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

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

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