When Bad Pigs Do Worse Things. Animals Killing People @ The Dragon Cat’s Den

Yep. I’m not reviewing like 6-10 punk shows, fuck you; I barely remember the finer points of most of them amid the whirligig coagulating sensations cascading into my cortices on a weekly basis; d-beats, blasts, breakdowns, skank parts, beer, and surfing constellations, all meld together in one big lump of “why the fuck would I review all of these shows”, because there are only so many ways to say “This show was cool and punks moshed in a tiny space for 10 minutes and I liked it”. I’m not sorry for anything. Here’s a list of the bands I remember seeing, and the first word or phase that comes to mind because this is journalism.

Suffer On Acid (jazz), Draize (what?), Nuclear Special Forces (special alright), Pornstars For Romney (American hustlaz), Triple Thick (really?), Decrepit Existence (suck it, Jew), White Pages (speed), Jake & The Infernal Machine (needs oil), Funeral Cone (traffic hearse), Spitting Earth (hot), Ancient Filth (nasty), The Little Richards (not the Ramones), Eel (nice firecrackers!), Animal Mother (röööäär grrrl), No Tomorrow (AAAARRRGH!!), Flaccid (huehue), White Line Fever (drugs?), Cleansing Wave (filth), No Sir I Won’t (rebelz), Discipline (queercore babes), Crusty Craig (not really a show but fuck it), Disciples Of Christ (hmm), and Human Bodies (I may be playing with them soon)

Good job, humans. Keep rotting in the slave new world, and not necessarily in that order.

So, now that that’s all out of the way, let’s talk about Metal for a change. It’s been a long time since we’ve done that, hasn’t it?

Ah, I missed DIY metal shows. Kinda like DIY punk shows, but with less studs and 40s, and I guess more hornéd finger gestures. It had been a long ass while since the last I was at this cozy xth floor spot. So long, in fact, I nearly went a floor too high up, that’s how long. But I will make no complaints nor cracks of the climb, because I already did enough of that last time. I’m not a man to recycle humour. Often. I only do that when a particular joke is really good, which sometimes they are, but even then I just feel dirty inside. But enough of this palaver; let’s get this show on the road.

So, to confirm my suspicions, Coffin Birth has changed. A lot. I remember checking out their album The Miracle Of Death some years back, and it was more of a melodic black thrash workout that wasn’t entirely as professionally put together as major acts like Skeletonwitch, but then not on that savagely brutal level like Witchaven —though they’re still witches, make no mistake—, and not really in the middle either, so I dunno, go listen to it and form your own opinion, why don’t you? It’s good stuff. I haven’t heard any other studio outings by them since, but they seem to have taken a turn for the entirely different. I wasn’t sure if I simply misheard them last at the Monster Shop (R.I.P.[?]), but they have become a death metal band. I don’t bring you this news with despair, it’s just a fact. They sound good, albeit a little generic, so in my heart I yearn for “Arise From Damnation”, can’t they see? Maybe not, because I’m shy and haven’t sent them a passionate letter about it.

Forced Asphyxiation came next to sandblast our faces or something with their death/grind mix, and it was more enjoyable than I would have assumed. Forgive me for saying, but many metal bands in the local scene are dryer than the pieces of chicken in the KFC bucket that most people save for last. I don’t know what they’re called, and they’re not (usually) gross, but they’re not preferred snacking material. I’m glad to report that Forced Asphyxiation is not this, so I’ll probably actually go see them sometime if they happen to be playing a show I know won’t actively bore me or something. Here’s to you them being a good band. I’ll just drink to it later.

Boy am I glad I brought my guitar to this show for no reason. This is a random segue to pad out the post, by the way, because I decided it appropriate to delay the bad news. You’ll see why soon if you’re unfamiliar with what happened that fateful Dragon Caturday evening. In between bands’ sets, I filled the time by making idle discussion with people as foolish as I am (who else would go to an illegal BYOB metal show in a run-down part of Boston?) and assumed the role of the night’s bard, because that’s what beer does. Makes you want to recite poetry and all other manner of thespian shit. Granted, it was difficult to hear my strumming beyond a 3-foot radius of self-indulgent minstreldom and cigarette smoke, but a true artist doesn’t stop because their efforts are ridiculous.

I was also mistaken for a member of Animals Killing People because I guess being a brown guy with a guitar can do have that effect. Though truth be told, I can see where the basis of his error lay, as a former member of theirs, Eston Browne —now in Humanity Falls, who are rad as fuck—, was about my skin colour, so what can you do? Them’s the breaks. Speaking of breaks, this one’s over.

New York’s Animals Killing People put on a fairly fly set of some brutal death metal inflected grind, complete with croaked vocals that sounded like a dying swamp monster from a Star Wars flick. Original trilogy, mind you, excepting Return Of The Jedi, where almost every non-humanoid above Ewok level sounded just silly. Not quite as hilarious as Japan’s Jenovavirus, not quite as frightening as Spain’s Wormed, but a happy medium of plain fun meets gore and inhumanity á la Brodequin with less phlegm. What a beautiful sound. On par with Corelli’s Christmas Concerto.

To give a visual of their pro-animal/anti-human stance (they are a vegetarian band, dontchaknow), there were some grisly projected videos of macabre happenings. The overlay of a bird pwning the shit out of some guy’s face was interesting enough to warrant attention, but sadly obscured the video, so I’m not sure what was killing what, but the flesh sure was flying this way and that, much like the technical-but-tasteful riffs. They were nice enough to post it online for anyone wanting to see the unveiled barbarity, so enjoy, sick fucks.

And speaking of mixed bags, the mothafuckin’ cops busted up the muthafuckin’ show. Mutha. Fucka.

I must now take a moment to stand —sit, rather, because that more accurately reflects what I do when I type these things— in amazement of the sheer insurmountable odds which resulted in the police presence at this particular event. This show took place on the xth floor. Of a random building in South Boston. Where the only other occupants with any true presence seem to be the liquor store on the first floor.

Who. The fuck. Called the fuzz?

Now, please tell me that someone in Composted isn’t secretly at the behest of the bacon, because apparently they’ve had a string of poor fortune with sudden cases of swine flu, and at this rate it almost certainly won’t be the last. To add insult to injury, Animals Killing People was allowed to finish their set, albeit with slightly less loud guitars, and if they promised to wrap up at 11:00. These conditions requiring some reluctant compliance, we suffered no repercussions other than the sour taste of defeat, for Boston’s slam-silly superheroes were once more foiled. Not to mention a heavy heart for yours truly, who had been expecting to see Composted after so long a divorce from their bestiality tips and totally un-metal costume-wearing, Cosby spouting antics. Next time, maybe. Til then, I’ll deflect sobriety and try to bring you the hottest news from the frontlines of metal warfare. Präz Azathoth.

I guess now’s as good a time as any to insert some absurd tradition to sort of “post-script” these reviews, so I’ll tally how many substances I put in myself to not feel the weight of reality as prominently. Let’s see how long this lasts, because I break all of my promises.

1 40 oz. bottle of Colt 45, 1 morbidly chode-esque can of Foster’s, 1 12 oz can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a single hit off a doobie, and a lot of cigarettes.

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No One’s Punk, Okay? Weekend Nachos at the Democracy Center

For a band whose entire existence is essentially satire, Weekend Nachos sure can pack a house (venue). Woe unto any who did not show up in time, and further deepening woe unto any who were directly behind the persons who bought the remaining few spots inside the space. Ouch.

Those fortunate enough to be part of this maxed out capacity event, however, did thusly rock’n’roll all night, and depending on soreness, survived to party the next day. Suffer On Acid being the openers, it was destined to be a real slambangarino from the start, with a pit being established by the end of the second or third song. It’s not my job to be accurate; fuck off. I ain’t being paid by the fact, here. If I were, then I’d publish constantly, and intelligently.

Moving on, next were Curmudgeon, who I almost expected would just go through the necessary motions of being everyone’s favourite P.C. PV band, and discourage all manner of motion outside of headbanging, fist shaking, shouting along, and at most, an approving stomp to mark your hamster bubble of contained energy. Imagine my surprise when people are suddenly plowing into one another from end to end of the room.  Anything that can happen, will happen at least once somewhere, and I’m in the quantum reality where someone can mosh guilt-free to Curmudgeon.

Partners in preventing crime Draize performed well, playing the dark and angry powerviolence that’s come to be a viable substitute whenever touring acts are short in supply.

I still don’t know any of their songs, so you’ve come to the wrong place for more details. I’ve covered them before, so check those and fill in the blanks. Shoddy Music Journalism (MUSC 666) would be taught by me if I could apply myself enough to get a professorial doctorate.

The DC having not learned their lesson from last year have graciously allowed Spine, half from Kansas City and half from Chicago (read: Weekend Nachos), to come and wreck shit again. If anything, it probably got even more wild than last time, which I may or may not have forgotten to review. Whoops. Moving on; their sound is similar enough to Weekend Nachos to warrant comparison, but their DNA is similar enough to be a different species. So to the outsider, perhaps they’d think they’d heard the same band twice, albeit with a different singer and more two-step sections isntead of blasts. Just check the track “Who Are You?” for a microcosm of all of Spine’s best attributes. They’re also nice dudes. Singer Antonio’s also a nice dude. He told some joke, but I forgot it. It was pretty funny, trust me.

The superheroes of Hardcore, coming to save the day and make posers cry, Weekend Nachos came like a bat outta heck with their punishing brand of sludge/beatdown/Entombed influenced powerviolence, knowing fully well that they’re trendsetters and realising that giving a fuck would make it less fun. Only yelling angrily along and slamming into people to songs written in a tongue-in-cheek manner is real. Otherwise you’re just uptight.

I must hand it to the Democracy Center; despite the oft clique-y and cabalistic politically correct nature that can pervade the atmosphere, they sure know how to book a show, as the similar (though not identical) sound of the bands culminated into one of the best instances of pit brutality in which few were harmed and all had a smashing time. The setlist was kicked off by the massively catchy “Shot In The Head”, and included crowd-pleasers from the new album including “No Idols and No Heroes”, “S.C.AB.” (guest vocalist included), and some other ones that weren’t “You’re Not Punk” so they don’t matter. lol jk it’s a good album overall.

The room surged back and forth, up and down, side-to-side, and even once in a circle during (I think) “Dog Torture”. Other favourites including “Obituary”, “Black Earth”, “Pain Over Acceptance”, and of course, “Jock Powerviolence” made an appearance. The sock puppet also came back briefly at the beginning of the set, but I’m sure it wasn’t hard enough for the pit.

Yours truly gettin’ his freak on

For the rest of the pictures, go here and/or here. They’re too beautiful to ignore. Love your friends, die laughing.

Exhausted Minds, Sonic Warfare, Musical Starvation, Polluted Soundwave Problems, Poison Messages. The Eventual Result – DropDead & Brain Killer At The Cambridge Elk’s Lodge

My deary my, what a show. It’s a shame I haven’t already been a frequent patron of the Cambridge Elk’s Lodge, but I didn’t become cool until sometime last year, so take that into consideration before you weigh it to heavily against me. Plenty of wacky pictures were taken, look here if you’re interested. Okay fine, here’s one featuring the Spaniard.

Spearheading the phalanx were local boiz Bloodkrow Butcher, whose name makes one think of a Native American serial killer.

Not much one can say about Bloodkrow Butcher aside from they play fast and furious punk rock. The singer’s mic wasn’t even on, but he could still be heard over it. How do I know it wasn’t on? Elementary, dear Watson: The volume when he was shouting into it and not shouting into it was equal, therefore I know that it wasn’t on at all, but some semblance of words could yet be heard, and that my friends, is punk rock spurred. It’s basic, dirty, and raw. Pogo, skank, etc. Just have fun.

Following BKB were Brain Killer, hometown heroes making this show their last, and leaving with a big bang of noisy energy rivaling the Japanese scene.

I had come back into the Elk’s some minutes after Brain Killer began, having taken a brief sojourn to 7-11 to beat the heat, and also witness some hoodrat drama between the finest ratchet hoes you’ve ever laid eye on, but ask the Spaniard, for he has all the details.

Brain Killer’s ferocity is rivalled only by the beard of one of the vocalists. Yowza, that’s one fine upside-down hair mountain. I can find no pictures, but rest assured, it’s a marvel. This same vocalist is in the band No Sir I Won’t, so you’ll be able to enjoy his live vocal talents for some time to come. The other guy, I can’t say the same about, since I’m not sure if he’s in any other bands. Regardless, it’s a shame to see such a good band go, but at least the crowd didn’t slack in their vicious assault of one another to commemorate the swansong of local legends. If anyone was injured, then perhaps it was a great success.

DropDead, on the other hand, show no signs of slowing down, and with this rare treat, they threw down the gauntlet as the crowd threw down their fists, showing they are here to stay for a long time.

No pictures, because I can’t find a good one. Sue.

Powerviolence/Grind/Crust legends from Lovecraft County, celebrating 23 years of waging war on all that is melodious and unaware of human travesty, thought it good to grace Boston with their malevolence, having not made the journey since that Middle East date with Trap Them, Burning Love, and Converge, the lattermost of whom they released a killer split with. This band is indefatigable, its style is impetruous. It’ll rip out your heart, it’ll eat your children. They’re loud, abraisive, and of course, have an important message, but they’re the type of band that’ll make you actually listen because they’re just that damn good.

It’s a “you had to be there to see it” kind of situation, but the fact that I survived the whirlwind of legs, arms, and haphazardly thrown beer cans without a scratch is none short of miraculous. Some upfront mic-sharing and headbanging does wonders for the next morning, I tell ya what. And one can’t help but notice the impeccable similarity between DropDead’s bassist George and Tom of Draize fame. Must be the wraparound glasses and the chrome dome? I’m getting sidetracked. It was a celebration of pure punk fury. An important message, but without the pretense or insincerity of some modern bands. If you want a band that means what they say, then get behind DropDead. Wear their shirts to your cousin’s funeral.

Banned From The D.C.? Okay. Ramming Speed & Iron Reagan @ The Democracy Center

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This is the biggest I could find, honest. 

It’s good-natured small gigs liek these that make one remember how alike punks and Thrashers (and to a point, all Metalheads) are when you get them together. Think on it: Both wear black a lot, both are societal outcasts with atypical haircuts, they both wear patches and ripped clothing, etc. To say nothing of the music itself. Thrash Metal is essentially Iron Maiden and Judas Priest fans mainlining punk rhythms and throwing the resulting brew into a pressure cooker to ferment and sweeten. And now onto the show review before I turn this into an essay on how Thrash and Hardcore fans should hang out more.

Opening this festival ofthe damned was Meth Valley, a gang of talented local thrashers fronted by some crazy guy I’ve seen at mad shows, MDF included. Thrash is a hard genre to innovate in without turning it into something else by accident, so these longhairs played it safe and by the book, albeit without inducing yawns. If you like Razormaze, check ’em.

Next up were Boston Hardcore guys Draize, alternating between the slow and punishing and the fast and punishing extremes with equal skill.

Everyone’s favourite bespectacled baldie decided to go at this gig barefoot, which is a ballsy as fuck move considering how much punks usually love to wear boots or something. Nary a toe was injured, luckily, as the walls churned with heat, leather, and fist while the dance floor surged with pent-up anger and good times.

Oh how I missed my poetic verve.

It’s not very often one gets to see Draize, much less hear them, since a certain amount of mystery prevents them from posting tracks online, despite the many available avenues with which a band may do so today. If you don’t know the songs, you don’t know them, and you never will unless you buy their stuff, so there’s that. It’s all good and dark, and makes you want to kill, so it hardly matters in the end, as long as you don’t act a fool.

Highlights of the set: A huge fat guy herkie-ing like nobody’s business, and getting full-body lifted and placed back down by a guy half my height while I was in the middle of a graceless two-step.

Iron Reagan, featuring Tony Foresta from Municipal Waste and some other guys because fuck it, it’s Tony Foresta and that basically makes it Municipal Waste by proxy, followed to bring some groovin’ Thrash served in a radioactive barrel. Or something.

This being their first tour as a band, it’s amazing how quickly they’ve all settled into the whole live dealie. Granted, they are seasoned musicians, and probably all hang out, but my word, you’d think they’ve been doing this as Iron Reagan for years already. Tony’s charismatic control of the crowd’s friendly violent fun, the vivious axe attack of fellow ‘Waster Landphil, bass duties gregariously filled by a certain guy named paul, and drum noise made by Darkest Hour’s own Ryan Parrish. You’ve got yourself a crew that’s ready to rock, and has a Cro-Mags cover to lay on you troglodytic fucks. It’s pretty rad. The circlepit isn’t a frequent sight at the D.C., so get educated and run around.

Headlining were local heroes Ramming Speed, who have been bestowed the honour of being a possible gay porno title by The A.V. Club for their year-in review of band names. I’m sure they gained about 54 new fans as a result.

Imagine you took the Party Hard attitude of Andrew W.K. but turned party rock into party thrash, with a good helping of pizza and perhaps carrots, and proclamations of Shane Embury being the Brad Pitt of grindcore. It’s true, go listen. While Ramming Speed do everything they do in good fun, there’s some serious talent bubbling under the comedic skin. Major shreddage, vocals that vary from Thrash shouts to Death Growls and even some well-done highs, drumming that can go from standard speed-metal to extreme blasting, and not to mention the fact that they can keep up with themselves and not fuck up. It’s a recipe that’s best drunk in large quantities and with friends around.

You know, this marks a rare occurrence; I’ve reviewed a show the day after it happened. Golly, I’m making my comeback. This is the year of the gutter rat, and I’m doing well everywhere except mothafuckin’ school. Kill pigs, have fun.

Degradation (Of Mental Faculties). Sick Fix and Coke Bust @ Uncle Crummy’s

Tis the week to wake up and take life seriously. Or at least as seriously as I’m willing to take it without becoming lame, you see. Let’s dance.

The openers of this non-ironic gathering of 40 oz. bottles was Terminal Crisis, a newly formed Boston Hardcore band featuring Krystina of Curmudgeon on vocals and Tom Draize on guitar, and someone else from BearTrap I don’t know by name. Quite solid, I look forward to their continued existence.

Next were No Sir I Won’t, who aren’t big fans of cops and the politic among us.

Pissed, loud, and red in the face, delivering right hooks in quick succession in the form of catchy Punk leaning on Hardcore ferocity, but always staying well in the realm that will subdue any attempts to throw tha fuck down. Not that some won’t try anyway.

Coke Bust, the superheroes of Straight-Edge Hardcore, are best experienced without a barricade, this much is true.

And shirtless

Having seen these strapping lads play at Maryland Deathfest, I was even more stoked to see them in an intimate venue where one may not only sweat on fellow moshers, but also the band themselves. Mic-sharing ensures the transmission of several low-level contagions, and a wrongly timed jump can lead to one nearly crashing into the drumset and being the truest showstopper in the sense of the word. It was manic, there were injuries, and it was a rip roarin’ good time. Coke Bust’s fusion of Powerviolence in short bursts of hepped up punk energy with a rock’n’roll sensibility that can lock into a solid groove and bust out a solo atypical of the genre makes them a sweet deal both in studio and when being headbutted by the vocalist.

One must applaud the drummer of Coke Bust, for he is also the drummer of Sick Fix, who are, as you may have guessed, another SxE outing, but this time joined by a superheroine.

With members of Magrudergrind also leading the charge into your ear canal, you can certainly bet the guitar tone is that sickly, almost wet sounding buzz that brings to mind grind bands like Nasum and Rotten Sound, as well as good ol’ Entombed in their death metal days. Sick Fix’s sound comes out as an amalgm of Nails fury and Weekend Nachos heaviness, with more controlled speed (i.e. little-no blasting) and of course, female vokills. It got rowdy, and several concussions were sustained, both by slipping on the floor slick with all manner of spilled beer, and blows to the head, intentional or not. Err on the side of caution and get knocked into a trash can, or get knocked out.

The transformation of vocalist Michelle from her off-stage (metaphorical stage here) personality and her on-stage mania is something to be seen. Catch them if they happen to roll through your area, buy something, get it signed, wear it every day. I’m nearing the end, and it’s nice.

From Ashes, Review

If you all missed me, rest assured, I haven’t lost my golden quill. Figuratively speaking. I’ve just been bummed that my computer doesn’t work right now, so sad. Without further ado, here’s some reviews to make up for lost time. Some of them will be short, so fuck off, poser.

Tile & Host @ The Democracy Center

Opening this was Trash Pile from New Joisey, and the undisputed kings of their self-proclaimed Moron Boogie tag. It’s essentially a mix of garage rock infused Punk, with plenty of groove for all you morons. I did not regret seeing them.

Next were HedgeFund from Somerville, MA, which is full of dopey people, as I found in the course of an hour once, but that’s a story for another blog entirely. So, these guys play old-school-ish Hardcore Punk but with a twist: reverb-laced vocals that hearken to Black Metal like er… DarkThrone and stuff? Name a BM band, but DarkThrone comes to mind because their singer has a DT patch. Blame it. I got a shirt of theirs for 4 bucks, seeing as they’ll be going on a brief hiatus while their drummer gets their shit together. Go see them, stomp back and forth, it’s fun.

Following those weirdos were BearTrap, everyone’s favourite Grind/Powerviolence/Fastcore hatemongers from Providence/Stoughton, because they’re the only PV/Grind/Fastcore band with members from Providence and Stoughton I can think of, thus eliminating any and all potential competitors.

Taking a lot of cues from contemporary and old-school fastcore bands alike, minus constipated vocals, their songs come and go before you have time to process the rhythm and nod accordingly. So much for pathos. If you plan to mosh to BearTrap, decide quickly and be ready to adjust on a dime, because the longest and most straightforward song they played was a cover. What of? I don’t know, but Tom Draize made a pit cameo, so it must have been a good band.

Host play Metallic Hardcore in the vein of Early Graves, Trap Them, and Gaza, though it leans more towards the lattermost. The vocalist went harder than the crowd, which is a sure sign that this band is legit pissed. They’ll be playing with Ghostlimb tomorrow, so come rage. The previous statement is baldfacedly assuming you’ll read this tonight, but I live in the present, and am too stubborn to account for the confusion this causes for future generations. They’ve done a split with post-rock band KYOTY (who are fantastic, by the way), which I’m guessing must be for the bipolar.

The weirdest band on the line-up award goes to Tile due to the fact that they play what I call “Dronecore”, though this band was more on the drone side. My pinky toe twitches in pain from thinking about them, since their vocalist/bassist said that one of their songs is about tying an enemy’s pinky toe to a bunk bed and watching it snap off when they jump off, unaware that they’re in no position to make so typical a decision. Ow ow ow.

A Pre-Apocalypse DIY Punk Show with Opposition Rising

Plenty of shenanigans to be had. What is it about free shows that makes fat guys wanna fight with Mexican dudes that are rockin’ pigtails, or claim every young handsome Black man as their son and express a desire to adopt them? Here’s the actual review.

Tensor play Punk Rock. They’re also nice guys. Can’t describe much further than that, sorry. After some non-descript pogo/circle fodder came War of Words, who I can only describe as a band undergoing an identity crisis, and a case of monogrammed bass drum heads. They played good music, but it seemed that musically they had listened to a lot of Face To Face, both the punk and alternative eras, liked it very much, but couldn’t decide which they preferred, and mixed songs that were both punk and alt. rock leaning. Stick to one, please, but otherwise keep up the good work, lads.

I get suspicious when I see a band that has even one member wearing the liberty spikes. Call me a damned fool, but a big green mohawk sets off red flags of “Uh oh, another brain dead Street Punk band whose songs are all about getting drunk and pogo’ing”. Luckily this wasn’t the case with Connecticut’s Drug Shock, who are actually a damn fine band leaning on the faster side of old-school Hardcore Punk.

I found great relief in the sparing use of “oi”, which is just comical no matter how you dice it, but they made up for it with a good live show and a shirt with one of Mickey Mouse’s ears replaced by an enclosed A.

Providence, R.I.’s Reason To Fight are a self-proclaimed “working class Hardcore” band, which immediately brought to mind a harder version of massively quotable Oi drunkards (that aren’t actually from the mean and dirty darks of Edinborough but sound convincingly like it) Yellow Stitches. Instead, the listener was met with a tuffer brand of Hardcore in the vein of Hatebreed, which makes sense since they lay claim to having one of the founding guitarists of said band.

It’s music that doesn’t make you think, but it does inspire you to drink and fight, which is a merit on its own. They covered what I believe was 7 Seconds, but whatever it was fell flat on most of the crowd, which is atypical of how us Bostonians go nutso at the word “cover” even if we don’t know what it’s of. Shucks.

Headlining this shitshow of spilled beer and threadbare minds was the mighty Opposition Rising, who’ve been making some waves since their formation in 2010 and debut in 2011.

 

One could say they blew up pretty fast, having made buddies with In Defence during one fateful weekend, going on tour not too long after. Blending old-school Hardcore, a good amount of skank-friendly Punk, and some jolly good hatred towards everyone and everything that was once provided by the frontman’s old band Toxic Narcotic. I’m sure you’ve got the lowdown, and their songs bounce around your head daily, particularly the bloody black comedy of “Pink Slip Murder-Suicide”, so I’ll save you the trouble of my rambling for now because I’ve got too much on my e-journalist plate as is.