Released on March 15th 2023 but sent in earlier, personal stuff prevented me from giving it my full attention until now. Curiously describing themselves as a ‘rock’ band, Italians WEEKEND CIGARETTES formed in 2015 and this, their sophomore album, was written and recorded during lockdown.
At a taut ten tracks, it’s clear these guys know how to reign themselves in. Drawing from the generic Fat Wreck well, the band keep it fresh with flavours of NO USE FOR A NAME, GOOD RIDDANCE and NOFX’s starker tones. Crucial BAD RELIGION tempos, song structures and harmonies seal the deal, but whatever, these are traditionally-crafted, full-bodied songs. Solid bridges, memorable hooks and crescendo-style finishes, masterfully subtle rock flourishes serving the punk rather than sinking it, particularly on the guitar work. I mean, blink, and you could give the sign of the horns during See The Sundown, and the BAMBIX-y Come Back Home. The vocals fall somewhere between Russ Rankin, Greg Graffin, and Fat Mike‘s more recent, raspy output, the bass knows the difference between runaway and restraint, and there are juicy pick-slides, but it’s an overarching song-writing maturity that gives The Chosen One heft.
All of which makes the list of rather dull influences all the more head-scratching: NO USE FOR A NAME and RISE AGAINST? Fine. THE OFFSPRING and MILLENCOLIN? You do yourselves a disservice, boys. THRICE get a nod too, but I can’t see it. I’ll take WEEKEND CIGARETTES over THE fuckin’ OFFSPRING all day long.
Sometimes music doesn’t need to push boundaries, exhibit complexity or make a statement, sometimes music just needs to kick your ass, and that’s exactly what Regress are here to do with All Washed Up.
from promo
Following up 2022’s Justified Paranoia, LA duo REGRESS outdo themselves with a primitive fusion of power-violence, grind and hardcore, held together with some Double Indemnity movie clips. Frantic, chaotic, and despairing, these twelve tracks expose you to the dubious delights of mucky thrash, creepy-crawl sludge and whirlwind blast-beats, and at just over 17 minutes long, being bored isn’t an option. The bass is particularly disgusting, but then a damaged production ensures everything else isn’t far behind. Schizoid, nihilistic thrash that’ll make you want to shower after listening. SPAZZ without the humour. I have to be in the mood.
released on May 5th 2023, so out now on digital and CD
It’s been six years since THE DOMESTICS last full length (2017’s Cherry Blossom Life) though they’ve kept their hand in with various splits and compilation tracks, most notably the fine No Life split with PIZZATRAMP.
With fourteen punishing tracks in under fifteen minutes, there’s no denying this new album is brimming with razor-sharp, fat-free hardcore for those possessed of a short attention span. Brief they may be, but room is made for a mid-paced bridge here, a mangled guitar solo there, a blatant snare drum obsession everywhere. Konichiwa Fuckers! is the closest they get to an instrumental, ‘cos Domestic can’t stop himself from sticking in a 1234!, an oof! and a yaaargh! Oh, James. The vocals occasionally take on a throatier, Rush Hour Of The Gods-era DOOM gargle, as on the incredible Falling Apart, with it’s dissonant intro, hyper-snare assault and rudimentary solo. See also the brutally efficient (and brilliantly titled) A Filthy Fucking Business. Did someone say snare? This album is riddled with insane levels of snappy action, most notably on Purchases‘ epic two minutes of revved guitar and varied chord changes. Dirty, raw hardcore might be the main course – exemplified by the 43-second cracker Die Like A Dog – with many a gang-shout chorus sprinkled in, but this album’s true highlight is the steadily marching HATE! HATE! HATE! The band slow it down to a troubling chant, replete with moody intensity, repetitive guitar riff, cool bassline and James’ accented roar. The lyrics speak of the paradox of hatred crushing your soul, while recognizing the inescapability of such emotions (“Well you let it be your king, and now it’s poisoned everything… maybe take a minute just to think about the people you hate“). Not likely to win any feel-good awards, even some canny song titles – Haunted Victorian Pencil (confected Victorian caricature Jacob Rees-Mogg), You Old Romantic (toxic masculinity and domestic violence), and Fuck Your Birthday (“experience is meaningless if you learn nothing“) – struggle to hide the negativity and bitterness that seeps from every pore of this album.
The bass buzzes like an angry wasp, the guitars are revved, the snare verges on overwhelming, vocals a murderous roar. Twelve years in, with a grab-bag of early 80’s international hardcore influences (Japan, Sweden, USA), picking up the milenial resurgence along the way, they’ve honed their own ferocious spitball of sound. My only nitpick would be that, in moving away from their original OUT COLD-meets-DISORDER style into snappy ADHD-core, they inch closer to the sound of James’ TOKYO LUNGS Soul Music than their own last album. Still, this is breathless, brutalising fun. Comes with a natty booklet, containing lyrics, collage art and chord progressions.
released on 1st June by Kibou Records, TNS Records, Cimex Records and Kangaroo Records, pre-order available now
I know you’re sick, you’re tired, you’ve heard about the liars you’ve probably heard it all a million times I know you tune it out, I know you turn it down But if you put us in the background we’ll just shout it fucking loud Because we’re desperate, we’re desperate to do something more We can’t accept it, there’s lies, there’s truth, there’s nothing more
There’s A War Going On For Your Mind
The alter ego of Welsh lad Owen Crawford, NO MURDER NO MOUSTACHE use a bedrock of celtic folk-punk to explore story-telling, protest and self-deprecating confessional. True, there are plenty of spirited, folk-punk blasters on this debut full length, but NMNM has a curiously unique identity that, coupled with a desire for exploration, sets him apart from the folk-punk pack.
That said, opening the album with a rollicking, thirty second blast of speedy folk-punk (the title track) is like a love letter to myself, being a sucker for short songs ‘n all. My Friends Who Moved Away is a catchy ode to small town stagnation, while Rebellion, a timeless story of defiance in the face of oppression (inspired by the Irish War of Independence), spices up its jiggery-pokery with a Slavic-punk bounce. The first left turn comes in the form of the stunning 9-13. It tells of the tragic 1966 Aberfan disaster, a colliery tip collapse which engulfed a junior school and a row of houses, killing 116 children and 28 adults. (9-13 being the time a clock stopped at the precise moment the village was hit). The disaster was avoidable, a subsequent inquiry settling the blame on the National Coal Board, but this was a tragedy with much skulduggery, obfuscation and insult. Intentional or not, 9:13 steers its way through stages of grief: moody intro becomes defiant anthem, an unexpected CONFLICT-style shouted piece gives way to the poignant voice of a child for an emotional close. What happened at Aberfan 57 years ago changed lives forever, the echoes still reverberating today, and 9-13 plays its part in ensuring it is not forgotten.
the voices were silenced, the money was spent, the rich and the powerful protected their friends, and in the shadow of the mountains has anything changed? ‘cos we know there’s a risk that it could happen again…
9:13
Elsewhere, there’s a brace of sprightly folk-punk with the Tory-bashing irreverence of I Don’t Give A Shit, and the Boris-baiting The Worst BJ Ever, the banjo-laced, celtic confessional of Times Got Tough (“I was acting like a fucking prick”), and those who constantly bemoan the loss of ‘the good old days’ find themselves in the cross-hairs on the, ahem, fast, celtic folk-punk of Take Me Back To The 90’s. Owen’s more affecting song-writing prowess is back in full effect on A Trace Of Blood And Tears which, while it may be punked up, could well be a modern folk classic. Ditto the classy Llygaid Du, a Welsh language juggernaut with a timeless, olde-worlde atmosphere. This wouldn’t be a NMNM release without a little overwrought melodrama, possibly Owen’s strongest songwriting flex. He’s been here before of course. See the jaw-dropping cover of PAPA ROACH’ Blood Brothers (from 2020’s Tony Hawks tribute album) and Since The War Started from 2021’s The Odds Are Stacked Against for iron-clad proof. Aptly closing the album with a delicious slice of synth-string cheesiness, This Journey Is Not Over is big and blowsy enough to grace both musical theatre and Eurovision. How about that?
There are three bonus tracks: Llygaid Du cements its future-classic credentials by presenting as both hilarious power-metal anthem (WELSHDRAGONFORCE anyone?), and sombre English language ballad. Finally, a cover of THE WOODSMAN‘s Buzz sprints away from the originals’ churning cacophony to a blackhearted lullaby, rendering the “I wanna rip out your eyes, I’m not gonna do that…” line even more malevolent, adding a whispered “yet…” at the end.
The flaws on There’s A War Going On For Your Mind could be considered logistic. NMNM is a one-man army, so the backing-track nature of some of the music renders it a little too clean, most noticeably on the drum tracks. A full band would add much needed earthiness but, small niggle aside, there is real weight to this album. Pathos and protest rub up alongside humour and cheese in a curiously moreish mix of differing styles and pinballing emotions. Ffycin stwff gwych!
Alex CF is probably best known in the punk scene as vocalist for Brighton’s FALL OF EFRAFA (2005-2009), who released a trilogy of progressive crust concept albums inspired by the mythology of Watership Down. Less known are his endeavours as an illustrator, author and sculptor, work revolving around animal mythology and political fantasy.
Punks In The Willows is a slim, 40 page book aimed squarely at the ‘reading to children at bedtime’ demographic. The difference between this and a mainstream book is the depiction of animals as subculture, enabling parents to educate their kids on what punk means in the 21st century. The nihilism of 1977, the leather, bristles, studs and acne of UK82, are subsumed into a more enduring entity, part of a lineage that can be traced back to the DIY anarchism of CRASS. That is, a diverse, community-centred movement of self-empowerment and protest, sound-tracked by raucous music. This book will teach your offspring about the various strands as it exists today, da punks depicted as animals, complete with patches and bullet belts. Shout-out to the band playing on stage in front of a HIS HEDGEROW IS GONE backdrop.
In the classic style of books for young children, this A4 size volume features a piece of artwork per page, accompanied by a few simple lines of prose. While the art apes the style of Wind In The Willows, Alex gives it a gnarlier look, hindered in all but one instance, by the bleeding of the art into stark white backgrounds. Personally, I feel a more immersive experience could have been achieved by covering the whole page, but that said, though my own children are all grown up, I would have happily slotted this in to their bookshelf. Also worth noting that a punk-clueless adult could read this in two minutes and get educated.
So, give me wings that I may slip my tether cast off this smalltown plumage re-evaluate how the world is just give me wings please, just give me wings
from Wings
JAMES DOMESTIC is in multiple raucous punk bands, an idiosyncratic solo artist, poet, and DJ. Domesticated Vol 1 is solid proof of James’ compulsion to follow through on every creative idea he has.
2022’s exemplary split poetry book Cruor (alongside HAEST‘s Dave Cullern), demonstrated that Domestic knows his way around earthy, relatable prose. The 33 poems in this slim volume often lean on the pithy, witty style of a JOHN COOPER CLARKE, with a smidge of ATTILA righteousness. A more congenial read, there is still light and shade, as mental health struggles (Buck Up, Kid), self-doubt (Tickets, Please!, Joker), ageing (I used To Be Dorian Gray), wanderlust (Wings) and a thinly-veiled jab at Wetherspoons (Wayne Kerr’s Pubs), rub shoulders with the absurd (Mug, Three Birds, I Am A Worm) and the downright crass (The Pensioner Orgy). Domestic’s style is honed to perfection on the four vivid stanzas that make up Screen‘s summation of head-frazzling smartphone addiction (pixelate where I’m going, pixelate where I’ve been, screen…).
Photos of band life and some ill-advised drawings – particularly when you consider Domestic is an accomplished artist – lends Vol 1 the air of a repository for random stuff. While he may admit as much in the preface, these inclusions distract from an otherwise entertaining little poetry book. Sometimes, less is more.
PERSONAL PUNK 