, yet closely interlinked, movements.  The key is that none of this feels self-consciously progressive, or in any way self-indulgent.  Rather, it is playing to the very strengths of the inspirations that Abyecta are so vibrantly reanimating.

Dense yet catchy metallic riffage is underpinned by a rolling, surging rhythm section. The riffs themselves continually morph and reform, evolving without ever losing sight of the original starting point.  I particularly love the melodic bridge that binds together Inténtalo O Muere and the killer melody that forms the cornerstone of Amo Y Esclavo.  Now, I know for many, the riffs will be the main attraction here, but it has to be said that the infectiously rasping, utterly rampant vocals are more than a match as they contemplate the harsh realities of life in Santiago.  It’s an exhilarating ride.

‘Build a monument in marble, In your likeness, In your honour, Will the victories feel hollow, When the sun burns out, Tomorrow’ (Pyrrhic Pyrrhic)

This is the 10^th anniversary reissue of Red Dons’ classic third full-length, The Dead Hand Of Tradition.  When it landed a decade ago, its sharply crafted, darkly melodic punk was the sound of a band definitively hitting its stride.  The nimbleness of the song writing inventively braids the album with a myriad of enticing influences.  There is an ever-present shroud of post-punk melancholy, with at differing times a hardcore abrasiveness and a careering garage rock energy, not to mention a certain sing-along pop sensibility, all of which are embraced with equal relish.

The textures this introduces, from the cleverly layered vocal harmonies to the shifting rhythmic patterns and flaring melodic flourishes, imbues their music with a thoroughly satisfying depth.  The highlights land in quick succession from the languid embrace of Remember to the surging melodicism of Pyrrhic Pyrrhic, and then from the catchily scratchy Together Apart to the fiercely seething title track.  Yet, it is an album that works its way into your musical consciousness more as a singular, sweeping expression, such is its satisfying cohesiveness.

Meanwhile, the stridently melodic, almost crooned, cleanly enunciated vocals add another vivid dimension.  They fluently construct a narrative that explores how tradition can, if not harnessed in a positive way, be a deadening hand on our lives, reaching through from the past to shackle the future.  The Dead Hand Of Tradition has proved, at least to date, to be the Portland band’s final full-length.  However, they continue to tour regularly and have released two subsequent EPs, 2017’s Genocide and 2023’s Generations.

Want to get to know the Red Dons? Then, this is a great place to start.

‘There’s nothing left to strive for, Illusions slain by stark reality, Gilded pavements fade to concrete, In the daylight of the city’ (Arcadia)

Bikini Mutants were a relatively short lived early 1980s’ post-punk band from Yeovil, with members going on to play in My Bloody Valentine and The Chesterfields.  Indeed, the five-year labour of love which was involved in pulling this intriguing reissue together was rather longer than the lifespan of the band itself.  However, it was undoubtedly time well spent.

Although Bikini Mutants emerged amid the West Country’s thriving anarcho-punk scene, their sound was distinctively different as they pioneered the blend of wiry post-punk and catchy indie pop that was to become increasingly synonymous with the era.  This twelve-track compilation pulls together the band’s two demos, both of which were recorded in 1982.

The song writing is intricately layered and subtly propulsive. The vocals are delicate yet assertive, frequently operating in a near operatic tenor as they contemplate a bleak future in Thatcherite Britain.  A lo-fi scratchiness characterised the guitar on their debut, but a change in guitarist saw a more fuzzed out style emerge on the second.  My personal highlight, however, is the supple, sprightly swinging interplay between the bass and drums.  The locked-in rhythm of Arcadia from the first demo, and the mournfully shimmering Empty on the second, capture the band’s understated allure perfectly.

The album is accompanied by a fascinating twenty-page booklet that assembles the lyrics, various gig reviews, and a fanzine interview, together with plenty of photos and flyers.  It also includes three typically soulless A&R rejection letters, which – if nothing else – serve as a useful reminder of why we needed DIY in the first place.

‘Velato senso di colpa, Condanno le mie stesse azioni, Comiencio a sentir freddo, Invischiato in questa non vita’ (Imperfetto, Sii Imperfetto) / ‘Veiled sense of guilt, I condemn my own actions, I begin to feel cold, Entangled in this non-life’ (Imperfect, Be Imperfect)

I’ll cut straight to the chase here – this is an absolute belter.  Pisco Galera hail from Venice and Memorie Di Occhi Grigi (Memories Of Grey Eyes) follows up their 2021 debut album, Le Stanze Della Mente (The Rooms Of The Mind).  The vinyl release suffered quite a few delays, but I steadfastly resisted the digital option and I’m glad that I did.  Since it landed, the utterly visceral slap that it has delivered every time I have dropped the needle has been more than worth the wait.

The band’s base sound remains rooted in early 1980s’ Italian hardcore, a vivid reimagining of the raw, chaotic inventiveness that defined the era of Wretched and Negazione.  They then viciously mesh it with influences drawn from the similarly futuristic instincts that emerged later that decade in the form of technical leaning thrash metal.  A dissonant tapestry of fiercely unhinged riffage and filthily extravagant solos.  It’s as if Coroner woke up one morning and thought, stuff a lifetime of ceaselessly honed precision, let’s just let it rip!  There is also a third element, a touch less strident, but no less important.  A restless, agitated instinct for experimentation – one that is art punk in inclination, yet utterly atavistic in energy.

Pisco Galera succeed in bringing this all together with a manically gleeful abandon, somehow without everything careering out of control.  There are so many moments to relish.  The frenzied solo that erupts during Imperfetto, Sii Imperfetto.  The searing riff that defines Le Cattive Maniere (Bad Manners).  The rhythmic chant that closes out Chiodi, Punte & Fibbie (Nails, Spikes, And Buckles).  The serpentine grooves of the melody fuelled Lacrime & Pioggia (Tears And Rain).  Meanwhile, the effects distorted vocals are delivered with a bracing gusto as they dissect a society that seeks to hollow us out through the controls, both physical and illusory, of economic extraction, oppressive traditions, and social division.

‘Slave to all the rules, Agreed before you were born, And die with no remorse, Look, this isn’t now, You reap all of the fruit but forget to remember – where is the root?’ (Your Own Device)

Hailing from New York, and featuring members of Acid Casualties, Altar Of Eden and Mirage, Cross follow up their 2023 demo, No Beginning, No End, with their debut album, Human Spirit.  It is an utterly unforgiving statement.  This is hardcore at its most claustrophobic, tensely fraught, almost suffocating in its intensity.  The abrasively discomfiting battery sparks thoughts of a savage reimagining of Mecht Mensch and Permission, constantly threatening to overwhelm, but with the chaos always just about held at bay.

The twin guitars are frenzied, densely layered, and squirming with a restless unease as fleeting flares of melody are swallowed in the dissonance.  The rhythm section rabidly keeps pace, before swaggering passages of mid-paced groove allow it to flex and bring a powerful fluidity into play.  Intertwined throughout are the caustically barked vocals as they unleash a darkly poetical, bleakly fractured tirade that is saturated in a quiet despair at the constraints that we allow society, and ourselves, to impose on our lives.

From the crushing climatic breakdown of Envy to the squalling melodicism of Falsified Ties and then from the frenetically jarring Flowers to the whiplash agitations of Soul Divine, there is not a moment’s respite.  And you won’t be asking for one.

‘Monstruosas perversiones, son duras de masticar, Son funcionarios, estatal, seres inexplicables, duros de acabar’ (Contando Cucharachas En El Barrio) ‘Monstrous perversions, they’re hard to chew, Bureaucrats, state officials, inexplicable things, hard to finish off’ (Counting Cockroaches In The Neighbourhood)

Pura Manía are back with their second album, La Banda Es La Ley (The Gang Is The Law), and follow up to their 2024 7-inch, Extraños Casos De La Vida Real (Strange Real-Life Cases).  The band currently span Canada and Mexico, and since their 2014 debut EP, they have been pioneers in a sound that has taken deep root in contemporary hardcore punk.  It is a raucous fusion of dark post-punk melodicism and raw anthemic street punk, with, in their case, a further healthy dash of Iberian punk verve.

As you dive into proceedings, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer immediacy.  Each song brims with an infectious central guitar melody that the rabidly exuberant Spanish vocals lock on to with an irresistible sing-along relish, contemplating the mess we’re in through a lens of B-movie grotesquerie.  Opener Operación Horror (Operation Horror) sets an absolutely rollicking tone that the likes of the uproarious El Planeta Gótico (Gothic Planet) and the fiercely impassioned Contando Cucharachas En El Barrio are only too happy to follow.

As you immerse yourself more fully though, you begin to understand the depth of the groundwork that is so adroitly laid to create these thrilling pay offs.  This, perhaps, reflects the fact that the band draw their four instrumental members from Vancouver post-punks Spectres, as evidenced in the fuzzed-out rhythm guitar, chiming melodies, and darkly chunky bass lines.  This pedigree enables the band to create a densely layered web of melodies and rhythms, yet one dedicated to delivering unashamedly baser pleasures.

La Banda Es La Ley skilfully intertwines street punk directness and post-punk precision in a manner that feels utterly organic.  The world as a whole may not be in a place to inspire good cheer at the moment, but this is an album guaranteed to bring a smile to your lips and a spring to your step.

‘Stormande angstfylte januarnatt, Byar og vrakrester evig fortapt, Vinden var vill, for alt blet still’ (Atomvinter Pt.1) / ‘Stormy , anxious January night, Cities and ruins lost forever, The wind was wild, Before everything was still’ (Atomic Winter Pt.1)

Oslo’s Draümar, who share vocalist Sig with Assistert Sjølmord, dropped their cracking debut 7-inch, D’Krig (The War), back in 2022.  So, we’ve had to wait a little while for the follow up.  A couple of blistering recent London shows further whetted the appetite, and as soon as the eerily swelling, breakbeat fuelled intro of Ute å Stjele (Out To Steal) kicks in, you know that this anticipation has been well-earned.

Draümar remain firmly embedded in the traditions of Norwegian hardcore, melding together a savage onslaught of frenetic speed, bruising grooves, and a lacing of dark melancholy.  The guitars flip with a seamless ease between burly riffage and rather more nimble melodic flourishes alongside a lock-step tight rhythm section.  Meanwhile, the harshly rasping, snarled vocals, including a deliciously unhinged manic cackle on Norske Våpen (Norwegian Weapons), bring an invigorating venom to bear.

Lyrically, they confront Norway’s burgeoning arms trade, the horrors unfolding in Gaza, and the global threat of ever escalating militarisation, together with more personal battles.  The highlights come thick and fast.   The choppy melodicism of Likbil (Hearse).  The feral oscillations of Molotov Draümar (Molotov Dreamer). The high-octane one-two of Atomvinter Parts 1 and 2.  There is also a seething cover of Herrene (The Gentleman) by their fellow mid-1980s’ Norwegians, Bannlyst, featuring their vocalist Finn Erik Tangen who sounds in ferociously fine fettle.

‘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.

The band hail from Melbourne, featuring former members of R.M.F.C., Straightjacket Nation, and Total Control, and this is their debut release.  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.

‘Broken house, rotted souls, Stolen pictures hanging on the walls, Cold wind blows and the snow still falls, Sacrifice, I can hear it call’ (Running Cross)

What do the following have in common: the symphonic melodicism of Dödsrit, the blues-tinged doom of Cathedral, and the surging hardcore of Poison Ruïn?  At first glance, not all that much, except that each spring vividly to mind as possible influences during Bridge Of Sacrifice.  It is a heady, volatile mix.  Yet one that Powerplant handles with such instinctual assurance that it feels entirely natural.

And there, perhaps, lies both the potential strength and weakness of the one-person musical project.  Bands benefit from the virtues and disciplines of collective song writing.  For good or ill, no such restraints exist for the solo artist.  In the case of Theo Zhykharyev’s Powerplant, it is very much a good thing.

Powerplant has been a going concern since 2018 and Bridge Of Sacrifice is album number three.  Born as a solitary, lo-fi synth punk project, it has since evolved into a full band for live shows, but the recording process is still very much an individual concern.  Indeed, the off-kilter synth aesthetic remains at the heart of the sound, although it is now interplaying with a rather more flamboyant palette.

Driving black metal riffage segues into passages of darkly atmospheric neo-folk, before erupting into a dramatic post-punk fervour.  This relentless shapeshifting is more than matched by the vocals.  These flirt with deathly growls, sombre semi-spoken word, and stridently melodic explosions as they evoke a bleakly medieval imagery to explore the importance of home amid the isolation of a fracturing society.

The album’s success lies in the fact that there are no half-measures.  Each idea is delivered with equal sincerity, each influence conjured up with the same theatrical vigour.  The result is one that walks the line between invention and absurdity with impressive confidence.  As the crooned climax to Florida sweeps into the gothically drawled, cello laced The Fork, and then from the savagely blackened garage of Hall Of Wolves to the haunting Gregorian chants and skeletal keys of Arborglyph, you have little idea of what is coming next.  The surprise rarely disappoints.