STILL SINGLE
Idle Hour Club – Project Lounge LP (ShanGORIL La)

There are a lot of good records in the pile, so of course I’m looking at the ones I don’t know anything about, digging for gold. It’s not here. This is the same nth-tier, after-work power pop guys settled into bar rock/pop mode you’ve heard before, well-played and all but a little too clean to be really memorable. There’s a lyric that goes something like “My baby likes John Lennon/But she hates the way I sing.” That makes two of us! And that’s really what holds this whole contraption down: singing and vocals are just too on the button, hangdog, like a picture of Shaun Cassidy melting. There’s just nothing here specific enough to recommend, apart from whether you like anonymous, rootsy college rock with a little dark alley strut that walks in a circle, with ambitions to be like Everclear but nothing special … not that Everclear was … whatever, you know what I mean. A quick kick to the collective head might solve all these problems; they can play, but I’d rather they not play like this. New Orleans has plenty of exciting music (and spectacle) going for it, but not in here. (http://idlehourclub.bandcamp.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Imperial Topaz – Full of Grace LP (Tranquility Vinyl)

Quiet, minimal electronics and cooing, elegant vocals constitute the Novocaine walls of Brooklyn’s Imperial Topaz. Not sure if it’s the strictures of the format or the musical limitations of these two, as they dip into the Lourdes miracle water stash for tooth-brushing and bong-filling alike, but I can think of at least two records – the new Ashrae Fax, and Diamonds and Gems by Soft Location – for which the bulk of Full of Grace sounds like a single backing track. It’s alright, certainly good enough for your Body Actualized Center orgone cool-down sesh with watermelon juice, but it feels slight and unfinished against artists that weren’t writing specifically to a genre, or moreover, were just better at music. (http://tranquilitytapes.blogspot.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Tlaotlon – Calavities LP (Epic Sweep)

Enough hyper-kinetic electronics to drown out your last sane thoughts. Tlaotlon (real name: Jeremy Coubrough) kicks off his second album Calavities with klaxons and doesn’t let up from there, practicing the sort of “sitting on the keys of the sampler” kitchen-sink pink noise jitters that make me wonder if this guy didn’t have an earlier career in breakcore, so irreverent and maximalist is the sound on display here. It’s MAX/MSP pushed to its last gasp, reams of laser sound rumbling and zapping both loose and congestive, with enough patterns overlapping that the loops become hidden; a silly stampede, a battery of synths played in manners that shop owners frown upon and anyone looking to dance makes a beeline from. Eventually things quiet down a bit by the end, but the madness buzzes until the runout. It’s a hard record to hand to someone and say “I think you’ll like this,” but there’s so few of them to go around – 100 copies, all gone – that it doesn’t really matter. (http://www.epicsweeprecords.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

The Flesh Eaters – A Minute To Pray A Second To Die LP (Superior Viaduct)

RECOMMENDED

What can you say about one of the best records, if not the best, ever to come out of the punk scene? Simply this: it took vision to make it, and a fucking mind-meld to actualize it, kinda like whatever hold James Brown had on his ‘60s and ‘70s ensembles: the psychic lock-down, a half-dozen guys completely absorbing the same message and responding with revolutionary levels of power.

Very few people were going through a history of under-the-seat level cinema reappraisals and reams of pulp, leveled with the raw action of L.A. punk, the way Chris Desjardins did in the years leading up to the second Flesh Eaters album. His first, the guttural No Questions Asked, and the loose tracks from their 7” and the Tooth And Nail compilation (we’ll call this era “his band” as D. populated the Flesh Eaters’ ranks with utility players from the Dangerhouse scene, but moreover because it’s impossible to imagine the band without him), seemed to get more and more wound up as it went along, songs ascending into a tension spiral that you can tell, at least from here/now, were growing into something. All of that promise, and then some, is realized here, on A Minute To Pray A Second To Die.

Picking up a veritable fortune in sidemen – John Doe and D.J. Bonebrake from X are here, along with Steve Berlin from the Rhythm Pigs, and Dave Alvin and Bill Bateman from the Blasters – and keying in on a swampy, voodoo-laced dimension of rock ‘n’ roll that, even as I write this, sounds implausible and cheap, the sort of gross caricature that drives the entire two-inches-deep subcultures of rockabilly, automotive fetishes, Tom Waits, Las Vegas, racism and whatever points any of that toxic bullshit had to do with punk like 99.9% of the time. There really should be no reason why this sort of record should come off as astoundingly well as it does. It’s not even that the years have been kind; it’s that no one else has been able to properly revisit the sorcery over the form that this particular lineup of the Flesh Eaters ever could. Hell, even they couldn’t hold onto it for longer than a year, and it’s not to say that the two LPs made by D.’s next lineup weren’t stellar. But they’re not this one, which is a high-water mark for punk, rock, and filmic realizations across the forms.

Certainly there is no better punk record where marimbas and saxophones play such a significant role. All the fear of seedy UHF-based TV broadcasts burning a hole in your psyche is on display here: the film noir with acts of sadism you can’t un-see, the one science fiction concept in your viewing experience that triggers nightsweats, the old black-and-white cartoon that scared you more than anything else. Bonebrake’s work on the xylophone scale gives the impression of an animated skeleton playing another skeleton’s ribs. Signifiers of jazz, exotica and disciplined, streak all over this one (it’s not hard to imagine Dave Brubeck having written “So Long,” though he’d have to be impaled on a fireplace poker to play it the way these guys did), but what really makes A Minute To Pray cook is that it almost entirely seems to be coming straight from Chris D.’s mind.

Apart from the one track where John Doe has a songwriting credit (“Cyrano De Berger’s Back,” which plays like it could be something written for X, or at least by one of the main songwriters of that group, though in D.’s presence it’s turned more into something Alice Cooper might’ve considered in the Dick Wagner era), none of this record bears any resemblance to the bands for which its members were better-known. Maybe we are outside the era where discovering punk meant sifting through other people’s errors, like following the Slash catalog down to a Blasters record and wondering what the fuck went wrong, but Dave Alvin’s guitar playing on this could peel back the skin of anyone standing too close. Bill Bateman’s artillery drumming and unmistakable swing (a technique that most drummers seem to leave behind these days, as if it’s impossible to maintain – Bill Ward and the late Charlie Ondras would disagree with you) punch through both cadences of “Satan’s Stomp,” both on the beat and off it, as Steve Berlin’s sax plays a complementary arrangement of Alvin’s nimble guitar line with extra sleaze atop, before breaking down into the sort of chaos you’d want out of any reedsman coming near this murk. 

And there is no escape from Chris D.’s words, and how he delivers them, wild-eyed and feral, and still verbose and deliberate. He’s not yowling into the void, and he’s not so far out of control that the meaning behind his words are obscured (sup, Darby), and it’s that line he walks here, between snake-handling preacher and fevered madman, that draws you into A Minute To Pray and keeps you there. The following Flesh Eaters record, Forever Came Today, has a song entitled “Tightrope On Fire,” and that’s exactly what D. is traversing all across these eight songs, the madness of not being in control of love because the calling of the left-hand path is just too great. He’s got a precedent for this line of dramatic thought: every femme fatale in the mold of Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, every gunman’s last stand, every town with a deadly secret. Most importantly, he is a showman, and throughout the performance on this record, he never lets you forget.

I picked up my first and only copy of this one at a record show in 1995, for the unseemly price of $25. Back then I wasn’t accustomed to paying that much for a record, but this one was special. I’ve never come across another in the wild, even though I’ve been able to obtain OGs of all the other prime-era Flesh Eaters LPs (still looking for the 7” though). Superior Viaduct has done a stellar job of bringing this one back in print, particularly on vinyl, with a bulletproof essay on the band and the era by Byron Coley in case these words don’t get you running to the store. (http://www.superiorviaduct.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Treehouse – Interzone LP (Vacant Valley)

RECOMMENDED

We’ve spoken here about the figurative inner-Earth tunnel that seems to connect the nation of New Zealand with central Ohio; from the sound of this Treehouse LP, there is reason to believe existence of a similar thoroughfare, this one connecting Tasmania with the Pacific Northwest. Treehouse hail from Hobart (home of The Native Cats) and have planted themselves squarely in some Washington/Oregon backwater with Interzone, a rusted-out collection of dishwater-gray punk trawlers, contemplative, agitated and leaching its internalized hurt from too many encounters with drunken logger rednecks into the loam on the forest floor. Songs of monotone dejection prostrate themselves amidst an appealingly dingy production, all their aggression working its way out through guitar tone and the insistence to keep going, and in the middle of it there’s “↑ ↓ ↑ ↓ ↑,” some hefty length of instrumental standpipe that momentarily washes it all away in a steady flow of timed release. Through it all, you get the sense of Unwound or Lync on a Codeine jag (the band, dummy), or maybe early Bugskull trying to beat a drug test, moping, listless, and probably with pant legs soaking from the cuffs up, snarling from inside the fence when you pass by, but mostly waiting for the opportunity to just be, which it sounds like they’ve captured admirably here. Feels like this sort of music used to be a de facto mode of expression, but it’s since been lost to, y’know, not having an interest in guitars, effort, or self-respect. Owning this one’ll cost you, especially if you’re on the “freedom” side of the tunnel, but Vacant Valley softens the blow with a digital download containing eight live performances by the band as a bonus. (http://vacantvalley.bandcamp.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Fadensonnen – Badlands 12” EP (One Hand)

RECOMMENDED

Outstanding puncture wound guitar/drums-guitar/guitar duo, apparently of a busy nature with a bunch of self-released CD-Rs under their really-just-a-length-of-extension-cord belts, practicing the kind of high-velocity, pressurized instrumental torture that in this idea-soft yet hyper-aware era might make the weak of mind or hyphen-averse wither under the midday sun. Triangulated between Brooklyn, Vermont and Cambridge, UK, the three tracks here illustrate the sort of rock/noise-based improvisation that one always hopes to find under the layers of hyperbole coughed up by so-and-so’s like myself just to get you outta bed and through the door these days. Everyone else (well, both of them) said Skullflower and Ascension, which makes sense, but goddamn, do these pieces sound driven, heavy and immense yet grounded to the poisoned soil of the outer boroughs, two of the tracks doing the deed (opening sprint “Machete” and explosive sidelonger “Take No Prisoners”), while another prepares the mixture (the thick, tumultuous droner “Blight Gospel”). We’re in an era where this sort of exploration usually falls into one of three buckets: the one where sound takes the backseat to whatever transgressions the performers want to impart; the one where everything gets lost in some sort of mindless Hawkwind-style moron jam under the guise of “heavy psych”; and the truly progressive, new-language bent of a slim few (Dead C., Sightings, Oneida). Something like Fadensonnen is then far more preservationist than it is transformative, but all the same it’s been far too long since this sort of action darkened my doorstep – all the danger and violence that accompanied these shapeless exercises of rage back in the ‘90s is dragged out of the canal to inspire your malevolence. Edition of 150 copies, handmade heavy card insert with wraparound black-and-white print indebted to Nick Blinko … for once, the cost seems to justify the effort put into making a record like this. (http://onehand.bigcartel.com)  
(Doug Mosurock)

Kepler – Attic Salt LP (Oscarson)

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RECOMMENDED

First time on vinyl for the third and final album by Ottawa’s Kepler, which broke the reins of its Codeine and Low comparisons on this 2005 release. I just read two terribly-written reviews of this record, neither of which said anything about the music or tried to put it in any useful perspective, so I’ll start from there: this band was not profound, but they were not generic, either, and the decade that’s passed since its release has definitely helped place it in better light. To me, Attic Salt sounds like the point where a bunch of talented, most likely defeated musicians put their own tastes on the line and reached back to the sort of smoothly aching ‘70s singer-songwriter/studio-driven effort, beyond Neil Young or Jackson Browne, the recesses of major label catalog loss-leaders, unknown killers that slay collectors but don’t get much air otherwise. The whole thing has New Indie production, and vocalist Samir Khan is a bit plagued by that concept as well, breathy and a bit anonymous, though strong enough to avoid the fey nerdiness of the Death Cab clones starting to seep through the skin of the times. But the songs are what count, and they are strong, with subtle inflections of rural rock and the sort of push-pull drama that Silkworm or Bedhead were capable of in their respective days, though less “rock” than the former and much more awake than the latter. If for no other reasons, drummer Jeremy Gara’s move over to the Arcade Fire put an end to Kepler not long after this one came out. But in a way Attic Salt puts the point of perfection upon the earned maturity of a band that worked its way out of stricter forms into something expressive, worn-in, and meaningful. This vinyl edition of 1000 copies comes in a heavy gatefold sleeve with an embossed lyric book tucked into a die-cut pocket, and concludes with a compilation track not present on the initial release. It’s a beautiful edition of a record that deserves such an elegant presentation. (http://oscarson.bandcamp.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Rmillis – Relief LP (The Helen Scarsdale Agency)

File this one under “M,” for the artist Robert Millis (known for being one-half of exemplary field recording manipulators and Sun City Girls-ophones Climax Golden Twins). Now that the facts are out of the way, let’s look at the stats: Millis continues to embrace audio samples on these five works, though more to dramatic effect; each of the longer tracks on Relief, which begin with a building, hovering synth/dronescape, shift slightly in their foundational moments only to crash into a jarringly different mood. There’s no way to tell, for instance, that the low-end frequencies which eventually make their way into the celestial hum of opener “Secret Sentence” will shift into a dirge-like coda of sorrowful horror, likely lifted from a symphonic work but more reminiscent of the hellish ambiance of Badalamenti’s work on Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me. And now that I’ve ruined the surprise for you, well … fuck. Sorry. I’m here to report on my findings. It happens twice more, both to the wave/crescendo-buffeted  empty hull of “Second Lord of the Auspicious Conjunction” and from the high-pitched synth to solemn percussive to the piano-led innocence of the title track. Two shorter compositions present mood-based, filmic ideas, richly evocative and positioned between the larger chunks of Relief, both as palate-cleansers and difference engines. Despite the employment of a gimmick, the work doesn’t feel as such, and though it may put off listeners looking for an easy thrill, this thing is pretty much running on its own power, giving little justification for the changes in weather it thrusts upon the listener. Just like life itself. (http://www.helenscarsdale.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Subsonic Voices – Primitive Shambles LP (Dull Knife)

It’s getting harder and harder to run a truly independent record label these days. Pressing plants are backed up with wait times of two months or more for new customers, due in no small part to the shitshow that is Record Store Day, and the industry trying to wring every last dollar from the boomers before they die, as well as from the dipshits and speculators before they move onto another fad once chasing Jack White around Nashville with a butterfly net gets to be too tiring. Imagine having the cash in hand to make new music by a vital new band and being told to wait because EMI has decided to press up thousands of Beatles mono box sets. (It just happened to Total Control).

Having been the consistent mouthpiece for terrific Houston dark rock band Balaclavas throughout most of the band’s existence, not to mention a handful of other wonderful groups, the lights at Dull Knife are dimming with this debut release by Subsonic Voices (featuring two-thirds of that band, joined by Insect Warfare/Homopolice/No Talk bear Beau Beasley on electronics and samples in lieu of a bassist). Someone else will have to take the reins on their follow-up, which will be interesting to hear, since SSV strips away any of the mystery behind Balaclavas, pushing these six new songs into deliberate, big-beat Gothic darkness. Beasley plays with a heavy hand, totalitarian synth warps permeating every last bit of breathable air, gtr/voxist Tyler Morris screaming where before he sneered. At this point I want to see more, because the band sounds like they’re about ¾ of the way out of their cocoon on Primitive Shambles, all big ponderous drones, loud drums and increased atmosphere with very little ballast to hold it down. I hope it’s worth whoever’s time that signs this bunch, because running a label is just about the hardest business you could want at this point, when even the big indies are dominating the resources and snatching whatever crumbs of advantage they can get in order to manufacture their products, much less get them into your hands. (http://dullknifelabel.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

M.O.B. – s/t LP (R.I.P. Society)

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Dystopian wrong-speed synth/gtr/noise/vocal sludge, hopeless and murky, totalitarian and bleak. I believe this is a solo project of Al Montfort (Lower Plenty, Dick Diver, Totes Controls) but I could be wrong on that. The sleeve is a wonderful shade of midnight blue, with yellow-orange print – street art on one side, fantastical psychedelic lettering on the other. I wish there were a more satisfying record with these same titles to put in it. Maybe someone should make one. Maybe I’ll make one. A rare drowner for the usually buoyant R.I.P. Society label. (http://ripsocietyrecords.tumblr.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

EDIT: what did you expect? A lifeless, go-nowhere, first-thought record gets reviewed on the only merits it has, lifelessly, sessile, knee-jerk. There are 2,899 other reviews on this Tumblr, and about 2,500 actually respond in kind to what was provided for review. I reviewed about 15 records last week, here and elsewhere, and this was the worst of them. Sorry boutcha, Australia. Find someone else to scapegoat.

Gentlemen – Sex Tape 12” EP (Homeless)

Eric Wood once said something encouraging to new noise artists, something along the lines of “extricate yourselves from porn/bondage,” and it seems no one has taken it to heart. Just to listen to Gentlemen’s EP, without reading song titles or looking at the cover, you might think you’ve found a decent noise-rock outfit, sturdy of leg and ragged of voice, plowing away in good faith like just about everyone else in the field – an above-average endeavor by a group trying to find a specific voice in a minefield of generalizations. Then you’d catch the title, see the gimp mask and black leather glove on the cover, and the worlds of about half or more of you would deflate like the killjoy who popped the beach ball at the Hootie concert. These sorts of gestures knock an acceptable pumper well off the line, shuffleboard style, in how obvious and first-thought they can be. Even the name of the record hearkens back to a better band that this one’s got nothing to do with. One estimates that time and patience are needed to work these now boilerplate tendencies out of a band, qualities which are not provided often. Oh well. 300 copies. (http://homelessrecords.bandcamp.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Mamuthones – More Alien Than Aliens one-sided 12” (Boring Machines/Corpoc)

Former (current?) Jennifer Gentle member Alessio Gastaldello continues his presumed xenoarchaeological music discussion as Mamuthones on this high-concept yet matter-of-fact EP. Sections of synth, didgeridoo, gong, flute and primitive strings are cobbled together in some manner of way that should make sense if you “believe” and are looking for a way to fool friends into thinking the mothership is approaching. Some really big, vibrational tones set this thing off about halfway through into something achieving a form of transcendence (in a cut so big you can actually see it coming on the vinyl), but the ringing of a looped prayer bell brings you back down below. Obviously some skill and forethought was used in this assemblage of sounds and atmospheres, but conceptually it sounds like a jumble of ideas, borrowed and shopworn, put together to engender a certain effect, and losing that effect through each part really having nothing to do with the one that came before or after it. Unless you’re super into that gut-churning parcel of bass frequencies mentioned above, I can’t see why you’d play something like this more than once, much less want to own it. Handsome silkscreened sleeve and B-side though, lotsa quality in the craftsmanship. (http://www.boringmachines.it) (http://www.corpoc.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Unholy Two – Talk About Hardcore LP (12XU)

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RECOMMENDED

It bears repeating that not all of these records are equals. They’re made by different people, and yes, many of them are using the same sort of equipment to get them there, and yes, these people have listened to a lot of the same records and bred ideas from the same fetid water as one another. So when more than one of you may ask “hey Doug, why is this Unholy Two record better than any of the similar releases covered in these pages?” then you’ll get an answer. I got my slide rule out here and I’m gonna pinch your little dick with it.

Here goes: they’ve accomplished a lot, have sucked up any weak points and improved upon them, and are clearly listening to themselves, which are like the ONLY things you need to apply to a genre exercise – that, and not sucking. They’ve been around for a number of years, certainly long enough for notable frontman Chris Lutzko to get out of El Jesus De Magico and adjust to the heavy regimens of drinking and drugging that a band like this would require, at least temporarily. They’ve gotten a number of easier ideas out of their system: an early fixation on the blues is now gone; a record that sounds like it was being played as it was being pressed – their first LP, $kum Of The Earth – has been committed to memory; any attempts at pretense or posturing have evaporated down to the point where the band seems to be conversational in their choice of language. They’ve procured a veritable tank (as seen in the movie Tank) and they are using it to knock down cars, cops, buildings in the name of what they believe in: calling to light the McVeigh brothers (“OKC1995”), football rivalries (“Redskins,” in which Lutzko repeatedly howls “I’m a Cowboys fan!”), serial killers (“Cut The Music,” reprised from their last 7” in the live setting) and numerous songs about wrestling (“Survivor Series,” that line in “Lad Banter” where he yells “I can name every wrestler who ever lived!” and the whole of the imposing “Muta Scale”). That tank is Talk About Hardcore, and for once you can see every detail this band has on offer, thanks to improved production that still rolls and crushes over most in its path, but doesn’t lay it on too thick. It lets the guitars, and the Charlie Ondras-esque drumming do all that.

Ugliness lies within, but does not dominate the effort; there is room to breathe, even if the air smells like drowning and busted concrete. If you can’t find a rock-solid riff good enough to double as a coat hook or speculum anywhere on this record, maybe you don’t know what a riff is. Track after track, this one brings the foot down and keeps it down, a horrific sound made palatable for everyday use. There’s a respect for history and an equal desire to light it all on fire and roll around in it, something that most bands can’t really accomplish in every song the way that the Unholy Two does here. In many ways (except maybe the heroin, and how hard the band fell off over time), this is the unruly successor to those early Monster Truck Five records, another Columbus band from days of old that pushed things this far. Everyone is entitled to an opinion on this sort of thing of course, but for once I’m saying that if you can’t get what the Unholy Two is pushing out, maybe your ears don’t work. One track after another, this thing keeps topping itself, even making idiot-brain sense out of a cover of Non’s “Total War.” In their utter barbarity, this band has found itself a workable, scalable truth, beats dents into it with a hammer, then beats them right back out. Unlike your car, or your penis, it starts the first time, every time. (http://12xu.net)
(Doug Mosurock)

Xerox – s/t 12” EP (Hard Art/Tomato Underground)

Saw these guys play first of four at the big Parquet Courts/Protomartyr show in Bed-Stuy last week. The Courts seemed to be big fans of theirs, big enough to get them on a sold-out show for their hometown record release party. Is it luck that brought them to my attention? Maybe so, but I picked this up on the odds that I wouldn’t see it again. They’re definitely opening-strength indie rockers with some potential, precisely where P.C. was two years ago. Can’t even find this one on Discogs yet. It’s the work of three guys from Iowa City who attempt to balance out annoying and appealing tendencies across these six songs. Like a growing number of bands these days, they force the nasal/nerd/Anglo vocal style, and allow it to carry over into slashy, diagonal guitar stylings, but the rhythm section seems to have another idea, deep and rolling, almost at odds with Poindexter strumming away over there. They even pull off the Just Brothers-by-way-of-Fatboy Slim riff in “Swinging I’s,” the best song here, big and full sounding, only to be swatted away by the bridge from “My Sharona” a little bit later. I could do without the jaggedness of this endeavor, when two out of three got enough soul to revive the corpse of ’93 Grifters. It sounds like they have a lot to consider, and one hopes that with such a thick and satisfying backdrop they think a little less about punk and a little more about the rock. Shoulda bought that Human Error LP they were selling instead. Paste-on sleeve. (http://hardart.storenvy.com)
(Doug Mosurock)

Low Life – Dogging LP (Disinfect/R.I.P. Society)

RECOMMENDED

Recorded in 2011 and shelved for years for a really unfortunate reason, here finally is the full-length from Sydney’s Low Life, as powerful and unforgiving a piece of rock as they’re making these days. I still have questions and reservations about this one (particularly the cover – not entirely sure how that image, which seems to have been lifted from security camera footage, can be explained in any way that wouldn’t hurt someone) but the bulk of what’s here seems far more direct and certain of itself than almost any band working the punk/noise/dark/Goth angle, now and forever. Unlike their 7”, which had a nuclear winter-meets-UK ’82 feel, this one is like a black kite dragged through the dirt before a cold wind lofts it into the sky, casting flange and chorus pedals against strong, eternally downtrodden music. No sentiments on record seem to be obscured; singer Mitch Tolman recounts tales of compulsive behavior, sports fandom, gambling, drugs, and hatred of ultra-masculine types with alarming familiarity and sobering clarity. These songs feels lived in, even conscripted, taking its corner with pride and occasional sorrow. It’s somewhat similar in ways to the second Constant Mongrel LP, but really puts itself out there instead of sticking to an incremental change in their sound. That one is dark, but this one is REALLY so, like a bunch of brutal orphans living in a cave shrine to Strawberry Switchblade. Imagine if every Pet Shop Boys song was like a sicker version of “West End Girls” and really dealt with the shit it spills into the world. God this record is fucking great. (http://ripsocietyrecords.tumblr.com)
(Doug Mosurock)