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 Strikes, Opposition 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.

You know what time it is: Reviewvalanche.

Looking at all the shows I’ve been to recently and my inability to review them either to being inebriated, not in the writing spirit, noticing that I fucked up the order big-tiume, or just being inconvenienced from many directions at once in the grand tradition of life, I’ll just leave this here.

Boris @ Brighton Music Hall

Fucking Flood. Damn.

Nomad/Kromosom @ Cambridge Elk’s Lodge

It’s a wonder I somehow avoided injury during this thrashing d-beat noisefuck raid experience. Ye gods. I swear a boot was mere inches from my face, and I also saw a tit.

Coke Bust @ Cambridge Elk’s Lodge

I only saw 10 minutes of Coke Bust, but that was all I needed, because I would have died of exhaustion had I been punctual. A dollar a minute, and eternally late to the point where I missed all the other bands for free Chinese food, sake and beer. No fucking regrets.

Parasitic Extirpation @ O’Brien’s

I’m pretty sure my conduct was unbecoming of my gentlemanly status, but with 64 ounces of Steel Reserve in my system, anything short of getting ripshit was inexcusable for one of Boston’s finest in slamming brutality. Fields Of Elysium from New Mexico were pretty sweet, having made it to Boston for the first time ever, and fialing to disappoint with their PsyOpus meets a more interesting but even more insane Spawn Of Possession.If you’ll excuse me, I have to write some apologetic letters to the people whose souls I ate because I’m a monster.

Nuclear Special Forces (or N.S.F. if you’re lazy and drunk) @ some basement in Allston

I don’t remember a lot of this show because the beer intake was constant, but I remember it was fun. Pornstars For Romney play some form of rippin’ hardcore, and N.S.F. boast some eldritch amalgam of d-beat, crust punk, and powerviolence, with a killer cover of “City Baby Attacked By Rats”, complete with some tasteful blastbeats. I think the opener was Jake And The Infernal Machine, but I can’t be sure. The internet holds no record of this, and I may have imagined that one-man acoustic folk-punkish guy. But then again, acoustic folk-punkish guys own everything from Mission Hill to the outer edges of Lower Allston, so I’m just trying to make this interesting for you.

The Melvins @ Brighton Music Hall

They played a lot of heavy songs, and Buzzo had a get-up reminiscent of some sort of alien from an early sci-fi movie. ‘Twas cool.

Or maybe it was just a robe and I was seeing shit.

Summer Slaughter ’13 @ The Palladium

It was a fantastic show overall. Thy Art Is Murder exceeded my low expectations, Tosin Abasi of Animals As Leaders signed my palm, I had a pleasant post-brutality chat with some members of Cattle Decapitation, and Unearth was surprisingly good live, if not handicapped by the muddy sounding breakdowns. Curse you, Palladium sound. The main hiccups of the evening were Rings Of Saturn just being silly, Periphery playing for about 45 minutes too long (ha!) getting stranded in Worcester due to some last-minute revocations of a possible ride home and experiencing some wicked sleep deprivation that only being utterly rezzy high can emulate, and, speaking of Revocation, their set was mainly steeped in new material, which is still good, but some oldies would have made it a far more satisfying show. Have they all but forgotten Empire of the Obscene? Oh and Greg Puciato semi almost killed himself. Again. Anyone reading this now should know I put this in here weeks after this article was written. Feel free to comment if you’re one of these lucky souls. Ha.

Backslider @ the Democracy Center

This show reminded me just why I sometimes opt out of going to the Democracy Center, even if the line-up shows much promise and potential for window breakage. Case in point, the wimpiest of Boston’s punk scene gathered singly to not destroy one another while Congenital Death and Backslider destroyed the surrounding air with their clatter of fastcore devastation. Fucking Invincible was just Fucking Boring (the merch reads FI. F. Fucking. I.) and Curmudgeon was another roadblock to guilt-free enjoyment. Despite Logan’s (guitar/vocals in Backslider) goading and pointing out the stand still/keep your arms crossed policy that Boston’s PV lovers adopt, there was nary a twitch more than a hearty shaken fist and some aggressive nodding to the beats to show approval. Plus they played way more breakdowns than I remember being in any of their material. Overall, disappointing, but I’m still glad I at least got to see these nerds. They’re skinnier than I thought they’d be, is all I can say on that last sentence.

Ceremony @ Sinclair

I skipped ALL the openers because I hated their names and descriptions, (with the exception of GIVE, who are just boring psychedelic punk with no aim) and I’m sure I did well to that end. Ceremony’s definitely taken an odd turn since the olden days of Ruined and Violence Violence, which were essentially exercises in how many times a band could rip your face off within the span of under 15 minutes. The new album, Zoo, is more of an experiment in how to travel back in time, record an album in the 70s, and make people think that a completely different band wrote the material. Seriously, go listen to even Rohnert Park, which is somewhat more sober in its approach, and then Zoo, and you’ll swear there are two bands called Ceremony. They weren’t kidding when they basically said they were sick of hardcore punk. Luckily they still busted out a few choice jams from the aforementioned albums, (not like the kids didn’t mosh to the non-core material anyway) but overall, the heavy British accent seeping from Ross Farrar’s gob during those tracks is unavoidably a conscious want to put the olden days behind them. Pack your fist full of love, give a gift to the world.

The Impalers/Vaaska @ The Boiler Room

It smelled strongly of fresh spraypaint, and I swear I’ve been slightly dumber since being in there, but it was fun at the very least seeing d-beat bands and spiky brats all crammed into one nearly uncomfortable spot in a middle-of-nowhere Allston parking lot that probably sees more activity by people looking for a place to do drugs and drink than the local businesses that are only open when you’re completely mentally unprepared for them to be.

Suffer On Acid @ Pt-109

I think this place may officially be murdered by the pig-state, but at least I got to act a damn drunken fool during Demoralizer‘s set even though the space is now no larger than a broom-closet as opposed to a living-room like it was before.

Sean Smash would be my scene name if I were a bigger faggot than I already am.

Infest/Los Crudos @ ChiTown Futbol

Going a long way totalling up to or more than $2-300 in travel expenses for a 10 dollar punk show is something that everyone worth knowing should do at least once in their lifetime. Never knowing if Infest or Crudos, bands that are technically ‘broken up’ despite their recent resurgence in activity (always trust Wikipedia) will ever come even as close as New York or Connecticut, I say it was well worth the trip. Gas Rag played some decent d-beat with just enough energy, Violent End was okay but repetitive and sort of like a 2nd rate Nails, and Hard Skin was equally comedic and badass with their limey British skinhead swagger showing through as they simultaneously mocked and celebrated the whole of punk in all its forms. I doubt they successfully converted everyone from Hardcore to Oi! as was their openly stated aim, but everyone had fun. Punx and skins did unite on that dusty street in Chicago while kids played soccer not a room over.

Infest was on par with a religious experience, though if you replace the wide lanes of a megachurch with a surging pit of crowdsurfing, mic-rushing, flailing bodies, and clothing heavier than appropriate for the warm weather, it’s essentially the same thing. The vocals were equal parts hilarious and rousing, the drums missed not a single beat, and the slowing down of their iconic pre-Powerviolence breakdowns only made for more friendly violent fun. Los Crudos got just about the same fervor as kids thrashed about responsibly but wildly, showing that “that Spic band” is nothing to fuck with. Glory be to me, for I have seen both of Martin Sorrendeguy’s bands within a year, and I’m not even old yet.

I’d like to take a rare human moment to say that I really felt at home in Chicago, before, during, and even after the show. So many brown people in one place, girls pitting as hard if not harder, and streets that don’t say “fuck you” like Boston. Was this the only place designed after the listless meanderings of livestock? Living arrangements are in order. Perhaps Cleveland or even good ol’ Chi-Town will be my next resting place once my earthly body in Massachusetts has grown tired of taking the MBTA and dealing with a mayor that’s nowhere near as hilarious as Tom Menino. Also, ChiTown Futbol has legit the best burritos I’ve ever tasted, and they don’t even put rice in them. I’m ruined forever to all the joints here.

And there you have it, a brief summary of the last few months, as lazily put together as I could manage without cheating you, the reader, out of some verbiage and colourful illustrations that you’ve come to neutrally know me for. Here’s to trying harder to try harder once again, because not having normal internet access AND a job makes it hard to say stupid things for the world to see and me to feel ashamed for writing later.

The only reason I haven’t given up on TBMD entirely is probably some odd sense of duty that I feel to people that like to know about random shit. Well, I’m still here for you idiots, so feel free to not react as I languidly struggle to bring you the most up-to-date news about things that have long since passed, you nerds.

Apologies for the lack of updates. Life is killing me.

Between turning 21, being thirsty, getting a job and overall just going out every day and bringin’ da muthafuckin’ ruckus, I haven’t been posting lately, as you may have seen. However, I haven’t come to a complete standstill; I’m a part-time contributor to Ghost Cult magazine, though unfortunately unlike Metal Army where content matching was no biggie, this time I’ll have to provide nothing more than a little blurb and a link to the rest of the content. Sorry ’bout that, faithless readers, but it is true, I’ve sold out.

On the other hand, any material I don’t submit to Ghost Cult is my own to do whatever nasty things I wish, so I’ll be trying to catch up to the times with some independently written show reviews, including Limp Wrist, Kromoson, Rotten Sound, (the) Melvins, Ultra//Negative, and Nuclear Special Forces, as well as linking up the reviews for Maryland Deathfest, Trap Them, deafheaven, Nails, etc. I’m a busy man on the down-low.

In the meantime, I’m hurtin’ for material but I’ve got some things planned and loaded into my idea fun, but if you’ve got anything to share, don’t hesitate to contribute. It can be why you think I’m an idiot for disliking Manowar or your take on the economic impact of metal and hardcore on Singapore, whatever you want, make it real, I insist. Let’s make this legit.

Bruising At The Show. Limp Wrist at the Cambridge Elks.

Making good headway at last.

Heheh. Head.

This happened the day of after a light rain. Stoked. It’s a rainbow, and my phone camera sucks.

Anyway, this show was one of those that simultaneously overjoyed me and pissed me off. I was overjoyed that Limp Wrist made the drive down to too-liberal-to-punch-a-fascist Massachusetts after 6 years of having not, and even more so that all of my fellow queers were down to dance to ditties raging against the homophobes and passively compliant with social norms. I was pissed that I never see 3/4 of these people at any other show. Do I have to go to a rad-fem fest, queercore show, or otherwise anti-heteronormative event to see these fools get down and get within inches of making love? Fuck, all I ask is that they not be so selective with shows just because they like being drag(insert-monarch) and that may not be everyone’s steaze. Live a little or die.

On to the actual show review, which will be pure fucken poetry: I was more focused on the headliner than anything else (can you blame me?) and could’ve given a damn if I had seen Subclinix or The Combat Zone, who are passable but unremarkable local acts who, while making delectable appetisers, will invariably pale in comparison to the legendary Limp Wrist. However, St. Ripper and Beyond Pink were pretty nice surprises, though the former blew the roof off the place. You know a band’s punk as fuck when 1) the singer is a woman and 2) despite the condition of 1, they still mosh harder than just about everyone else in the pit and 3) they eschew guitars for a keyboard and still sound fucken raw. Damn.

I’m too impatient to continue describing things, so here’s Limp Wrist, hardest of the queerest queers. A band whose songs revolve around the struggle of being a queer, a punk, and most of all a queer punk, will definitely have to bring forth some amount of fury. To any that aren’t into the whole movement (and by Jove, I’m still learning myself) you’d think that Queercore would sound  primarily like the Riot Grrrl Team Dresch or semi-joke bands like Gayrilla Biscuits and Youth Of Togay, and while these groups are fuckin’ rad, it’s certainly not  music that you could mosh to or expect to see live. Limp Wrist are a straight up 80s bulldozer of hardcore bombast that could stand alongside the greats in Negative Approach, Void, and Jerry’s Kids in terms of sheer ferocity and move-these-fucking-walls moments that make the entire building a swarm of arms, legs, sweat, and an underpinning of sexual energy that threatens to become an orgy at the drop of a single person’s trousers/skirt. It’s a rare treat to see a leather daddy in a black jockstrap halfway down his ass be the commander of an army of punx/queers that are about ready to rip a jock’s head off and also make out with the nearest member of the same sex or flick their wrists at a passing naval steamboat.

Yes, I had a blast. “What’s Up With The Kids?”, “Cruising At The Show”, “Fake Fags Fuck Off”, and most importantly, “I Love Hardcore Boys/I Love Boys Hardcore” came out in full force. And so did I, aflame from the closet (sorta). I dearly wish they had busted out “Punk Ass Queers”, “Od’d On Pop”, or “Limp Wrist Vs. Dr. Laura”, but hey, how many times am I gonna see this band before I go down in a puddle of blood when the world ends? Hopefully at least once more.

Fucked As Punk

And after an unexplained absence, I am back! It definitely had nothing to do with being voluntarily moored in Connecticut for Spring Break. Nothing at all. So proceeding as normal.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been falling more in love with what the kids these days refer to as Punk Rock, in all of its forms; dirty, spikey, unkempt, thuggish, and clean-shaven. Something’s just so irresistable about the way the guitars and drums seem to claw at one another for air while the vocals lead the pack in anguished howls or pissed off shouting. It’s a downward spiral in which missing a shower or two is kind of excusable, and ripped pants are not necessarily the end of the world. Throw in a dash of applied phlebotonium, a few quarts of cheap beer, and dialing back your self-preservation instincts a tad to enjoy thyself, you’re well on your way to antidisestablishmentarianirvanha. Vandalism of public and private property certainly not required, but it’s a huge plus.

Cerebral Ballzy

Sounds Like: High energy Punk Rock that could have come out of the 80s when everyone found out what skateboards, beer, and pretty young ladies can do to a man.

Frenzal Rhomb

Sounds Like: Vegan Aussies angry at everything, including you, and venting through melodic Punk/Hardcore.

Balzac

Sounds Like: Borderline Misfits worship, but with that J-flavor you’ve come to expect from a band of their country.

Doom

Sounds Like: Seething crusty hatred of authority figures.

Pg. 99

Sounds Like: A burst of noise and poetry that is at once scary and beautiful.

Ancient Filth

Sounds Like: Dirty basements everywhere, and sociopolitical content that will make you want to be less of a narcissistic asshole.

Trash Talk

Sounds Like: FUCKIN’ HARDCORE RADICAL, NIGGA.

Skin Like Iron

Sounds Like: Melodic but raw Hardcore packin’ some serious energy.

Limp Wrist

Sounds Like: The rage of LGBTQ oppression that knows how to laugh at itself.

Void

Sounds Like: Drunken Washington D.C. punks that don’t like your attitude. Or Jesus.

Riistetyt

Sounds Like: Depending on the era, it’s either straight up Punk, Crust, or Thrashcore. Whatever genre they’re playing, it’s angry Finnish guys that hate injustice.

Lights Out

Sounds Like: Californian Hardcore that’s probably angry about so many other non-Hardcore bands sharing a name with them.

Fucked Up

Sounds Like: If you mixed what is commonly called Indie Rock containing soft spoken female voices with angry vitriolic Hardcore vocals. It’s a lot better than it sounds.

Andrew Jackson Jihad

Sounds Like: Anti-Folk Punk that will tell you straight up; life sorta sucks and will fuck you. But in the most eerily upbeat way.

Close Call

Sounds Like: What Boston Hardcore is all about. Having fun while making some racket.

Gorilla Biscuits

Sounds Like: New Yorkers that want to lead better lives and use melodic Hardcore to tell people to stop being jerks.

Fuck you.