Another Dancer I Try To Be Another Dancer LP (Bruit Direct / Aguirre)
Cute band alert: hailing from the sleepy burg of Brussels, Another Dancer make their debut on the anything-goes Bruit Direct label. Their take on indie-rock is artsy and inquisitive, shifting in sonic palette but unwavering in congeniality. It calls to my mind the Night People label, back when they’d release these homespun lo-fi bands (or “bands”) that pieced together cheap synths/drum machines, fragile guitars and their own high-pitched voices in personalized, underground takes on Brian Wilson’s oeuvre. I’ve got a few of those Night People records, and while the thick polyvinyl picture-disc sleeves those records came in hazed up the records considerably, Another Dancer’s music is mostly haze- and distortion-free. They’ll throw in a rhythm-box groove for dancing, some soft little guitars for campfire strumming, and anyone in the band who feels courageous enough to sing is given the chance. I’d also compare it to some of the Vermont pop pleasures that revolved around Ruth Garbus and Chris Weisman a decade ago, Animal Collective two decades ago, or more contemporarily speaking, Feeble Little Horse right this very moment. There’s an unmistakable European-ness to Another Dancer that won’t be found in the American artists I mentioned, though – they’re out there in cobblestone courtyard cafés drinking their adorable six-ounce beers and not really having jobs, not living in fear of getting shot and hit by cars and being billed directly by the ambulance company like we are over here.

The Art Gray Noizz Quintet / Gravel Samwidge Relief / Don’t Go There 7″ (Sound Pressing)
The underground tunnel that connects New York City and Brisbane hasn’t been cleaned in decades, so it makes sense that groups like The Art Gray Noizz Quintet and Gravel Samwidge would eventually encounter each other there. Each band has developed their own takes on fine-aged scuzz-punk, as documented on this split single. The Art Gray Noizz Quintet, led by the illustrious Stuart Gray, refuse to slink into the comfort of (elder-)middle age, conjuring more NYC-as-swamp noise-rock with “Relief”. Served with extra sleaze care of Nikki D’Agostino’s sax, this is what I’d imagine plays in the background as Lydia Lunch makes a random man cry outside the club. Gravel Samwidge are far less metropolitan; this is music not for the lounge-lizards leaving the bar at 6:00 AM but the laborers starting their shifts pouring concrete across the street. There’s some stoner-y bounce to the chorus, and the undeniable sense of its Australian origins, all hairy forearms and sunburnt faces. Get these two groups together on an uninhabited island with some building supplies and a few cases of liquor and it’s gonna become the next million-dollar hipster enclave in a year, I can all but guarantee it.

Autobahns First LP! LP (Legless / Phantom / Magüt / Feral Kid)
Grab a hammer – First LP! is yet another nail in the egg-punk coffin. A solo recording-project turned hired-gun live band (as seems to always be the case these days), Autobahns is the work of Leipzig’s Giuliano Iannarella, and he followed the egg-punk rules as if they were an IKEA instruction manual. Super-fast drumming with airtight rolls; weak-on-purpose guitar-tone that warbles out Chuck Berry riffs at three times the speed; thrift-store synth effects; vocals with just enough modulation as to sound like they were recorded in a flying saucer. “Telephone Freakos” is a prime example of this overly prevalent punk style, because I’d say that on its face, it’s a cool punk song were it to exist in a vacuum, but every aspect of its structure and presentation, from the intermittent guitar strums to the Space Invaders synth effects to the hyperactive drumbeat and goose-y vocals… when you package that with a cartoon cover that looks like it was done with the same marker as The Coneheads’ first album (which they also named “LP1”), it’s like Autobahns and the dozens of other copycats out there should have to pay an aesthetic licensing fee to Mark Winter in order to legally make records like this. There’s really nothing wrong with the music here – if you simply want to hear more caffeinated, DEVO-inspired punk from a nerd in his room, First LP! will set you up nicely – but another permutation of this calculated, trendy sound leaves me as weary, sore and headachey as the newest Moderna shot.

Bad Anxiety Bad Anxiety 7″ (Refuse / Feral Kid)
Hopes were not high when I pulled this record out of its cardboard mailer. Just glance at that Hey Arnold!-ass punk on the cover, looking like he just got back from his terrible Euro edge-core band practice working on a failed cover of “Can’t Close My Eyes” in 2005! Upon further inspection, Bad Anxiety are from Hattiesburg, MS, one of the most vibrant small-town punk scenes in the US, and there are ten songs on this seven-inch, which of course is another very good sign. Maybe I need to apologize to that cartoon punk on the cover (okay, no I don’t, I still really hate him) as it turns out Bad Anxiety rips! It’s the solo project of Hampton Martin, prominent member of both Big Bleach and Judy & The Jerks, and he whips up a youthful frenzy all by his lonesome here. The music is fast and frantic, and the delivery is snotty and immature, so it starts to feel like Angry Samoans playing Neos songs. It flails, falls over, gets back up, topples into the audience, accidentally unplugs itself and cartwheels out the window, usually in under half a minute. “Hardcore” might be the best song about loving hardcore since 25 Ta Life’s “Hardcore Rules”, and I thank Bad Anxiety for it. A good friend of mine did a solo project called Slogan Boy years before the current Slogan Boy existed (a Discogs Cheapo if there ever was one!), and Bad Anxiety reminds me of that OG Slogan Boy EP, just as likable and yet I don’t have the pleasure of knowing Hampton Martin personally at all. Now all he needs to do is draw the punk from this cover getting brutally vivisected on the cover of his next EP and I’ll be at peace.

BASIC This Is BASIC LP (No Quarter)
There’s an odd constant that runs through many of my cheery memories related to Philly’s guitar-centric underground: Chris Forsyth. How many times over the past few years have I been at a great show or a friendly post-show hang and there he is, wearing a funny hat that looks good on him, or laying in the grass with a beer, or telling an animated story to mutual friends, or on stage, casually ripping on guitar. I could fill this little write-up with more admiration and appreciation for the man, but then I’d be wasting my chance to tell you about his very excellent new group, BASIC. It’s probably his most “experimental” project since Peeesseye, in that it fuses a variety of rock’s left-field loose-ends into something both weird, cohesive and new. Joining Forsyth on guitar is Mikel Patrick Avery on percussion and electronics and Nick Millevoi on baritone guitar and drum machine, and from this formation the musical ideas blast outward like a busted fire hydrant. These instrumental songs are playful and funky, frolicking in that mid ’80s dead-zone where well-established rockers of the ’70s played with slippery concepts like downtown NYC funk, ECM jazz and new-age reggae. It’s like they took the ’80s Can records, the stuff that no one listens to, and figured out how it might work for them. These songs never take themselves too seriously, but they absolutely rip while exploring the fringes of good taste, not unlike Rastakraut Pasta if it actually rocked. Don’t get me wrong though, this is by no means a “throwback” record of any kind – “New Auspicious” is as heavenly as 75 Dollar Bill, and the disjointed shuffle of rhythmic effects, riffage and electronics in “Versatile Switch” reminds me of Morgan Buckley, a style that’s more likely to be lauded by Boomkat than CREEM. BASIC mixed the future with the past for a stellar album that I can listen to today.

Broken Telepathy Broken Telepathy LP (Sophomore Lounge)
Having a hard time pinning down what makes the duo of Broken Telepathy tick, which is a good thing, or at least not a bad thing. In this era riddled with conspicuous musical intentions, it’s nice to hear something and wonder how its decisions were reached, to have your brain actually burn a few calories while processing what is happening. Hailing from the Bronx, Broken Telepathy features two members of Soft Gang (if that means anything to you), and while there are elements of synth-wave, post-punk and indie-rock happening here, Broken Telepathy don’t meld them together in the ways I’m used to hearing. There’s a distant sort of coldness to the recording, but Kaori Nakamura’s vocals are high-pitched and direct; that sort of conflict seems inherent to Broken Telepathy’s mission, where drum loops play a pivotal role. “Reasons For Excuses” is like the angriest trip-hop song ever made, and while there are plenty of moments recalling the early post-punk wake following Joy Division’s demise, a synth will arrive direct from Gary Numan’s powder room, or it’ll feel like the Ramones for a second, no wait, I meant Stereolab. What if Thomas Dolby joined 39 Clocks but they never left their basement practice space, and it was all just made out of loops anyway? It makes ya think. I don’t feel any closer to unraveling Broken Telepathy’s intentions, but they’re not called Successful Telepathy, now are they?

The Carp Knock Your Block Off LP (Total Punk)
Featuring three members of Cruelster (and, by transitive property, Perverts Again), I didn’t actually realize The Carp were a real band until Knock Your Block Off showed up. It’s hard to always tell where the gags end and reality begins with this lovable bunch of Cleveland jokesters, but I’m stoked that The Carp is an actual band, one whose sound rests comfortably within the realm these guys have created. They’re somewhere between the jittery post-punk of Knowso (whose Nate Ward is also in The Carp) and Cruelster’s couch-thrashing hardcore-punk, and it’s a great spot to land. Knock Your Block Off offers an enjoyable splitting of the difference, one where wrong-note melodies and righteously paranoid attitudes collide with hardcore energy. I love Knowso’s relentless monotony – it’s unique in a sea of sound-alikes – but The Carp offer just as much personality in a rambunctious form more likely to allow for stage diving, were The Carp ever to perform on a stage. I never doubted that all these guys are life-long friends, but you’ve gotta really like each other to be in like three or four bands together; one can be miserable enough depending on who gets on who’s nerves. When they cover A Global Threat’s “Cut Ups” with full intensity on here, it’s clear that their love of the street-punk group is as genuine as it is that they’re making fun of it, and themselves, and probably me, and you too. No one does simultaneously serious/unserious punk like these guys and Knock Your Block Off is another shining example.

Stefan Christensen In Time LP (C/Site Recordings)
New Haven’s Stefan Christensen is a man of many masks, each subsequent record revealing further insight along side tantalizing mystery into his process. More than anything, it seems like he’s never short on inspiration, chasing fresh ideas through whatever strange paths they might take, from the warmth of melodic guitar chords to the abrasion of static-y feedback deconstructions. It’s rare and exciting, the way that a record under the name Stefan Christensen can behave in a multitude of ways, and his newest, In Time, opens yet another door, this one particularly gracious and inviting. The focus on In Time is set on uplifting and moody electric guitar riffs that repeat like mantras, and I’m glad he shared it with us. The album’s opening riff in “84 Days” could easily belong to Collective Soul at first glance, but in Christensen’s hands it’s wielded in a manner you’d expect from a New Zealand-raised Dylan Carlson. One could connect the sonic dots to Lungfish and the sun-bleached guitars of Steven R. Smith, so patient and meditative are these songs. “Foreign Outlaw” breaks from the guitar-centricity, much of which Christensen sings without musical accompaniment (and a memorable moment from his live set I caught earlier this year), but the heart behind it remains the same. I’ll admit, I love Christensen at his least accessible, crackling sparks of noise from his lonesome guitar for seemingly nobody, but the different direction of In Time is a joy, as comforting and nourishing as a room full of friends.

Coffin Prick Side Splits LP (Sophomore Lounge)
Throw it back to the Y2K era with Side Splits, an album of remixes made by artists mostly not known as remixers, all taking on tracks from Coffin Prick’s 2023 album, Laughing. I enjoy Laughing quite a bit, completely content with its original form, but the list of remixers here is certainly intriguing: Beau Wanzer, Tim Kinsella, Battles… even Melt Banana and Shit & Shine appear. Coffin Prick’s original tracks were difficult to categorize, kind of woozy late-night post-punk pop with a swish of glam aspirations, and the majority of contributors here dismantle that vibe to their own ends. There are plenty of melodic stems to work with: Battles finagles theirs into a glitchy stomp, whereas Melt Banana flip the whole thing into a cybernetic Epi-Fat pop-punk track, as is their unpredictable wont. Unsurprisingly, Shit & Shine take it in the direction of Earth 2‘s majestic guitar drones, and Beau Wanzer does a good job of putting his trademark stamp on it, a fat wriggly drum-machine groove sure to leave a wet trail behind it. A fun exercise for all, though it can make for an incongruous listen – Gel Set’s take on “Surfs Up” feels like a typical GSL indie-dance remix throwaway versus some new eureka moment. It’s nice when others play with Coffin Prick, but more original Coffin Prick material is much higher on the list of demands I’ve asked my office coordinator to send to Sophomore Lounge.

Disarm Existence Demo 1985 LP (Beach Impediment / No Idols)
The bottomless spring of previously-unreleased Virginia hardcore has another new offering, the 1985 demo from Virginia Beach’s Disarm. If there’s a bad record where one of the band members is pictured doing a handplant on a vert ramp, I’ve yet to encounter it, and Existence Demo 1985 keeps the streak alive. Pair that with Bryan Stahel’s sticker-covered bass-guitar and it’s logically impossible that this record could suck! Recorded in the transitional year of 1985, Disarm veer closer to the early ’80s than the late; their sound is moshy, rugged and anxious in a way that recalls the A7 / Rat Cage years of NYHC, with an understandable tinge of metallic crossover. (As discussed in the extensive liner notes, they pursued a crossover sound following this demo, of which no recordings exist – at least until Beach Impediment goes full-on National Treasure and finds them.) In the excellent flyer montage insert, I can picture them warming up the Virginia Beach hardcore miscreants for headliners like Corrosion Of Conformity, The Faction and Christ On Parade, and spray-painting their band name on denim vests and skate decks… it’s chicken soup for the hardcore soul. No matter how much I’d like to kid myself otherwise, hardcore-punk is best performed by the youth, of which Disarm most certainly were. The band actually broke up because drummer Mike Crescini pursued his skateboarding career instead, taking him to far-away regions with deeper bowls and gnarlier ledges. A more perfect ending for a short-lived obscure hardcore band in the ’80s could not be written.

Endon Fall Of Spring LP (Thrill Jockey)
I tip my hat to any ensemble who (d)evolves their sound from premeditated rock music to improvised noise. Audiences love structure, and asking yours to follow you on your journey from music that makes space for dancing, singing (screaming) along and hooks to merciless spur-of-the-moment chaos is a bold if not self-destructive move. Tokyo’s Endon have always been mutating, both from the size and shape of their collective to the sounds they produce; whereas prior records featured guitars, drums and songs (albeit in crushingly noisy forms), Fall Of Spring is a desolate, frightening soundscape of ruthless, discordant electronics. After the tragic passing of band member Etsuo Nagura, brother of vocalist Taichi Nagura, in 2020, Endon is now a trio, with Nagura on vocals alongside Taro Aiko and Koki Miyabe on electronics. Remnants of classic Japanese noise styles are evident, from the room-clearing shocks of piercing feedback to the continuous churn of heavy distortion, but Endon insist on pushing the form, in pursuit of harsh, provocative sounds that haven’t already existed. There’s an astringent, digital edge to the sounds that contrasts nicely with the uncomfortably human howls of Nagura, the production ensuring that the sound explodes outward no matter how dusty your stylus has become. There’s a shared sensibility to the PAN label, Persher and the more avant-garde side of harsh electronic noise at play here, perhaps more so than the lo-fi psycho-killer transgressions found on a Hospital Productions cassette. Album closer “Escalation” might be my favorite, as there is some semblance of violent melody lashing out, like a cyborg soldier’s frenzied commands on the battlefield, but the whole thing is a thrilling and sustained catharsis. You could break a sweat listening to Fall Of Spring and you’re not even the one twiddling the knobs!

Etelin Patio User Manual LP (Beacon Sound)
Patio User Manual opens with the sounds of bird-song, analog clacking and the mooing of one lonesome cow, and if you insist on excusing yourself from the rest of this review due to the sheer over-saturation of this particular style, I understand. However, those of us who still have open hearts and minds for blissful amalgamations of featherweight electronics and site-recordings of the plant and animal kingdoms, Etelin’s got a fresh platter here for you. It’s the work of one Alex Cobb, a Cincinnati resident who runs the great Soda Gong label and intermingles with the small scene of likeminded artists primarily released on the Last Resort label, to give some context as to the artistic community of which Cobb is involved. His take on that same general lower-case electronica / domestic-ambient approach falls on the softer, more overtly digital side, plush blankets of glitch to tuck up to your chin as you drift between worlds, free of jarring cuts or harsh tones. For my tastes, I appreciate Etelin’s approach, reminiscent of Mille Plateaux’s chamomile-flavored releases, and one of my personal faves of the genre, Kid606’s Soccergirl EP, which was released on one of those three-inch CDs where the outer two inches are clear plastic. Does it get much more low-key, turn-of-the-century IDM than that? If I dip my head into the two minutes of “Electrical Sailing” I can almost peer back into that magical shred of time after Woodstock ’99 and before 9/11.

Genius Of Time The Genius Of Time Vocal Series Vol. 2 12″ (Aniara Recordings)
There’s no denying the earth-shaking power of Swedish producers infatuated by huge pop music hooks. It’s like a drug to them, obsessively tinkering with the formula until their next dance-pop track has reached some golden ratio poised to liberate our ears once and for all. This mindset even filters down to the Swedes you haven’t really heard of, like Alexander Berg (aka Dorisburg) and Nils Krogh, working together off and on as Genius Of Time. “Closer” might not be a perfect dance track but it’s sure on the cusp, utilizing only the finest ingredients: a Blawan-esque shuffle, tender bass chords, a scene-stealing vocal hook and a snippet of uplifting house strings right when you least expect it. Vaguely emotional and smooth as silk, it’s almost a cheap-shot in its tech-house effectiveness, and I can’t get it out of my head. Once I stopped looping “Closer”, I found myself enjoying “Fumana Chord”, which takes a similar BPM and populist EDM approach, dusting up the edges enough to keep it interesting while also, you know, completely ready to soundtrack the next commercial for Hyundai’s IONIQ line of luxury EVs. I started pining for “Closer” though, I’ll be honest, and Genius Of Time clearly saw that coming, as “Closer (Reprise)” closes the EP, an ambient washing of the original, like the ghost of a loved one passing through the room while the loved one is right there too, feverishly dancing.

Help Courage LP (Three One G)
Nice to see the pendulum in noisy dude-rock swinging away from the misanthropic, mysterious and vaguely threatening to something more vulnerable and sincere and in search of less toxic psychic terrain. Help seems like one of these bands in the latter category, a Portland trio that will support you on your path to seeking a therapist and trying to dig into the actual source of your misery rather than just like, posting grainy black-and-white pictures of decommissioned prison walls without any accompanying text. They’re even doing some progressive yoga on the cover, a tower of thinking-pose with perfect form, relying on each other in more ways than one. Their music seems to fit the vibe to a tee, pairing the aggro, post-hardcore, drum-centric pounding of METZ with melodic punk not unlike Paint It Black and Touché Amoré. The guitars are pretty polished, as is the whole presentation – this is a group with no less than fifteen different shirt designs shown on their Bandcamp page – but it never feels too slick, more like they’re simply making every effort they can to get maybe one or two inches above the endless herd of other bands hoping to catch your eye. I’m not going to check their Instagram to see if they posted a sincere unboxing video of Courage, but to be honest I wouldn’t hold it against them if they did. Someone’s gotta teach the problematic twenty-something hardcore guys to stop worshiping Swans and start working on their own faults – at least Help are way less corny than Idles about it.

Hits World Of Dirt LP (Paisley Shirt)
The second vinyl full-length from Oakland’s Hits, World Of Dirt further reveals the group’s appealing duality: twee indie-pop on the surface with a restless experimentalism bubbling underneath. The group is a vehicle for singer/guitarist Jen Weisberg’s songs, which land somewhere between the DIY pop of The Petticoats and the charismatic fuzz of The Breeders. Max Nordile plays bass in Hits and is on his best behavior here, though each side of the album ends with different versions of something called “Future Tense”, loose improvisations that stumble and squeak without any adherence to the tenets of song-form. That sense of combustibility is never too far away, even on a passive pop strum like “Thorn By My Side”, the Vivian Girls-ish jangle overloaded by an unexpected gaggle of droning horns, because why not. These strange choices are never to the songs’ detriment; Hits like to deliver their predictable chords in a manner as nearly unpredictable as Violent Change. Rules are respectfully broken throughout World Of Dirt, though the timeless guitar pop leads you through to safety, assured and sweet.

Holy Tongue Meets Shackleton The Tumbling Psychic Joy Of Now LP (AD 93)
Feared to have been lost on the way back to his home planet, Shackleton’s collaboration with percussive-dub trio Holy Tongue zaps us back to a fresh rinse of the signature sound he developed over the first decade of his impressive career. Fans of sticky-humid dub effects and third-eye-induced polyrhythms have a hearty feast awaiting them in The Tumbling Psychic Joy Of Now, wherein Shackleton takes the helm as producer of Holy Tongue’s raw material. I was always hopeful that a collaboration between Shackleton and Valentina Magaletti was inevitable, they being two crucial conduits of high-end contemporary rhythm, and this album does the opposite of disappoint. These tracks are built for maximum torque, with unyielding percussive patter and richly developed atmospheres, the sort of music you’d expect to cause those alien eggs they found buried under a pyramid to finally hatch. It’s all top-notch, but I would first direct you to “The Other Side Of The Bridge”, which calms things down just enough for the horns to whip up a jazzy romp as heady as it is hedonistic. I know they already made a Where The Wild Things Are movie – maybe they even made more than one – but it kills me that they didn’t wait for Shackleton and Holy Tongue to link up and conjure the perfect soundtrack in the process.

Hyper Gal After Image LP (Skin Graft)
Osaka’s Hyper Gal find a fitting home on Chicago’s Skin Graft Records, the storied imprint that has always welcomed musical saboteurs in from the cold. They also arguably introduced Melt Banana to an American audience, and while similarities to Hyper Gal are no deeper than surface-level, I’d like to think that the imprint remains a trusty conduit for genre-defying music across the globe. Hyper Gal are a duo, Koharu Ishida on vocals and “noise” and Kurumi Kadoya on drums, and they’ve got a peppy take on crusty-yet-experimental pop, an artsy-fartsiness somewhere between Japanther and No Age. The live drums and vocals are natural and familiar, whereas the melodies appear to be distorted, half-busted synths, like something you’d find in James Ferraro’s garage under an inflatable dolphin. Ishida will chant along with the beat while her synths or noises or whatever seem to interact mostly with themselves, not contributing to the flow so much as dissonantly avoiding it. I’m all for that – why play some regular-ass song that will immediately make sense to everyone? – though, in recorded form, After Image isn’t really sticking inside of my skull. It feels like music meant to be experienced live, if that’s not too trite – surely the guitar(?) solo in “GHOST” would be best received by blasting the listener backward off their feet in a crowded little club.

Kings Of High Speed False Start Dub / High Speed Dubbin’ 7″ (Leisure Group)
Brooklyn DJ / producer / co-owner of the Razor-N-Tape label JKriv lays down two slices of heavy-lidded dub for new sub-label Leisure Group, and it’s been the perfect sonic aperitif for these final summer evenings. “False Start Dub” glides on a tweaky loop of digital brass, like migratory geese stopping for a spliff. The arpeggiated synths offer a more cosmic sensation, the plane’s wheels tucking into its undercarriage for a smooth sunset departure. Don’t let the title fool you – “High Speed Dubbin'” remains fully reclined, like a cloud-soft version of the earliest dubstep that came from Coki and Mala. No bass wobbles, only trippy, swinging melody. While still chill as a penguin, “High Speed Dubbin'” creeps with a sense of intrigue, its warbling chords conjuring the tension of a romantic scandal that has yet to be revealed, only hinted at. This isn’t typical dub, nor does it try to be, and while it probably wouldn’t feel out of place as the soundtrack to one of those Tiktok videos where a rich kid shows off his fancy apartment or morning matcha routine, Kings Of High Speed’s elevated caliber is obvious no matter how gaudy your taste level.

Läuten Der Seele Die Reise Zur Monsalwäsche LP (Hands In The Dark)
I know at least a couple noise dudes who’ve either ironically or sincerely pursued Christianity in the past few years, and if a typical mass sounded like Die Reise Zur Monsalw​ä​sche, I’d be right there with them! Christian Schoppik’s Läuten Der Seele project is one of those current-day obscurities where I don’t think I personally know anyone who is a fan but the records all quickly sell out and immediately go for seventy-five bucks or more on the secondary market, an increasingly common fiscal circumstance in our increasingly annoying world. It’s a lot of coin, but I’ve yet to encounter a Läuten Der Seele record that wasn’t worth its weight in frankincense, all of them conjuring various ancient European cultural histories in thrilling, dizzying ways. Die Reise Zur Monsalw​ä​sche leans heavier on classical church choir sounds, presumably ganked from formal orchestral recordings before they’re manipulated/collaged/dubbed/sampled into these two side-long pieces. The technique might be similar to People Like Us or even Nurse With Wound, but the results here are majestic and refined… if God ever got into the remix game, it’d probably sound closer to these blissfully massaged collages than the original source material in all its inherent stuffiness. What if Läuten Der Seele was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?

Loidis One Day 2xLP (Incienso)
Brian Leeds AKA Huerco S. AKA Pendant AKA Loidis is a man of exquisite timing. He seems to know precisely what the underground electronic/dance music audience wants before the audience itself knows; Huerco S.’s For Those Of You Who Have Never (And Also Those Who Have) became a bonafide ambient classic within moments of its release back in 2016, and Pendant’s 2021 release To All Sides They Will Stretch Out Their Hands brought forward a reinvention of brain-scrambling electronica-fog. And now in the risen temps of the summer of 2024, Loidis delivers a sumptuous suite of understated tech-house grooves, twinkling like moonlight on a backyard pool after dark. His tones are waterlogged and dubby, but energized with pulsing rhythms and low-key melodies, always on the move. If it’s liquid house, it’s most certainly carbonated. No one would accuse this sound of being “new” – any number of Basic Channel, Luomo, Jeff Mills, Galcher Lustwerk or Pole cuts could be sonically linked to what Loidis is offering, alongside countless others – but Leeds didn’t invent tranquil ambient music either, he simply sculpts his sonic muses into their most delectable form. The effect is like tasting a homemade five-ingredient chocolate cake after years of pre-packaged Little Debbies, the simplicity and lack of unnecessary additives leading to an immediately heightened experience. I don’t know what I’ll need to hear from Leeds next, but I trust that he will deliver it.

Lolina Unrecognisable LP (Relaxin)
Lolina winds up on my year-end best-of lists religiously, yet none of her records ever sound much like each other, a testament to the success of her boundless creativity. The final installment of a mixed-media trilogy (part one: online graphic novel, part two: live improvised performance), Unrecognisable is really great, and it too sounds nothing like Fast Fashion, or Who Is Experimental Music?, or The Smoke. Compared to those others, Unrecognisable is actually pretty easy to parse, a suite of low-key electro-pop vignettes that often features verses and choruses, two aspects of song-form I know better than to demand or expect from Lolina. Actually, if there’s someone that I’m reminded of here the most, it’s… Kool Keith?! Many of the beats here could charitably fall under the “horror-core” hip-hop sub-genre, and there’s a morose chill to the production that feels very Kool Keith-esque. Lolina speaks/sings her choruses and kinda raps her verses, often quite dead-pan, and frequently interacts with pitch-shifted versions of herself, usually in the lower-register claimed by boogeymen and the demonically possessed. Much like Kool Keith, if you pull all the threads of Unrecognisable apart and study them, it’s evident that Lolina is responding to very real circumstances and societal issues with a lush and fully-functional narrative, but is doing so in a fantastical, funny, creepy, wholly original way.

The Sewerheads Diary Of A Priest / Man Of Infinite Sorrow 7″ (Office Boy)
The first time I ventured to Pittsburgh like two decades ago, it was for punk reasons of course, and on said trip I witnessed the majesty of Jerry’s (RIP) and encountered the enthusiastic Eli Kasan. I think he was in Mary Celeste at the time, but you might know him from Iron Lung recording artists Kim Phuc, or Sub Pop recording artists The Gotobeds. The styles may change, but there’s always been a sense that he really cares, that bands aren’t hobbies to kill the time but meaningful soul-bearing ventures thought-out to the smallest detail, even if it’s only going to be a bar full of mostly friends that ever witness it. The Sewerheads is his newest group, kicking things off with the untimely yet applaudable move of a self-released seven-inch single. It’s interesting stuff, a “mature” post-punk sound whose kindness shouldn’t be mistaken for weakness. “Diary Of A Priest” is a ghostly serenade guided by the electric violin of Shani Banerjee. You can’t deny the Dirty Three feel conjured by Banerjee, but the music hits closer to something else, like Rowland S. Howard stumbling into Lungfish. “Man Of Infinite Sorrow” pushes and pulls with a drunken-carnival feel akin to Marching Church, or I guess current-day Iceage as well as they’ve gotten more and more Bad Seeds-inspired. Banerjee shreds on the violin like we all wish we could, and the band locks in, not only on this cool b-side song, but a curious sound full of potential.

SIKM Now I Must Comply 12″ (Beach Impediment)
Gonna trust that the discerning folks at Beach Impediment did their due diligence on Atlanta’s SIKM, as modern Oi (much like classic Oi) has no shortage of awful right-wing idiots masquerading as free-thinkers. I’m assuming SIKM’s gotta be on the side of the, uh, “good guys”, so when they sing “light up the torches / turn up in force / bring out the hatred / we’re at your door” in “We Won’t Behave”, I’m going to give the benefit of the doubt that they mean that in an anti-white-power sorta way. Their music itself isn’t limp and cheesy in the ways that appeal to racist losers; rather, SIKM’s songs maintain a level of energy and grit befitting hardcore-punk, somewhere in the league of Slapshot’s Step On It, early Blitz and Rixe, whose Maxime Smadja actually recorded and produced Now I Must Comply in Paris, faraway from SIKM’s southern US home. I thought flying to different countries to record music was reserved for stars like The Bee-Gees and New Order, not a DIY band with a Beach Impediment record deal, but it’s nearly 2025 and anything is apparently possible. Against all odds, The Exploited still exist, so why shouldn’t SIKM cross the globe in search of the thickest UK82 sound they can find?

SnPLO Seven Hundred And Fifty Loops 12″ (Pin)
No style of music thrives through indifferent anonymity like techno. I’m not sure I’d really want to check out a rock band with undisclosed identities, but techno folks who pick some random moniker that offers no real detail as to who they are? Gimme it all day long. SnPLO is the duo of PLO Man (previously reviewed in these pages) and someone else who goes by Snp 500. I think PLO Man is German, and Snp 500’s label Doo is based in Montreal, so who really knows where they live and how they got together, and I guess now that I’m sitting here ruminating on it, who really cares either. The music they deliver on this new twelve-inch is gloriously anonymous as well, bustling sheets of techno that end in locked grooves more times than not. Though not the full seven hundred and fifty loops promised by the title, I prefer it this way, SnPLO cutting into rich hardware-driven grooves that shift in nearly imperceptible ways. Across these unwavering patterns, various filters and mix levels are adjusted only slightly, with shimmery dub effects that wash past like the landscape as viewed from a moving vehicle. You can focus on something else and kind of ignore the changes, or stare directly into your speaker cones to uncover its secret, shifting sonic features, or find a nice in-between zone, like cranking it while washing the dishes. Lose yourself in these grooves, and before you realize it, you’re standing in front of a stack of sparkling pots and pans.

Spirit Of The Beehive You’ll Have To Lose Something LP (Saddle Creek)
If you’ve ever felt ripped off by songs that have one, two, maybe three separate ideas happening within them, be sure to check out Spirit Of The Beehive’s You’ll Have To Lose Something, which seems to cram at least a couple hundred different things into each two- to three-minute track. Phew! This trio broke up and got back together, and somewhere in that interpersonal journey discovered the joy of sampling, no longer confined to the music that can come from their amps and now armed with the entire spectrum of recorded sound at their disposal. On one hand, I’d say that just because you can doesn’t mean you should, but I sloughed off that conservative attitude pretty quickly as I settled into You’ll Have To Lose Something. These tracks ricochet from cut-up samples to basically every musical genre officially recognized by Spotify, from crunchy grunge-gaze to trip-hop, slow-core emo-pop, lo-fi R&B, sample-tronica, ’80s new-age schmaltz and domestic noise. If you need your brain to be able to control the music it’s hearing, always one step ahead of what is about to happen, this record will stress you out, but if you can give in to this deep bowl of sonic spaghetti and enjoy its innumerable moments of blissful confusion, accepting that some of its most savory moments are often its most fleeting, there’s a good chance you’ll never want to let it go.

34 Trolley Relaxation EP 12″ (Feel The Four)
No guesswork necessary as to the inspiration behind the new project from Jarrett Dougherty, best known for his career as Screaming Females’ drummer. The sticker on the sleeve plainly states “Early 1980s NYC-style Post-Punk Mutant Disco” as well as “for fans of: ESG, Tom Tom Club, Liquid Liquid, Dinosaur L” in case you weren’t putting the pieces together. I see this as a move to tempt an interested audience that would’ve otherwise thumbed past this twelve-inch in the record bins, and I appreciate anyone who still treats record shops as a primary node of musical connection between artist and prospective listener. The sticker ain’t lying, either – each of these tracks pairs simple-yet-effective bass-lines with steady disco-punk drums, neither of which stray off course at any point; if 34 Trolley is at all no-wave inspired, it’s certainly not taking cues from Mars and DNA. The bass and drums provide a sturdy if rudimentary foundation, upon which guitars, vibes, horns, and most notably, the lead vocals of ex-bandmate Marissa Paternoster and Brittany Luna (of ska-punk sensations Catbite) provide splashes of personality, though the additional elements are generally deployed one at a time, never all at once. If the sticker had more room, they could also mention that fans of Tussle’s first few records or that great Chandra twelve-inch might also want to take a peep, but that’s what this review is for now isn’t it?

Ulla & Perila Jazz Plates 2xLP (Paralaxe Editions)
Having previously collaborated long-distance, Jazz Plates finds two of my favorite electro-experimentalists collaborating in person. I’m enchanted by Ulla’s still-warm collaboration with Ultrafog from earlier this year, and I’m jonesing hard for a new one from Pmxper, Perila’s collaboration with Pavel Milyakov, so Jazz Plates entered my electronic shopping cart with an abundance of good graces. No doubt, it’s cool – they stretch their limbs wide across these two discs, unburdened by time-sensitivity or narrative. Vocals are persistent and as wordless as the piano, which stumbles through day-drunk motifs as one-off percussive hits, gauzy horns and a bevy of non-musical sounds appear. It doesn’t seem like a whole lot was really pre-planned here, but that probably would’ve spoiled the mood, one of aimless exploration. If there are elements that bear similarities to Charalambides, Félicia Atkinson and Ssabæ here, which I posit that there are, it’s not by design; I get the impression that both Ulla and Perila aren’t prone to outside interference in pursuit of their elusive, blurry muse, so much as the great and simple act of Just Seeing What Happens. For my money, I prefer Ulla and Perila’s more grounded material, stuff that feels a smidge more thought-out than of-the-moment, but I’m not going to regret it when I pull Jazz Plates out again in a year and find myself blissfully transported to whatever isolated barn / luxury loft / abandoned subway station they recorded it in, quietly petting a cat as they shuffle through their gear on the floor.

Uniform American Standard LP (Sacred Bones)
Some ten years, eight full-lengths, countless tours and many well-received collaborations under their belt, Brooklyn’s Uniform have earned the right to coast if they want to. Churn out some more music that sounds like Uniform, print up some new black t-shirts with white ink designs, and their core audience will remain happily satiated for the foreseeable future. I wouldn’t blame them if they entered this cruise-control phase of their existence, but instead I offer them the most sincere of kudos for not doing that, instead pushing into deeper, dirtier and uncharted extreme-music territory on what most will surely agree is their finest moment (at least so far!), American Standard. Currently boasting two percussionists and a bassist along with the core unit of Ben Greenberg (guitar, production) and Michael Berdan (vocals, synths), this is an absolute beast of an album, four distinct-yet-complimentary cuts of forward-minded industrial/sludge/noise. The title track delivers the first bold move, encompassing the A-side in over twenty minutes of thrilling, pounding industrial metal, heavier than lead and come to think of it, kinda like Led Zeppelin when that chugging, chiming choral motif locks in too. “This Is Not A Prayer” goes heavier on the percussion, like a couple of helicopters emergency landing on Iron Monkey’s stoner-sludge as Berdan continues to squawk like one of those breeds of vultures who evolved featherless faces so they can more easily dig into bloody carcasses. “Clemency” rules too, not far from the meanest Boris material yet enhanced with the sort of eerie soundscaping that might appeal to a Ghostemane fan. I don’t know what else to say, honestly – American Standard actively seeks out ass to beat from start to finish, and I haven’t even touched on the personal poignancy of Berdan’s lyrics, as the music gives me so much to rave about. In a word: recommended!

Franck Vigroux Grand Bal LP (Aesthetical)
Not enough room in the building for this gigantic new record from French electro-brutalist Franck Vigroux. He’s always had a penchant for unrelenting sonic architecture, wide swaths of heavy sound that seem to shake with excessive electricity, and he continues to push himself forward with Grand Bal. I wasn’t sure what to make of the cover art, in all its Hollywood neon Italians Do It Better slickness, but one sniff of opener “Loïc” knocked me on my can immediately. It’s a shrieking industrial-techno shocker, perfect for the trailer of one of those new horror movies based around modern-day plastic surgery, Gucci models sitting blankly in a sterilized room with their entrails in their laps. And this is before the black-metal pterodactyl vocals really kick in! Mercifully, not all of Grand Bal is this overtly aggressive, but even at its more pensive, creeping moments (like the epic build of “Lightnin'”) the album is fully juiced and menacing, the sound of the final boss that you thought you defeated bursting through the wall even bigger, stronger and more disgustingly deformed. If there was a daring enough rapper out there to drop some rhymes over the first half of “68”, it’d be the biggest track of the year, but that rapper would probably have to be 6’11”, 375 pounds and have one forearm cybernetically replaced with a crossbow in order for it to work. Humanity’s evolution hasn’t yet caught up to the thrilling power of Franck Vigroux’s electronic music.

Weak Signal Fine LP (12XU)
Laid-back NYC fuzz purveyors Weak Signal continue their fruitful relationship with 12XU care of Fine, their fourth full-length and second for the label. Weak Signal reek of that distinctly New York form of hip, something that’s harder to find these days as authentic New York City culture continues to shrink, raisin-like, in the face of big-money homogenization. Their songs are simple and disarmingly straightforward, yet the list of involved parties reads like a who’s who of the people too cool to be featured in Meet Me In The Bathroom: Hot Chip’s Alexis Taylor, Gang Gang Dance’s Doug Shaw and Cass McCombs all contribute (and there’s probably someone from Endless Boogie lurking in the rehearsal space, rolling something up for everyone to smoke later). Guitarist/vocalist Mike Bones slowly enunciates his drawl over four-on-the-floor drumming and thick syrupy two-chord riffs, sounding extra heavy when mute-picking and purified when he lets the guitar ring out. Bones has one of those great indie “singer without a singer’s voice” styles, sincere while cracking a smirk, and as he’s consistently backed up by bassist Sasha Vine and drummer Tran Huynh on secondary vocals, the whole thing hits like timeless guitar pop on just the right amount of downers. Sleepy but attentive, unadorned but sophisticated, Fine exudes the metropolitan cool that you won’t find in an officially-licensed Ramones baby onesie.

Abe Froman Baltimore Is Scum 7″ (Salinas / Big Dreams)
You say: why spend your time and money reissuing a pop-punk EP nearly a quarter of a century old? I say: well, why do anything at all? Why do we even exist, man?? No one can answer any of these questions with any sort of authority, so let’s all sit back and check out what Abe Froman sounded like in the year 2000 on their debut six-song seven-inch. I don’t think I purposely avoided the group back then, but I never made any effort to check them out, due to a perceived association with the likes of folk-punkers Soophie Nun Squad, Defiance, Ohio and Against Me!, music that I abhorred then and have no intentions of going back to see if there’s anything I missed now. While Abe Froman’s connections to that scene may have existed socially, I’m relieved to learn that their music falls closer to traditional ’90s DIY pop-punk, informed by Lookout! and K bands but lacking a large national audience or studio budget. There are certain bands that I’m reminded of while listening, but they’re too extremely provincial for me to even list here, on a website where I already write as if every reader has the exact same record collection as me. (Fine, here are three: Halflings, Aisle Nine and Grieving Eucalyptus. Happy?) Anyway, all those bands are gone now, Abe Froman too, but the folks over at Salinas and Big Dreams decided Baltimore Is Scum needed to make the rounds once again, in our ever more fractured and corporatized punk rock underground.

Ambient Noise I Was There At The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 12″ (Last Laugh)
Ambient Noise was a rural first-wave punk project active before both “ambient” and “noise” became recognized genres of their own. The sole seven-inch release from this group is a tasty Killed By Death morsel, so the generous archivists over at Last Laugh whipped it up into a twelve-inch EP, complete with two tracks that didn’t appear on the original single. Not sure where those two other songs came from, but they certainly fit right in, presumably from the same (or a closely-related) recording session. It’s all lightweight, goofball punk in its purest form, with song titles that probably did ruffle a few feathers back in the day, from the titular celebration of horror to “Test Tube Babies” and “Hostage Hotspot”. Schlock and obnoxiousness are key, but Ambient Noise keep it fairly under control in the studio, much closer to Jonathan Richman’s school of punk than Johnny Rotten’s. The music has some of that good-time rock n’ roll feel that predates new-wave, even if the lyrics revel in topics inappropriate for Thanksgiving table talk circa 1980. Most of these Last Laugh releases are bare-bones affairs, and this one mostly is too, though I appreciate the insert, which brandishes a Warner Bros. Records rejection letter sent to the band back in the day. What could be a prouder badge of honor for nerdy, outcast punks at the dawn of the ’80s than a formal letter confirming that these old industry squares don’t know the first thing about real rock music?

Baby Tyler Band Baby Tyler Band LP (Night Bell)
Interesting choice of cover photo here, as Baby Tyler Band are caught in a moment of clearly not rocking out. The bassist is checking his pedal and a guitarist is actually stroking his chin in a moment of contemplation, waiting for things to get started. Maybe it was simply the only shot they had with everyone in the frame, as Baby Tyler Band’s amped-up and rambunctious garage-punk isn’t made for standing still. They generally work a variety of mid-tempos with almost grunge-like grooves if the riffs had any whiff of metal to them (they don’t), and it gives these songs a sweaty liveliness that might’ve been lost if they sped things up (or slowed ’em down). The back cover states that the album was recorded live, and while I’m fine with bands recording however they want, the energy and cohesion that emanates off this record is undeniable, right down to the dual guitar solos of closer “Overnight Sensation”, vocalist Baby Tyler soaked through his shirt at this point and snarling as fiercely as Bobby Soxx after working a double shift at his uncle’s pizza parlor. Their style of music doesn’t demand to be “locked in” to work, but Baby Tyler Band clearly came to the studio well-rehearsed and able to let it fly, no production trickery needed. There’s a chance it might be a little too aggro for the garage scene and too rockin’ for the mosh crowd but it’s just right for me.

Bilders Dustbin Of Empathy LP (Grapefruit / Sophomore Lounge)
It really seems like the most evil white dudes among us live the longest, but occasionally a clever, benevolent soul perseveres, as is the case with New Zealand singer/writer Bill Direen. I’m not sure how old he is exactly but anyone who was playing music in the early ’70s has to be up there now, and he’s gotta be one of the coolest of his graduating class, having made a name for himself in the ’80s New Zealand underground, consistently writing and recording. I had the pleasure of seeing him perform a couple years ago, and his command of both the audience and his songs was as charming as it was impressive. This new album from his on-again off-again group Bilders is weathered and rich, a soft, tender record full of the wisdom and skill that can only be developed over decades of artistic exploration. Thanks to the somber, alt-country-adjacent tone and Direen’s weary voice, there’s an aura similar to Johnny Cash’s final Rick Rubin sessions, though unlike Cash’s solitary approach, Direen’s music is community-based, still very much in tune with the world rather than resigned to departing it. His lyrics are quick-witted and insightful, sure to please the listeners that make the effort to really listen. Dustbin Of Empathy imagines psychedelia not as an escape from reality but rather a lens through which to view it.

Burial / Kode9 Phoneglow / Eyes Go Blank 12″ (Hyperdub)
So many artists have aped Burial over the past couple decades now, taking indirect or blatant influence from his production style and techniques, but there’s still only one Burial, innit? I fell hard for his music following the first full-length and have been as enraptured as the next guy typing on his laptop about music ever since, and while the pretty significant catalog of Burial tunes can point to different moods and directions (there’s quite of lot of beatless ambient under his belt now, for instance), it’s nice to jump into the immediate comfort of “Phoneglow”. This is classic, timeless Burial from the jump, propelled by the skip of a broken-beat and the various ghosts of rave: disembodied R&B vocal hooks, stabbing trance synths, a heady swirl of shiny-wet London streets and the magic that flows through them, hopes and dreams dancing in unison with melancholy and regret. Phew! Kode9 is probably the first other name anyone thinks of when they think of Burial, thanks to the years-long collaborations in art and business, and while he doesn’t have the same distinctly defined sound, that’s not a negative. “Eyes Go Blank” is a timely-yet-fresh collision of junglist beat-mapping and an aggressively extraterrestrial vibe conjured by (probably AI?) vocals and pounding synths, not unlike Amnesia Scanner’s Another Life. Neither of these guys have anything to prove, and yet here they are, proving the hell out of it anyway.

Callahan & Witscher Think Differently LP (Post Present Medium)
It’s starting to feel like I’ve been living in the ’90s for a quarter of a century now. There was a brief respite in the ’00s, but since roughly 2010 the amount of ’90s nostalgia, rehashing, excavation and re-interpretation has been staggering. This new album from Jack Callahan and Jeff Witscher looks like Spacehog posing for an Apple ad that’s meant to tempt college freshmen into buying those big colorful iMacs, so while I was gripping my chair in preparation for another tasteless nostalgia blast, I was encouraged by three bits of information: Think Differently was released by the great avant-punk label Post Present Medium, Callahan has done time with Home Blitz and Sunburned Hand of The Man, and Witscher’s prior aliases include Impregnable and Rene Hell. True to their experimental, sonically-antagonistic natures, Think Differently sounds nothing like their prior groups, and wields its ’90s nostalgia like Neil Hamburger’s punchlines. They’ve pastiched sound-alike bits and bobs from the sunshine-y alt-purgatory of groups like Sublime, Len and Sugar Ray into a Frankenstein’s monster of self-aware wit, pop hooks and dry cynicism. It’s like a big smile that starts to seep blood, akin on some level to 100 Gecs but significantly de-caffeinated (yet still sick with AutoTune), perhaps closer to ISS in the way that their sampling techniques are used to impart shock and dread. Yes, that’s a Taco Bell bell sound-effect used once in “Boiler Room” (which pokes directly at the futility of content-creating DJ nonsense), and it’s a hilarious joke, but also not a joke at all. I’m not sure anyone is going to “get” this record – I’m not sure I do – but everyone needs to hear it and then take a good long look in the mirror.

Charly Bliss Forever LP (Lucky Number)
Charly Bliss were always a pop band – their debut full-length Guppy is some of my absolute favorite guitar pop of the past ten years, no doubt about it. A few years after their follow-up Young Enough, Charly Bliss’s third full-length Forever is here, a pristine and unabashed pop album that leaves the traditional rock quartet vibe in the rear-view. The digital sheen of electronics have taken over, resulting in a polished, shiny sound that’s equal parts Postal Service, Carly Rae Jepsen and Y2K Disney Channel. I’m curious how they will perform these songs live, as they’re overtly synthetic studio productions that don’t seem ripe for a band who would normally roll into town with a drum kit, amps, pedals and cables. They mercifully eschew the stomp-clap ‘whoa-oh’ style favored by much of the G-rated mainstream pop out there, but Forever still feels more like a post-Jack Antonoff record than a post-Liz Phair one, which is probably good for little kids but not as good for big old me. Vocalist Eva Hendricks’s voice is as outrageously squeaky as ever – I mean, even on Guppy she could’ve played the wacky next-door neighbor on an episode of Lizzie McGuire – and her lyrics are still a cut above, talking about heartbreak and modernity and youth in memorable, novel ways, but with the music’s bold new glossy plastic outerwear, I get a little lost along the way. Shocking, I know – what’s next, I’m gonna find out that I’m not the target demographic for having a Brat Summer?

The Dark Sinking Into Madness LP (Toxic State)
Sinking Into Madness is peak modern underground punk in that it almost sounds as if it was focused-grouped by the taste-making punk rock cognoscenti, so perfect are its many details and finishing touches, but it’s also a fantastic ripper no matter who (or what) made it. This almost certainly isn’t the first band from Los Angeles to call themselves “The Dark”, but this one seems to have siphoned off the power of all previous The Darks, learning from their mistakes and really just nailing aggressive, catchy, blackened-yet-melodic punk with this incredibly appealing set of songs. They meld death-rock, heavy-metal, hardcore and punk in a streamlined fashion, avoiding each genre’s generally-understood pitfalls and weaknesses. Your favorite songs by Code Of Honor, Crucifix, Legal Weapon, Judas Priest, G.I.S.M. and Christian Death? The Dark synthesizes it all here for your spike-braceleted pleasure. Such varied songwriting can pose a challenge to the vocalist, no matter if it’s punk or metal or some other third thing, but vocalist Irvin Kim aces the assignment with his expressive, multi-dimensional voice, mostly sounding like a hybrid of Crucifix’s Sothira Pheng, Iceage’s Elias Rønnenfelt and Darby Crash (of the Darby Crash Band). Everything is slurred, but in ways both soothingly melodic and snarlingly hot depending on the song’s demands. Sinking Into Madness is gonna be a favorite for a lot of different people this year, yours truly included.

Marie Davidson Y.A.A.M. 12″ (Deewee)
Dance track of the summer! I’ve loved Marie Davidson’s music for a while now, from the solo-credited productions to her albums with Essaie Pas; there’s this undeniable attitude she brings to her songs, far from the soulless femme avatars that think sounding disinterested and hot is all it takes. If Davidson has praise to offer, she sings it, and if she has smack to talk, she sneers it, no punches pulled. This leads us to “Y.A.A.M.”, which very well might be the defining Marie Davidson song. This twelve-inch contains the original mix, whose sensual, Egyptian Lover-esque thump is the perfect vehicle for her grand telling-off of industry leeches. She literally spells out an acronym of “fuck you” in her hilarious, biting, deadpan manner, and if you’re not fully behind her on it, I pray for your sorry soul. This record features an acapella mix for you to build your own track around (or to ensure you don’t mistake a word), as well as an extended Soulwax remix, those savvy DJs knowing a big-room tune when they hear one. They raise the pulse, juice up the percussive elements and stretch the builds for maximum club power. I can’t quite figure out what the title stands for – the closest I get is when she repeats “you are using me”, which isn’t quite right, but I’m probably missing something obvious, blinded by the sheer joy that comes with listening to it. “Fake positivity is as cringe as it gets” cuts through loud and clear, however, and if you want, you can sing along!

Dommer Cemetery Bread / Unless We’re Friends 7″ (no label)
It’s odd that Dommer’s debut seven-inch doesn’t have one of those little “distributed by K” stickers on the poly-sleeve. The style displayed by this vellum-papered single is right up K’s alley, scruffy and simplified indie music that’s poppy, hand-crafted and smarter than it wants to let on. “Cemetery Bread”‘s melody is played on less than six guitar string and two buzzing synth pre-sets, a homespun ditty that feels on par with Tyvek at their least agitated. “Unless We’re Friends” is half as long, a gleeful indie-pop blast where the backing vocals are louder than the lead vocals, making me wonder if I ever heard The Mr. T Experience’s earliest demos or simply always wanted to. They could’ve let it rip for a third verse, but Dommer preferred to jam this one econo, and I’m certainly not going to complain about any efforts in reductionism. Cool to see that music as carefree, self-assured and obviously DIY is still coming out of Brooklyn these days; whatever paid influencer-sponsored content is polluting our social-media feeds right now, this most certainly ain’t that.

Free Tala Underwater Sounds To Lure The Fishes LP (Satatuhatta)
If you’re gonna pick up a vast and desolate drone album allegedly designed to attract fish by playing it underwater, it should probably be from a country like Finland, don’t you think? I’m sure the drone artists of Prince Edward Island, Key West and Panama might be worthy of adding their voices to the conversation, but until I encounter those, I’m going to take Free Tala’s word on the subject. Of course, experimental Finnish sound-artist Juho Toivonen could be taking the piss with this record’s theme, but regardless of whether or not you’re trying to lure some plump Baltic herring, Sounds To Lure The Fishes is a deep, luxuriant drone excursion. Three big tracks, all of which stir up sediment through drones that slowly unfurl their lengthy tails, perpetually echoing in mid- to low-end stasis. Very much in the school of minimalist drone established by such greats as Alvin Lucier and LaMonte Young, these rich ambient flourishes are peaceful in their isolation, so deep underwater that sunlight is unable to render them in color. I’ve never been one for fishing (it’s all fun and games until there’s a hook piercing a fish’s mouth that needs to be removed), but I am partial to laying flat on my back and following the afternoon light as it slowly passes across my bedroom wall, an activity for which this Free Tala album is also well suited.

Gen Gap Hanging Out With Gen Gap 7″ (MF)
It really feels like you’re hanging with Philly’s own Gen Gap when blasting this undeniably hardcore-punk EP, featuring no songs suitable for radio play. It’s released on the Delco MF’s label, a label I had previously assumed was theirs and theirs alone, but seeing as Gen Gap boasts the membership of a few of those delightful fools, it starts to makes sense. Anyway, you get nine songs here, all of which are boisterous and irritated – how else could you deliver a song called “Fuckshit”? This is hardcore-punk, no capital H, which means that while speeds do vary, there is no room for karate-kicking to any of these tunes. Opener “Strut” has me thinking of speedy groups from the ’00s like Life’s Halt and Cut The Shit, but the aforementioned “Fuckshit” is punk, closer to Dark Thoughts or Career Suicide than Negative Approach. This is all to say that Gen Gap aren’t rewriting the punk rock playbook, but they’re pulling out a variety of its pages and making sure their pissed-off, energized attitude cuts through loud and clear. You catch an elbow to the face at a Gen Gap pit and laugh, not fume! I’m impressed they recorded it at Foto Club, an isolated Northeast Philly haven for punk in various forms, though I didn’t realize the club moonlighted as a recording studio too. That’s the beauty of having access to a giant old crumbly building on the outskirts of town – you can do whatever the hell you want with it!

Hot Tubs Time Machine 50 Shades Of Marcus / No Thanks, Google Maps 7″ (Spoilsport)
It’s already a little unfair that I sprung the band name “Hot Tubs Time Machine” on you and forced you to at least scan past the name, so if you’re still with me, I appreciate it! It’s not too much more of an ask that you read onward, then, because this Aussie duo is quite charming if you’ll give them half a chance like I did. It’s Daniel Twomey (of Deaf Wish) making the music and Marcus Rechsteiner (of UV Race) on the mic, and while minimalist indie post-punk isn’t an unprecedented foray into sound, Twomey and Rechsteiner come through with big winning personality that cannot be denied. “50 Shades Of Marcus” is further proof these two are in need of serious help coming up with names of things, but the song itself is quite fun, Rechsteiner breaking the third wall to explain to co-workers that yes, he’s a punk rocker in the evenings over the skeletal funk of Twomey’s bass/drums/synth. “No Thanks Google Maps” is upbeat, glistening and as invigorating as a Sunday morning stroll, though Rechsteiner takes the opportunity to use sarcastically taunt Google Maps, a (currently non-)sentient computer program. Hot Tubs Time Machine are like the comedic good-guy inverse of Sleaford Mods, the Michael Cera to their Jason Statham. Did I just accidentally cast the male leads of the next Hot Tub Time Machine sequel?

Muro Nuevo Dogma LP (Fuerza Ingobernable)
When a hardcore record arrives with a pencil sketch cover of oppressive political forces engaged in a whirlwind of violence part Where’s Waldo? part Hieronymus Bosch, you know it’s on the right track! Muro are a Colombian hardcore group and Nuevo Dogma is their fourth full-length, the second to be reviewed in these pages after Beach Impediment brought Ataque Hardcore Punk to us North American punks. Nuevo Dogma maintains the intensity, a frantic and European-indebted form of hardcore that finds a place between Raw Power and Anti-Cimex on the Hardcore Rawness Matrix Graph that exists only in my head. I’ll cop to not having spun their debut in a while, but Nuevo Dogma seems a little more metallically-inclined, with plenty of searing leads, galloping drums and stormy riffs. The b-side in particular gets into this, with “Destierro” sounding like Muro passed around a partied-on copy of Creeping Death before brainstorming new tunes. The recording also has that sort of second-hand aesthetic, sounding more like a tape that was dubbed multiple times than a fresh and booming studio recording, but this is punk, not the Eurovision Song Contest. My copy came with an enlarged poster of the cover art, its captivating black-and-white rendering practically begging me to bust out the colored pencils… what color should I use for the guillotine blood, dark red or maroon?

Nikolajev Lego Dub / Tongue Double 7″ (Sad Fun)
High-energy sampler workouts abound on this new single from Estonia’s Nikolajev. “Lego Dub” is a fresh and lively cut, skipping double-dutch to some crusty percussive sounds and airy melodies. Not really “dub” in any sense of the word, nor is the world’s most famous interlocking brick toy invoked in the sounds… seems like Nikolajev is simply having a little fun with words. “Lego Dub” smacks like one of those great early Joe singles, ratchety sounds interlocked and interwoven for some undeniable party fun. “Tongue Double”, on the other hand, is a digi-dub creeper of fine regard. It maintains an unhurried composure, like a kayak trip through a hidden waterway on an island paradise, colorful birds flittering above and the winking eye of a crocodile poking out of the water. Both tracks feel freshly created, the sort of thing that you’d think Nikolajev could whip up from scratch over and over, not a set of laptop wave-forms that were tweaked and modified over multiple weeks. Very much in line with the recent offerings from my favorite Estonian label, Porridge Bullet, which makes one wonder: is this stylish, left-field electro-house the dominant form of music in the capital city of Tallinn, and if so, how does an American apply for permanent residence?

Molly Nilsson Un-American Activities LP (Night School)
By my count, this is the tenth full-length from Molly Nilsson, and I have to wonder, has she switched up her gear once in all that time? Nilsson’s sound remains distinctive and more or less unwavering throughout her discography, and those same crystalline synths, ’80s slow-dance drum pads and karaoke-machine sound-packs are firmly in place on her newest, Un-American Activities. If you’re a fan of what she does (and I know I am), this is no complaint, though assuming we’re a record buying audience and not just a casual-streaming crowd (and I hope we are!), I leave up to you the appropriate number of Molly Nilsson records to maintain in your possession. I’m at five myself, and plan on spending a bit more time with Un-American Activities in order to suss out its subtle differences from the rest of the pack. As is her wont, the theme here is overt and unfiltered, which is refreshing in this moment where everyone knows things are terrible but so few pop artists have anything to specifically say about it. There’s a song called “Palestine” on here and I don’t have to tell you what side she’s on; “Jackboots Return” lashes out against her resident country of Germany’s revitalized interest in social oppression. She’s explicitly, unflinchingly political throughout, smacking down the United States in a manner you’d expect from an anarcho-crust group, though she’s taking sonic influence from jacking house music and electro new-beat, not Amebix. In 2024, no anti-imperialist dance-party soundtrack would be complete without Un-American Activities.

Michele Ottini Acqua Alla Gola 7″ (Pace In Stereo)
Got into the Swiss Pace In Stereo label after discovering the series of seven-inch singles they released for a guy named Narco Marco, tastefully updating the ’80s new-wave break-dance style with understated dance grooves, like a shadowy Swiss corollary to the Future Times and Mood Hut labels. The newest for the label comes from Michele Ottini, whose two tunes here fit in perfectly with the label’s coked-up, suit-and-tie ’80s dance vibes. “Acqua Alla Gola” is a catchy little instrumental Italo nugget, no diva necessary to imbue the tune with its emotional strife and sweat-glistened passion. I’m picturing Joe Yellow chasing the visage of a lost love down winding cobblestoned streets, his baggy silk suit flapping in the Mediterranean breeze. “Stella D’oro” is probably not an homage to the Italian cookie, but who knows for sure? It plays out like Ruth’s “Polaroïd/Roman/Photo” as sensually remixed by Asylum Party, once again instrumental and full of throwback glamour in each and every layer. Both sides are satisfyingly luxe instrumentals, though if you wanted to record your own vocal tracks over them and send it to the Pace In Stereo posse, who knows what could happen? Surely there are worse ways to scam your way into a trip to Switzerland.

Peace De Résistance Lullaby For The Debris LP (La Vida Es Un Mus / Peace De)
The cool thing about being in a band is feeling like part of a little gang, that hard-bonded communist/democratic/anarchic teamwork in pursuit of a common goal. The cool thing about doing a solo project is being able to go absolutely buck-wild without answering to anybody! That’s why I’m often disappointed in solo projects that sound as safe as regular bands, and also why I’m very pleased by the second album from Peace De Résistance, the solo project of Institute’s Mose Brown. He’s a great vocalist for scrappy punk, but as Peace De Résistance, it’s as if he’s embracing his delirious glam aspirations, dragged up and stepping out of the bedroom and into the alley for the first time, amazed at how gorgeous he feels. His shimmery, eyeshadowed, come-hither cover portrait fits the sound like a custom sequined jumpsuit, snug in the crotch but cut that way on purpose. The music here wobbles and struts, unafraid to cram some funk, cabaret, pop and new-wave in a confetti cannon before letting it explode in the street. Extremely fun and uninhibited stuff, even solely on a musical level – does Brown really play all these instruments himself? – but it’s his vocals that make Lullaby For The Debris a star-dusted standout. He sounds like he learned the English language by reading someone’s exaggerated description of it, savoring his vowels like tasty caramel candies and spitting his consonants like gristle, a brand-new elocution somewhere between the villainous 1930s radio character-actors and 1980s cartoon voice-actors, had they worked the door together at Studio 54. Brown’s having an absolute ball and you’re making a mistake if you don’t join in.

Poison Ruïn Confrere 12″ (Relapse)
There’s an understandable hesitance in getting into dungeon-punk: you want to lose yourself to the fantasy of sword-wielding anarcho-knights disposing of fascist orcs through the ancient moors, but you don’t want to feel like a corny dork about it. Philadelphia’s Poison Ruïn have you covered, as they make the medieval D&D aesthetic palatable for even the staunchest haters of make-believe. They’ve got chain-mail and cloaks, but it somehow doesn’t feel like a costume so much as a righteous response to contemporary forms of oppression. That’s probably because their music takes the catchier elements of underground metal and works them into a moody, melodic punk tapestry. It calls to mind a lot of those first-wave Japanese hardcore bands who forayed into more goth-metallic realms as the ’80s progressed, like The Execute and Randy Uchida Group’s Deathly Fighter EP, though the gruff vocals of Mac Kennedy remain best suited to a cover of Doom’s “Police Bastard”, not Bauhaus or Mötley Crüe. If you like the Ren-Faire vibes that lead into “Execute”, you’ll be pleased to know that members of Poison Ruïn also released a Relapse LP under the alias Shadow Knell, a full-length’s worth of blackened historical-ambient, but it’s the furious punk heart of these tracks that gets me stoked to weave through the circle pit on my way to applying for a blacksmith apprenticeship.

Quintron Commercial Jingles 7″ (Related)
A couple weeks ago I was listening to an unlabeled CD-r mix and I was really digging one song, sounded like some sort of Back From The Grave teenage freak-out rock trio probably worth big bucks on the collector’s market. After some sleuthing I was able to determine that it was actually… Quintron covering KISS’s “God Of Thunder”. Whoops! There’s a beauty in not knowing what you’re listening to, and I have to wonder what other accidental Quintron exposure I’ve had through the years. This guy has been pretty much everywhere, an unsung national treasure for sure, and this new, kinda throwaway-by-design EP of his “commercial jingles” is another small piece in Quintron’s big colorful jigsaw puzzle. There are two ads for his “drum buddy” drum machine, the second adding a bit of manic old-school hip-hop flair; a peskily-catchy jingle for something called “bath buddy”; and a track about a singing house that I need to know more about, especially as the clip-clop drums had me thinking it was actually promoting a singing horse until I checked the label. Quintron is really the Billy Mays we need for these troubled times, peddling his own homemade dream-machines like Willy Wonka, if Willy Wonka ever toured with The Locust. Hell, whatever the bath buddy is, sign me up for two.

Rat Henry Material Pop Volume One LP (Minimum Table Stacks)
Minimum Table Stacks continues to reveal new underground sounds that we didn’t know we needed to hear. I’m still adjusting my spine to those Sheaves albums, and now I’ve got the debut from New York’s Rat Henry to enjoy as well. It’s the work of one Ray Zarnowitz, who doesn’t come with a resume of prior bands but a healthy career as an abstract painter, which, let’s face it, is way cooler baggage to bring to a dingy DIY post-punk bedroom project than a list of old band names. Perhaps it’s this perspective that helps Material Pop Volume One stick out in a sea of anti-social white-male post-punk projects – it doesn’t feel competitive against or even particularly in conversation with those other acts. Even when this all started in the very early ’80s, there were groups that seemed to be aware of each other, and outliers that don’t fit neatly into any narrative, and this record feels like the latter. Rat Henry’s songs are understated and subdued, little drum-machine / guitar vignettes with soft-spoken vocals, always teetering on the edge of some sort of electro-shock transgression but never quite hitting it. Reminds me of the collective M Squared artists in that Rat Henry also seems to be looking beyond typical creative confines, his moody DIY pop refusing to defile itself in order to get a point across. It’s a possibility that he’s an avid listener of Leonard Cohen and Lemon Kittens and wanted to merge the sounds of those two, but even more likely he put down his paintbrush for a minute and pondered what it’d be like to make a little music all his own.

Red Cross 1981-1982 No Message LP (Beach Impediment)
Great archival find here from Beach Impediment, once again proving that Virginia had more than its fair share of early hardcore gems that didn’t enter the typical hardcore history texts. This Red Cross features zero McDonald brothers; they accidentally shared the band name at essentially the same early time (as outlined by this album’s title), and featured guys who went on to form none other than White Cross. I’d guess that the first Californian Red Cross EP barely made it to the east coast by the time that Virginia’s Red Cross called it a day in the summer of 1982, so no harm no foul. Now that I’ve established the historical context, let’s get to the music, as Red Cross play one of my favorite early hardcore-punk styles: they often sound like the first year of Dischord if that crew of bands actually got drunk and maybe a little high, too. Red Cross has that same fuzzed-out SOA guitar sound, but they’re looser both musically and attitudinally, dipping into slower speeds that allow for their seething, smirking perspectives to shine through. Not sure if anyone else remembers Pittsburgh hardcore band Submachine from the ’90s, but that’s the vibe I’m picking up: kinda tough, kinda inebriated mid-tempo hardcore-punk that doesn’t take itself too seriously. If you told me you heard some Murder Junkies-era GG in there too, I wouldn’t call you crazy! No Message is a sizable collection – surely all the studio-recorded Red Cross you’ll ever need – and it’s capped off with an excellent tongue-in-cheek radio commercial spot to promote the band. This comes after my favorite tune on the record, “Public Assholes”, which takes George Thorogood’s aesthetic to filthy punk rock extremes. Topped off with a handsome photo-laden, informative booklet, you might walk away from this one thinking of the Cali Red Cross as the other Red Cross.

Scuba Cop Scuba Pop LP (Cut Lips Recordings)
Love a good modern-day vanity pressing from some guy who is motivated enough on his own to make it all happen. That’s Ely Peter Morgan AKA Scuba Cop, a new-to-me artist that believes strongly in this project, even registering scubacop.com to ensure no one else steals his idea. From the back cover photo, Morgan looks like a biology teacher ready to go to his first BDSM night, but the music of Scuba Pop isn’t particularly perverse at all, instead opting for layers of heavy-fuzz guitars and basic pounding rhythms. Some songs sound like Suicide and Cramps as covered by Explosions In The Sky, whereas others are somewhere between Weezer and Hum, that ’90s alt-rock sound where big grungy guitars were key to the formula. With this sorta thing, the hooks have to aim for the fences and leave deep impressions – when they do, we know how glorious it can be – but Scuba Cop doesn’t quite reach those heights. The recording is compressed in a wall-of-sound way that feels nice in the moment but doesn’t leave a lasting impact. Of course, in this world where new music is as abundant and unvalued as tap water, it’s never been harder to leave such an impact, so I don’t hold it against Scuba Cop that he didn’t singlehandedly reinvent fuzzed-out alt-pop. So long as he doesn’t become or isn’t currently an actual cop, all is well.

Staring Contest Staring Contest 7″ (Useful Artists)
It’s not often I find myself physically gasping when I crack the seal on a record, but that’s exactly what happened when I sliced open the plastic on this seven-inch. The cover consists of cardboard with a thick layer of birdseed lacquered onto it, and the harsh and immediate off-gassing was the perfect introduction to this classically-minded improv-noise release. Staring Contest is the duo of Stewart Skinner (you know, from Zwangsbeglucktertum) and Zac Davis (a pivotal figure in the last quarter-century of underground music culture if there ever was one). It’s gotta be Davis on guitar and Skinner on whatever else, and it’s a really wild ride on two sides of filthy, splurting noise. Knobs are twiddled with furious abandon and the sound quality is staunchly lo-fi, and I dunno, it absolutely rules, in a way that feels in step with Evil Moisture, The Haters and Government Alpha, a raucous performance redolent of the free-wheeling ’90s noise underground. Their approach is busy and aggressive, but the sounds speak for themselves, no overt messaging at hand to try and show you just how much these guys love to transgress from the norm. They got the guy who runs Useful Artists to spend countless hours and braincells shellacking birdseed onto cardboard in the name of their twisted sound art… they’ve already won!

Swiftumz Simply The Best LP (Empty Cellar)
The space between “real band” and “solo recording project” is as fluid as gender, case in point the Bay Area’s Swiftumz, a band name that I have thankfully never had to say out loud in the company of strangers and only type out when necessary. (Nothing turns me into a grumpy conservative quicker than the letter s replaced with a z; please recommend a therapist willing to get paid in Will Over Matter and Graham Dunning LPs.) It seems as though this group orbits around singer-songwriter Christopher McVicker, and he’s got a solid bunch of friends to help shape his material into the fully-formed guitar-pop gems I’m hearing on Simply The Best. Look, there’s even Kelley Stoltz on the drums! These tunes make for a lovable bunch, slacker-rock ditties that call to mind the lighter side of Brother JT. The opening title track reminds me of Purling Hiss at their cutest, though I think Swiftumz wears that vibe even better, one of a bashful introvert who reveals a perfect catalog of pop songs on the last day of school. The ballads never fade into the background, and the speedy “Fallin’ Down Day” softly flexes, keeping things moving and listener interest high as penultimate track “Demoralized” offers some cozy DIY Brit-pop that’ll have you bobbing in your beanbag chair. I’m eventually going to have to say this band name out loud, aren’t I?

Total Hell Killed By Evil LP (Total Punk)
Now you wait just a minute, Mr. Total Punk, you can’t fool me… this is metal! What gives? I suppose the people playing it are punks, hailing from acts like Sick Thoughts, Persuaders, Static Static and Trampoline Team, but that secondary association should still result in a disqualification, shouldn’t it? Killed By Evil is an over-the-top metal paean, the sort of thing that, had they focused on emulating only one specific band, would be due for a tribute-pun name like Black Sabbitch or Maiden United. Total Hell are a little less myopic in their metal approach; sure, it’s like 95% Venom / Celtic Frost / Possessed in there, but they’ve got some choppy Exodus breakdowns, some Sarcófago thrash and a cover image that appears to reveal a different corner of the haunted cemetery showcased on Mercyful Fate’s first album. A worshipful tribute to be sure, but if you need your metal to be played by guys who can list the past and present members of Queensrÿche from memory and would rather leave the bar in an angry huff than listen to Ramones or Sex Pistols, this ain’t it. I don’t think there are many of those purists left anymore, though, and considering how well-studied, enthusiastic and fully-committed Total Hell are to their demonic guise, I can see why even Total Punk would be persuaded to dabble in a little devil worship after dark.

208 Possession 7″ (Goodbye Boozy)
Italy’s Goodbye Boozy remains completely impervious to any modern trends, flavors or interests, continuing to churn out brain-dead garage-punk on seven-inch singles. Do they even know Covid happened and Donald Trump was president, or that stores don’t stock new seven-inch singles anymore? I love their unwavering commitment to the form, and they found a perfect new protegé here in Detroit’s 208. They take the “in-the-red” ethos to its breaking point, the guitar so severely overblown that I honestly feel bad for their amps. If Lux Interior were in the studio, I can picture him pulling 208 aside and asking them, “isn’t that a little much?” I’m of the position that it’s certainly not a little much, and the distorted-to-hell recording gives a vibrant flavor to this guitar-drums duo. Rusted Shut is the only group that comes to mind as a realistic comparison, though 208 attempt to boogie, not wallow, through these four cuts, unaware of the smoke emanating from their gear. A harmonica is credited, and while I assumed it was buried deep in there somewhere, as discernible as a contact lens in the snow, it actually shows up for some hearty blasts on the final tune, “Sunshine”, a battle-tank rolled out against Tetuzi Akiyama’s automatic rifle. My praise to everyone involved.

Yambag Mindfuck Ultra 12″ (11 PM / Convulse)
Yambag’s Mindfuck Ultra would’ve been one of my favorite records in 1998. That’s no diss, as my tastes in hardcore-punk haven’t changed a whole heck of a lot since then! They blast in a free-wheeling fast-core fashion, the sort of thing I’d have expected from Slap A Ham, Sound Pollution or Prank. While some of the practitioners of that sound can veer towards crusty heaviness or technical trickery, Cleveland’s Yambag rage in a furiously downhill fashion, brakes fully severed. It reminds me of Rupture, DRI and Extortion throughout, delivered with the ripped-knee jeans and high-jumps of What Happens Next?. “Clocked In” has a pretty typical grind-y riff – I know Fuck On The Beach have used it as well – and Yambag put it to excellent use in their very own way. I love that they don’t dilute their approach with breakdowns, mosh parts (or even hints of mosh parts), or anything besides ultra- and high-speed blasting. They get right into it and maintain that frenzied approach through the well-deserved breather of a final track, “El Funeral De Mr. E “, which calls to mind a dungeon-synthed Exit Hippies. If you love fast American hardcore that refuses to cater to anyone besides true speed-core freaks, the delicately-named Yambag should be one of your top contemporary considerations.

Zaliva-D 萬物枯萎 Total Withered LP (WV Sorcerer Productions)
Lots of electronic musicians trying to come across as unhinged occult freaks, but Beijing’s Zaliva-D… this is true creepy-freak music, sure to make your head bob as much as your skin crawl. Their records have seeped into the underground for a few years now, thanks to labels like Knekelhuis and SVBKVLT, and this attractive new collection maintains their top-notch pedigree. Sonically, they sit in the company of heavy-hitters like Shackleton, Coil and Vessel, but Zaliva-D tracks never swing or slide, they pulsate and ooze. These tracks grind forward relentlessly, but not with any typical heaviness or bass-centric brutality; the beauty lies in the sounds themselves, conjuring digitized moans of tiny animals, electro-industrial rituals and the muffled chants of indigenous species that thrive in inhospitable piles of sand. I can’t help but think of maggots, larvae and other disgusting natural processes when these songs relentlessly churn forward, even if the sounds themselves are clearly synthetic. I suppose those are probably real vocals in “Eye-Flowers”, but they’re condensed and spurting in a most peculiar way, Zaliva-D’s signature style. The rhythms groove like a screwed and chopped Drexciya, tendon-snapping beats dead-bolted in place, but whereas you might expect some light bondage and latex fetish behavior from a similarly-positioned downtempo industrial-synth group, Zaliva-D open their mouths to expose a pile of wriggling worms alongside their black leather body harnesses. And they love it!

Zombi Direct Inject LP (Relapse)
Genre pioneers are often cursed with not receiving the rightful benefits of breaking new musical ground. I feel like Zombi is a case in point, as there was truly no one else coming from a DIY punk background making music directly inspired by John Carpenter, Goblin and giallo soundtracks when they showed up way back in 2001, and yet other, newer acts have reaped greater success and fame in their wake. Perhaps they don’t care at all and I’m pointlessly mad on their behalf, but regardless of how Zombi feel about their station in the musical universe, they continue to deliver the goods with sharp attention to detail (both production- and songwriting-wise). Direct Inject is their ninth full-length, and it’s as pitch-perfect as you can get in the world of instrumental, synth-led, imaginary-movie soundtracking. They lean further into Airwolf / Chuck Norris / Jean-Claude Van Damme / Jan Hammer / Edgar Winter Group’s “Frankenstein” territory here, with big pulsing synths acting as ominous warnings while steady hypnotic grooves cruise toward the sunset horizon. “So Mote It Be” is strapped with a barbed guitar riff – big “final showdown at the loading docks at midnight” energy – but the surprising standout for me is far and away “Sessuale II”, an extremely steamy and sax-ified Balearic love scene that wouldn’t be out of place on Music From Memory, its fretless bass and soothing chords extremely out of place on Relapse Records. I’m not looking forward to the inevitable new-jacks destined to ape Zombi’s Direct Inject style, but I’m enjoying the hell out of this album in the meantime.