Lofty Goals//Low Places: Lord Almighty @ The Wreck Center

Metal shows aren’t supposed to smell like perfumed concert halls, they’re supposed to smell like cigarettes and stray kitties. And the piss of the aforementioned stray kitties. Which is why the Wreck Center, which fits that description neatly(?) with its run-down atmosphere and greenhouse qualities is the ideal locale for music made by degenerate fuck-ups for degenerate fuck-ups, at least two or three of whom are rocking Neighborhood shit shirts (local respect woowoo). If you buy your own beer and don’t get drunk enough, at least 5 other people will hand you some backup cans to keep your mana running high. Speaking of high, you’ll also get smoked up at least once or twice. Bad place to be if you’re edge, actually.


Far from edge, Norwood’s Deathstate soundchecked with vocalist Dan Roshin drumming —and quite well, may I add— with a nip and a can of PBR. Great way to set the tone for what was to come, as their fusion of elements from The Faceless’ dark carnival tech-death, Cattle Decapitation’s brutal grind grooves, Eyehategod’s evil blues, and some Mike Patton-esque clean vocals made for a musically engaging set that spurred on the first rolly-swivel chair mosh I can remember seeing in my years of going to shows. And the fact that I’ve seen a guy circlepit in a wheelchair —twice— before I’ve seen a rolling-chair throwdown in a space like this is one for my mental record books.


Following a metallic bastardisation of advanced musical techniques were a roiling, churning sea of heavy sound waves provided by Heptagua, who do the small band/big sound approach with only two members. Try and stop people from throwing down when most of your songs go no faster than glacial melting pace, since sludge is about 80% breakdowns if you’re liberal minded enough.


As you may guess, it went from hot enough to make you sweat to simply sweaty within minutes. One particularly rowdy attendee couldn’t seem to stop throwing elbows to save his own life, or the lives of those catching them in the chest/face, for that matter, myself included. His other antics included lightly slapping everyone as he circled the pit, and running back and forth like an out of control Pong ball, using the walls and the people standing against them as paddles ad infinitum. I didn’t sense any malice, only stupidity as he failed to realise that some people don’t enjoy being hit even if they’re “asking for it” by being next to the pit. I guess he got the “violence and chaos” he sought, even if it was almost all self-created.


I’ll spare you the ongoing drama and just tell you that this guy spent the second half of Heptagua’s set and the whole of INTHESHIT’s set arguing passionately about why he shouldn’t have been ejected from the venue, and sneaking back in through one of the many entrances only to be rebuffed and start the whole process over again. He was finally allowed back in for Lord Almighty, and fortunately did seem to have calmed down, if not just a little bit so he wasn’t attacking people with cameras in their hand or trying to flatten bystanders.


Continuing the actual review: INTHESHIT’s schizo grind never fails to get that murderous impulse inside every human to stir, if not fully awaken, because fast and heavy music is the sountrack to murder on par with your least favourite rapper. Vocalist Ian’s guy-trapped-in-a-safe-underwater-rapidly-losing-oxygen style meshes seamlessly with the hardcore on amphetamines drumming of ex-Today Is The Day/Anal Cunt drummer John Gillis, the dual guitar attack of Eric (NSF) and Seth, and the mostly inauduble (but I’m sure it’s also lethal) bass of John Belmonte, also of NSF. A strange soup of tempos that ceaselessly bubbles and threatens to spill over into the part of your mind that enjoys melody, the ease of their demanding performances certainly gives credence to the name of their 2013 EP Born To Kill. Born to blast, more like.


Closing up shop temporarily in their own camp, Lord Almighty’s brand of progressive black metal hasn’t been active for very long. Their Metal Archives page shows that they formed in 2013, and what year is this? They have thus far only released one EP, though its half-hour running time gave them adequate material with which to flesh out a whole set and cap off this exploration of all things heavy just right. It’s a shame that their ‘back to the woods’ Black Metal is taking a (hopefully) brief hiatus, but if anything, they at least brought a little beauty to the dilapidation. The olfactory profile of the Wreck Center on this night in particular not only was home to the aroma of evaporated perspiration, weed/cigarette smoke, B.O. and fumes of spilt alcohol, but a welcoming and hospitable space for people that like to just get loose with friends and strangers alike when something rockin’ is playing, and that’s good enough for us. Come back soon, Lord Almighty.


Substance(s) Consumed: 1 nip Jim Beam, at least 3 beers, 1 or 2 bowls. It gets hard to remember these things.

Pics by Zana. She rules: I think she is Nosir Idontlikeit but I can never be certain in this quantum reality.


Megadeth Are Pretentious Assholes. Read all about that and Ramming Speed’s last show as a Boston band.

So, I saw Fear Factory opening for Megadeth while total trashed and it was pretty fun, not gonna lie. If not only for the peoplewatching, and learning that for some reason Nonpoint is still a band in the year 2013.  Nu-Metal lives… somehow.

There’s not much I can say except that I wish Fear Factory’s setlist were better (only “Edgecrusher” and “Replica” managed to ring pleasantly familiar), and that Dave Mustaine is still a twat. Bringing up the Marathon bombing for Lemmy knows what reason, AND having the nerve to show Garth’s dunderheaded request to some bitchin’ babe for Megadeth on the same screen that MegaDave loomed transluscently on with the help of what I assume is a handsomely compensated production staff. At least the music was decent enough, though come to think of it, “Sweating Bullets” is campy in that off-Broadway sense, and must have been scientifically designed to get stuck in my head. Fuck you, MegaDouche. I’m smarter than your family.

So on to sadder news: Ramming Speed have left the building like Elvis. Only the “building” in this case is Massachusetts, and they’re not dead, just moving their homebase to Virginia. So sorry if for a quarter second you thought they blew up; they should be touring through here and make awful “homecoming show” jokes sooner than we’ll realise they left.

What better way to say goodbye to one of Boston’s most beloved thrash outfits than a big silly show? This shindig featured local talents in Meth Valley, Disaster StrikesOpposition Rising (now with more new songs that sound like their old ones), and Terminal Crisis, with Yautja bringing their brand of technical grind up here from Nashville to be pronounced incorrectly. Luckily with the taco suckers In Defence in the building, all intellectual matters were irrelevant. I would post a picture of Ben Crew’s costume, which was like if Rob Halford (a.k.a. God) and Martin Sorrendeguy came up with a way to simultaneously look like you came to enslave the Christian Right Patriarchs and also look damn fine.  “Legacy of Brutality” indeed. So here’s the new video for their song “Curbside Dentistry”.

Aw fuck it, here’s a picture anyway. Stolen from I Author My Own Disaster.

Between rants about how all the money the U.S. wastes on terrestrial wars instead of spaceships, laser blasters and  lightsabers, how there actually is a (leather-clad, bald, and bespectacled) god, and some other stuff that only matters to weird people, the Defence busted out most of their recent outing, Party Lines and Politics, and are the prime example of why metal and punk are and should be united in their stand against pizza, politicians, unjust societally constructed phobias of all kinds, and any police not named Sting, Andy Summers, or Stuart Copeland.

Despite the success of the festivities —discounting the near non-existence of a pit during their set, blame it on the sadness— I’m sad to see Ramming Speed go, but fuck them anyway, that’s just more party that we have to catch up on so that it’s like they’re still here in our hearts or something fluffy like that. It’s been unreal.


I Lack A Sense Of Purpose: In Flames at the House of Blues, 10/3/2009

I pledged to myself several months ago that I wouldn’t put this off any longer, mainly cos life is uncertain and if I have to wait ’til next October… well frankly I don’t know if I’ll die or not. So before some punk decides to run up and smoke me with a Mac 10 as I walk home, I’ll write this account of what can be called my first showgoing experience, excluding Madonna, because what can I really say about that? It’s Madonna, nothing mindblowing happened, and someone probably did coke backstage, but that’s all speculation. Since In Flames is playing the House Of Blues again soon, it seems appropriate to dredge up this tale of naïvetè, with no holds barred.

Since this was my first ever Metal show, I could say with certainty that I was almost breathless at seeing so many people with the same musical taste as me gathered in one place at the same time. So many heathens bearing the logos of their favourite bands, most Satanic, cryptic to anyone not in the crowd, or just blatantly offensive. I wore my Behemoth shirt, because it was probably my most extreme at the time, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t wear it with some amount of pride, despite getting it at Hot Topic. Looking across the street and making fun of the “normies” going to see the Red Sox game is always a great pastime for those waiting to get beer spilled on them and violently collide with sweaty men for a few hours. It’s a fair cop, I suppose, spending some hard-earned cash from an extra-cirricular program to buy pain, tinnitus, and morning-after soreness in the neck, back, and legs enough to make waking up a Herculean task.

After marvelling at all of the other black-shirted monstrosities surrounding me, I inched my way toward the door, practically shaking with excitement. At the time, I hadn’t heard much by The Faceless, but I was stoked for 3 Inches Of Blood, In Flames, and most of all, Between The Buried And Me. Hell, I watched their Silent Circus bonus DVD with live footage twice just to get in the right mood. Of course, not being battle-ready and pit hardened, I was nowhere near as adept at any of the manœuvers I had witnessed in some live footage I had seen, but more on that later. It’s hilarious.

When I finally entered the venue after being felt up by the ever-so-friendly security, I was just barely able to contain myself. I immediately half-ran, half-walked up to the massive stage, taking in the sheer immensity. Here I was, after listening to this music for years, finally getting a chance to see how it’s done in real life. I made a five-minute friend, which is exactly how it sounds: You meet someone, you complement one another’s shirts, tell them who you’re there for, talk about the bands on your shirts, and drift off into something else until the band begins sound-check and it becomes too loud to hear normal speech.

It was this very occurrence that cut my engrossing Buckethead conversation with Andrew short, since The Faceless were revving up and about to blow a Tech-Death load all over our faces. Note that in lieu of the professionally taken pictures that I normally post, they shall all be photos I took with my then incredibly inept cellphone, complete with the streak effect that comes with poor motion capture.


At that time, Planetary Duality had just recently been released, so naturally they based their setlist mainly in that album. Having only listened to “Leica” and “An Autopsy”, and not even being particularly learned in those, I wasn’t quite prepared for all of the action. Sensing air turbulence behind me I wheeled around to witness people throwing down madly to the breakdown sections. I was simultaneously enthralled and frightened, having never seen it in person. A veritable sea of flailing fists and legs I decided wisely to not entangle myself in. I was immediately sold, especially after hearing the tastefully melodic “Sons Of Belial” (the clean vocals were a big plus), the evil Carnival tinged “Legions Of The Serpent”, and of course, the energy displayed by both the band and the crowd. I stole Planetary Duality a few days later, and became a fan. I showed my appreciation by immediately going to the merch table… and buying an In Flames tour shirt.

Up next were Speed Metal freax 3 Inches Of Blood, bringing to the table lots of loud noises and songs about battle with various mythical creatures and non-Metalheads.


I went in without a terribly great knowledge of 3 Inches Of Blood’s discography, and if asked today how many songs by them I even moderately know, that number would be only several higher. However, one doesn’t need to know the songs when going to see 3 Inches, but just be prepared to run in circles for the duration of the set. It was at this point I can say that I had my first collaboratively Metal experience in the real world, being a part of the Goatrider’s Horde, brandishing tooth and fist against the indomitable forces of mainstream pop culture. It was a glorious dithyramb of Heavy Metal debauchery, marred only by my losing the In Flames shirt in a circle pit. Luckily I have that same shirt, though a few sizes smaller than I originally bought, through an act of charity by Christian, my best friend at the time who was with me, which I thank him endlessly for.

With spirit undampened due to Between The Buried And Me setting up, I took my place in the crowd, virtually shaking with the anticipation of being able to witness my favourite band.


Upon hearing the opening notes of “All Bodies”, I instantly ran into the pit, colliding with any knave foolish enough to be in my way. I was embarrassingly green when it came to moshing of any kind, so I aped the techniques of those around me, including an uncannily Godawful floorpunch. Realizing the silliness of it all, I went back to shoving people. The great thing about Between The Buried And Me is that there’s no shortage of people to sing along to the clean sections with. “People of the stars” we are indeed.

Selkies: The Endless Obsession made an appearance, and I damn near cried. My favourite band playing my favourite song? Pinch me, Mister Ho, I think I huffed too much propane. The only real downer was that people continued moshing to the outro solo. Thus, I learned that some BtBaM fans are not exempt from being as stupid as everyone else. Their then new song Obfuscation was played, which made me a little sad at the time, but since it was a good enough song, I went along with it and watched the band in their fine-tuned ministrations. Tommy leapt around the stage, never once losing energy or spirit, and the crowd reacted in kind. Paul and Dustie’s dual guitars wrapped around one another with the majesty of the Caduceus, and Blake’s drumming resounded in my chest as it never could on record. It was a sensory heaven, aside from the smell of spilled beer and fat man sweat.

The Foam Born series was where my burgeoning mosh-warrior re-awakened and slew some more posers. White Walls made me tingle from start to finish, especially when the entire crowd chanted “Get. Out. Of. This. Closed. Off. Cir. Cle.” In unison. It was at this moment I realized the power that comes from seeing such a great band live. Sure, you can imagine it, but nothing beats being there. By some amount of luck I managed to not be knocked out during the ending breakdown, since it was a veritable tempest of frenetic rushing in and out of the areas quickly becoming safe and unsafe. There was nowhere to hide, and it was great.

It seemed almost impossible that In Flames could live up to my favourite band, even though they were my second favourite. Now they are my third, following Dir En Grey after a rather shameful bout of conduct, what with releasing Sounds Of A Playgound Fading… Whatever, the fact of the matter is, they played, and it was fun.


After a set-up time that even I could tell was somewhat abnormal, they launched into “Cloud Connected:, which caused the entire venue to jumpdafuckup. Quite a good time, at least in my mentality at the time. I shouted along every word, since it was quite simple and I listened to it frequently for a quick fix of headbanging action. Looking back, I realize now that a lot of the moshing during the set was completely incongruous to what was being played. Sure, faster songs like “Drifter” and “Pinball Map” can get a circlepit treatment, but the choruses of “Come Clarity” and “Alias”? Makes me want to place my head upon the nearest brick wall for not knowing that was a silly thing to do. The oldest song they played was “The Hive”, which I am certain some sucka MCs thought was a cover of “Right Side Of The Bed” by glamcore stalwarts Atreyu. My generation fails me.

I may not have the same amount of respect for In Flames’ more recent output now, but I’ll be damned if Anders isn’t an entertaining frontman. He cracked jokes, complemented shirts, and was all around a showman at heart. Guitarist Niklas Engelin, presumably taking a break from Engel, was filling in for Björn and sporting a cheesy Red Sox shirt, which begs the question as to whether he wore the shirt of a local sports team at every stop. Björn at that time in the process of being kicked out of the band for being a drunk fuck. We’ll miss ye, as you were the only thing keeping the band from making Sounds Of A Playground Fading. But it is too late. Oh, it is far too late…

By the time the set was nearly over I was almost dead tired from running in circles, pleading to the gods they wouldn’t play “Take This Life”, because by that time I had figured that a huge circlepit would break out and joining would be mandatory. Take a guess as to what happened? Oh yes, I was quite thirsty afterward, that’s for sure.

This concludes this stroll through memory lane, I hope you hated it. I still look fondly upon this event in my mind and almost shed a tear. No, not because it’s a sentimental thing, but because I was such a damn dork. Imagine me floorpunching in a Behemoth shirt with some shitty worn-out Adidas. Time to go drink to my newfound awesomeness.

In all seriousness (kind of), this show may not have been logistically the best I’ve ever attended, but the fact that it served as my gateway into all the countless others I would go on to see at the Palladium, assorted Allston basements, and even as far as Maryland Deathfest, it’ll remain on top for some time to come. Until next time, where I’ll review something that happened relatively recently.

とても可愛いですよ!Shonen Knife at the Great Scott

This is going to be bar none, the most un-metal show I’ve ever written about. I shall now vainly attempt to justify it by mentioning that Shonen Knife are fans of Motörhead and have done a song with the warthog Lemmy. Now I have cause to continue.

Opening the show were local rockers, The Moan, who claim to be from space.
From what I can gather, they are a rather new band, and having 75 FB likes as well as no music online, I’m surprised they secured a spot opening for Shonen Knife of all bands. They’re a two-piece that could be likened to Garage meets Hard Rock band The White Stripes, but I hate them so I won’t. Instead, I’ll go ahead and compare them to The Pretenders, a largely British Proto-Punk band fronted by an American lass named Chrissie Hynde, sans the “fuck off” attitude. It was hit-or-miss for me personally, and the stage presence reflected an individual who wished to be anywhere but on a stage, though since they are a fledgling act and certainly not bad at what they do, they can’t really sour their reputation unless they start covering “Doorbell”.

Keeping in the two-piece streak were White Mystery, a red-headed brother-sister tag-team that should have been around long ago so they could have ended up on the Jet Set Radio Future soundtrack alongside BIS’ “Statement Of Intent” and Guitar Vader’s “Baby-T”

Face the flame!

With a mixture of British Invasion-era fuzz, some psychedelic leanings, and an all-American pop sensibility, there was no shortage of catchy songs, so good show by the ginger roots. I definitely would see them again, though I may only get that chance if they come around supporting a similarly old school band like Royal Headache.

Shonen Knife is one of those bands that if you hear them and have a heart, you’ll be fighting to keep a stupid grin from creeping onto your face. Being from Japan, a land that has engineered every export to appeal to the part of our frail American minds that has an insatiable craving for adorable things, and fully embracing the tendency to put cute cartoons and a lackadaisical attitude that would tell you America isn’t currently slaughtering people abroad and oppressing minds at home, Shonen Knife is what one listens to when they just want to be happy. No matter how old, what subculture you hail from, or your gender, you’re not going to resist.

Shonen Knife borrow equally from the poppy surf rock of the Beach Boys, stripped-down Punk in the shape of The Ramones, a distinctive J-Pop feel, and yet there’s a certain low-fidelity atmosphere around it that prevents it from being too squeaky-clean. With a career spanning over 30 years, and being able to boast that Kurt Cobain was a huge fan, one can say with certainty that they’ve led a hell of a career. Live, they’re surprisingly loud, and seeing as the last time I saw a band that made that much noise was New York’s own Sludge/Doom titans Tombs. The only difference being that Tombs was probably not intended to be that loud.

It is a shocking sight when people break out into moshing during Shonen Knife. It was among the last things I expected, being a show headlined by one of the most bubblegum bands I actually enjoy. Alas, once they played a cover of The Ramones’ “Rock & Roll High School”, it was a mess of pogoing, silly dancing, and playful shoving. Ah, to be young. The setlist included four songs from their newest release, Pop Tune, which, as the title suggests, is turning out to be their most straightforward and poppy (go figure) to date.

This coming from  a band who wrote a song about a giant kitty where the chorus is repeating “Big, big. Big, cat!”. I suppose the future for Shonen Knife means less songs about household appliances, animals, sexy bitches, and food, and a bit more about having fun. Well, they were already about having fun, but one can expect the material focus shall dwindle a bit. Shonen Knife is the only band I’ve ever seen that seemed to quite literally enjoy every second they spent onstage, and I’m sure the audience felt the same way. I sure did.

They’ve been around for a long time, and have written many songs, but they’ve never quite mastered the English language. All part of the plan to be cute, I wager. They’re invading our minds, and making us love them, so that when they wage full-scale war on them, we’ll be helplessly drawn to the googly-eyed monstrosities and loud colors that we’ve grown addicted to as a society. Until the day comes where Pokémon is weaponized to its fullest extent (not counting the Porygon seizure inducing test trials), I’ll hope Shonen Knife writes a song about potatoes.

The Pit Is Fucking Alive. Refused and OFF! and The House Of Blues

Let’s just start by giving a big round of applause to everyone who, despite the known presence of secret police in Boston who aim to stop people from having fun, made this night a show to remember. One of the most important Punk tours of the decade no doubt, with a touch of political and social dissent. Spit in the face of authority and let loose.

Starting off the festivities was OFF!, fronted by the legendary Keith Morris, some old balding dreadlocked bastard from bands you’ve never heard of including Black Flag and The Circle Jerks, along with cast-offs from failures like Rocket From The Crypt, Redd Kross, and other stuff no one cares about. All joking aside, this here is a group of seasoned musicians who know what they’re doing. It usually helps your live show when you’re skilled, I hear.

In OFF!’s 45 minute (or hour) long set, I’m pretty sure they actually played almost every song in their two LP/an EP or four discography. This despite the fact that Morris, being an embattled veteran of the Punk scene as well as fairly aged, he’s seen a lot, done a lot, is fed up with a lot, and is unafraid to make a rousing speech the likes of which follower Henry Rollins could have borrowed his style from. These elements come together to make a refreshingly old school sound that’s not dating itself.

Once they hit the stage and began setting up, I was apprehensive as to the energy level, and if my fellow crowd members would be willing to break free of the constraints so flimsily placed by the friendly neighborhood BPD. For the first few songs, there was a curtain of nervousness in the air as Morris and Co. bandied about, letting loose while the audience gazed furtively at itself, hoping that someone would make a move to break the metaphorical ice. It almost goes without saying that high energy Punk Rock goes a long way to bring about the emotional climate for rule-breaking and general not-giving-a-fuck-ness. By the third or fourth song, all pretense was dropped, and the circle pit was it.

In between bombardments by ancient Punk rhythms and seething vitriol, one could catch a glimmer of Morris’ humble nature, and his unwillingness to think himself higher than anyone despite the fact that he’s led a much more interesting life than your average punx. It’s this humility and good nature that leads to fans being able to get pictures and just have a nice chat with the man.

And almost have your face stolen.

About a half an hour before Umeå, Sweden’s own left-wing singer-songwriter gentlemen Refused officially began their set, the crowd began to notice that instead of random rock tunes playing over the stereo as normal, it was some odd low droning ambiance that put a disturbing atmosphere over the venue. It gradually grew louder with every passing minute, and when the time came, the crowd took its position, pointed directly at the stage where a large black curtain was draped over the band as they clandestinely set up. As the drone intensified, it began to resemble a long sustained guitar chord. With time, the ambient sound created a mixture of fear, anticipation, and a sort of battle readiness for the oncoming insanity. Lights over the stage, we realized, were panning ever so slowly down toward the crowd, practcally turning in step with the increasing loudness of the ambiance. As the sound and lights swelled to full realization and the lights overhead dimmed, the crowd could see that the black curtain had REFUSED cut out of it as the light shone through.

The pre-game spectacle seems to be growing into a review of its own, so let’s move on, eh?

The energy from OFF!’s set was great, but as soon as Refused opened with “Worms Of The Senses / Faculties Of The Skull”, the floor became a veritable feeding ground where tooth and claw ruled the scene, and those who could not fight were destroyed in seconds. One thing about this show that was particularly amazing was that not only was everyone into it, but the sheer diversity of people attending who all just got it. There were Metalheads, -Core kids with swoopy hair, old school NxYxHxC looking guys, huge besweatered Hardcore bros with flatbill caps, dyed/bleached punx in leather jackets with skulls on them, you name it. To shout words of protest alongside a smorgasbord of countercultures is truly empowering.

The set was varied enough, considering their discography currently stands at 5 EPs and three LPs.  Though I am disappointed that they don’t play anything off This Just Might Be… The Truth (namely “Pump The Brakes”), their most heavy and straightforward release, I feel as though it ultimately wouldn’t mesh well with the material from The Shape Of Punk To Come and Songs To Fan The Flames Of Discontent, which lean towards a sort of Post-Hardcore/Experimental Rock sound, but have just enough heaviness and hard-hitting aggression to merit their place among the Punk/Hardcore greats of history. From the two-step swing of “Summerholidy vs Punkroutine” to the cannonading lyrical assault of “Refused Are Fucking Dead” (my personal favourite), and the turncoat anthem “Coup D’Etat”, all coupled with vocalist Dennis Lyxzén musing on how prophetic his lyrics of top-down oppression are in hindsight, it was all around a spectacular showcase of how Punk Rock is not just three chords and an angry British or Californian man shouting about the impending police state. Take some notes from the seminal volume Songwriting Tips For Anarchists, by U. Kuhnt, which simply contains the words “OPPRESSORS: FUCK OFF” in large, bold, red print, and listen to some Refused. You’ll be much wiser for it. In the meantime, should Refused repeat this tour, being fully active once again since 1998, and you for any reason missed this, your redemption shall come swift as an assassin’s blade under cover of night.

To whoever lost the shoe pictured at the right, I’m sure it was well worth the small loss. Its silhouette stands out among the appeased horde cheering one of the most important Punk bands of modern times making its return like phoenices from ashes long forgotten, faintly resembling the shape of an axe, which I’ll allow you, the reader, to mark with some obtuse political symbolism. I’m stumped, if you ask me.

Tera Melos are actually pretty good

Invading Mad Pussy, Yo

I feel bad about having written this band off when they opened for Melt Banana, having given them another listen. I almost wish I could say the same about Grass Is Green, but they will serve in Hell for eternity in my mind for their crimes against Indie Rock. This band has properly redeemed itself, and I duly apologize, with self-harming penance scheduled for Leap Day. Part of this is also writing about something that isn’t metal or hardcore related just because, so you’re welcome.

What The Fuck Does It Sound Like?

Mathy, angular guitar pyrotechnics neatly lifted from Post-Hardcore bands like Hot Cross and I Am Alaska and placed atop tumultuous Indie Rock the likes of little known Auto Interiors. Sometime soon I’ll upload all of Auto’s No Frills Halo Flight album to YouTube so you can get a better feel for this comparison. If any of SOPA’s bastard offspring mutates successfully into a freedom destroying entity hellbent on stifling fun on the internet, then tough luck. They also have tinges of Jazz, raucus Hardcore Punk, Noise, and just straight up effect drenched sections from OUTER SPACE that make this unsafe to listen to while on LSD.

And Why The Fuck Should I Care?

You skeptical loony. Are you retarded? Did you reeeead the description above? This is like… art, man. All that pretentious Needle Drop on roids stuff aside, this is —pardon the cliché— probably something you’ll listen to and say “WOW! That’s unique”, because it kinda is. Yes, there are probably a lot of other bands making similar noise, but Tera Melos is here doing it right. Not too much polish, yet they show that they can keep a good melody or groove in between shooting you to hyperspace.

And that’s all I got for you. Were you disappointed? So was I. Until then, just listen to this until I decide I’ve found something worthy of writing about, eh?

Y’know What? Ancient Filth at the Box Fort, that’s what.

Let’s get this freakshow on the road, I’ve got body bags to fill.


The day shoes were considered breaking edge?

I liked this here band from Joisey, as they weren’t dicks about being straightedge. Hell they weren’t even dicks at all, miraculous considering that they’re from the helluva misnomer Garden State, which produced Waking The Cadaver and the Jonas Brothers. They provide you with standard but still pretty good hardcore in the form of everything you imagine hardcore to be, really. Only problem was a muffled vocal sound, so the vocalist may as well have been shouting from behind a wall of pita bread about 3 feet thick. Other than that, the riffs were clear and punchy, and the drumming hit to key. I shall certainly give ’em another listen sometime in the future.

Shattered Badge

Lol, this space is too small for a band to be playing

This band brought forth a bit more anger in their act, with Thrashy hardcore that rips faces. Sadly the crowd didn’t react in kind. Maybe it’s because they’re from Oxnard? Which looks like this?

Pure fucken hatred seethes from that coastline

Positive Noise

Grr. Argh.

Clangy and noisy Hardcore from Michigan. I don’t really have much to say about ’em except they weren’t bad. I think I was busy chatting it up with a fatty during their set.

Ancient Filth

The Human Spider Unmasked!

Ancient Filth is symbolic of pure Punk Rock euphoria. A swirling mass of heaving bodies, cacophony abound, humanity’s will to destroy unchained. It was a fucken off the wall show. A ceiling pipe was ripped apart by the monkey punks who found solace in playing Spiderman, and said monkey punks were becoming an object of concern. Had they ripped a gas pipe, that’d be the end of punk in basements for a long time. Luckily, no one died, and the show went on as crazy as ever. With the b0x f0rt already missing part of a wall, and Ancient Filth’s crazed rockers having a bone to pick with ceilings in Allston, nothing particularly insane went down. The Wadzilla Mansion experienced some severe ceiling Shoryukening, and the b0x f0rt is missing a cosmetic pipe, que sirrah, sirrah. Oh and the music was good, true to form for these habitual destroyers of roofs. Ancient Filth are Punk Rock, and that’s all you can say about them. They’re out for blood and asbestos. Go see them in a basement, and try to avoid injury or cave ins.

Up next shall be a review of my first foray into What We Talk About When We Talk About Partying. Hopefully the mouthful of a name alone will stay the inevitable busting. Bon nuit!