Comboverdose

I was going to write you something fascinating, and then settle down to submit another CD review to MIO, but I feel like cack, so I may just take a Night Nurse and go to bed with the Prom. You'll survive.


JUNKIE BRUSH – WHAT YOU SEE, WHAT YOU HEAR (Rivet Gun)

Why does nobody talk about the huge volte face in the history of punk?

How come no one comments on the fact that punks seem to spend most of their time in the company of hippies nowadays? We know that not all punks bought into the swastika-badged, vomit-flecked attempt to bring down civilisation by slightly scaring old ladies, but surely all original punks saw their movement as a tabula rasa for music and culture: no more hippies, no more well-heeled prog indulgences. And yet, sometime around 1985, when the rest of the punks had given themselves up to electronics, black eyeliner or proper jobs, the hardline of believers found themselves in the company of their old enemies, fraternising with hippies, playing free festivals, supporting left wing causes. Of course, by the time the 90s rolled round, with the advent of crusty folk rock and Megadog trance, punks and hippies had lived together for a few years, and already it was impossible to say which was which.

And so it is with Junkie Brush. Despite sounding a lot like the clinical autopsy hardcore of Black Flag at times, you’re more likely to find them playing for genial dopeheads Klub Kakofanney than anyone else, and you’ve a greater chance of finding them on a bill with acoustic strummers and Gong-a-likes at some oddball West Oxfordshire all-dayer than playing to moshing revolutionary youths in some Friday night sweatbox. None of which detracts one iota form the high quality of this new EP, which balances brutality with beery japing perfectly, and may well be the best set of tracks Junkie Brush has put on record, but it is intriguing nonetheless.

There is a picture of a protester winding up to hurl a projectile at a wall of riot police on the cover of the record, but in reality, the politics have no more depth than the inlay card. The title “Problem-Reaction-Solution” seems to hint at revolutionary activity, but doesn’t go so far as to specify anything in particular that’s good or bad about society, and elsewhere phrases like “Don’t you want to destroy the other?” and “You are the enemy” are vague enough to be essentially meaningless. Also, throwing such dumb-ass yelpalongs like “Fucked In The Mind” and “Monkey Boy” onto the EP could be said to detract from any cogent political message that might be lurking somewhere.

The music, on the other hand, is simple, direct and uncontentiously excellent. Marxist - and, like Big Tim from Junkie Brush, Zappa fanatic - critic Ben Watson once postulated that all great rock bands were essentially drum circles, and that all rock instruments should be counted as percussion. If that’s the case, then in “Problem-Reaction-Solution”, Junkie Brush have gone one better, turning a three piece band into one giant bass drum, bashing steadily away as if haranguing some Phoenicians slaves to row a Roman galley. Nowhere on the record does the musical construction get far beyond the rule of “riff, refrain, and slight dynamics”, and is all the better for it. “Sickening” has a sprightly bounce that caries tiny hints of Rage Against The Machine, “Fucked In The Mind” is scuzzier and more leaden footed, and “Monkey Boy” might be paying homage to local punk daddies Headcount, but whatever slight alterations the band makes to their recipe, they don’t diverge too far from insistent, declamatory, hugely enjoyable chants (although “You Are A Target”’s nods towards The Prodigy’s “Poison” are unexpected).

But none of this musical dissection can actually capture the sense of barely controlled rage that Junkie Brush embody. The vocals have a reedy, Dead Kennedys intensity, which is offset by the roiling sea of guitar noise, and drums that sound like deep-fried cannonballs being dropped onto your ears from an Olympic diving board; Jim, formerly of mildly convincing artrockers City Lights Just Burn seems to have found his spiritual home hitting things in Junkie Brush. Come to think of it, there’s another difficult truth about punk that doesn’t get aired often enough – when it’s done as well as it is here, it still sounds miles better than most of the turgid guff that passes for rock and roll. This EP made us want to smash the nearest radio and jump up and down on every half-arsed Myspace band in existence, which can only possibly be an enormous mark in its favour.

Mug Games

Pretty duff review this. I'm told that there was only one vocalist in The Process. Hmmm.

Also, clearly it's "dolls" closing in for Harry Angel, not "doors, I've realised. Obviously.



VARIOUS - FRESH FACES FOR THE MODERN AGE (Rivet Gun)

Local compilations are seemingly proliferating across Oxfordshire at an ever-increasing rate. With so many to choose from, the most pertinent question is how they should function: are they best designed as a random promotional snapshot of the county's musical landscape, or do they make a greater impression when constructed as a cohesive album? There's something to be said for both approaches, but it's a fact that those compilations that cast their net in the tightest arc are the most successful.

With that apparently in mind, Fresh Faces collects music solely from the forgotten realm of heavy rock, nestling somewhere between the extremes of metal's sonic assault and the abstract art-noise rock kingdom. The fact that all the acts are represeneted by at least two tracks adds to the impression that this album is a considered statement, not a ragabag snatch of pals. OK, so the CD is well put together, but is the music any good? Let's start at the bottom, then.

Their frankly embarrassing sleevenotes tell us that "journalists seem to think they are the poets", so just to avoid any confusing interjections from my starving muse, let's keep things simple: Verbal Kink aren't very good. True, the band have left behind the castoff grunge sounds of old for something a little more rhythmically intircate, but even at their best the compositions sound bolted together rather than well arranged. The true drawback is the vocals, however, which are petulantly adenoidal on "Tramazapan Alcohol Suntan" and a weedy scream on "Skeleton Dance".

The Process are the only band here to flirt with metal, and again they're let down by the vocals, if not quite so shockingly as Verbal Kink. They employ the nu-metal tag team of meldoic singer, with a tendency to drift towards rap phrasing, and impenetrable growly monster. Neither vocalist is that shoddy individually, but they just don't gel that well, especially on "Proud To Be", which is strong at either end, but flaccid in the middle, like an old hammock.

Phyal up the ante somewhat, but they're an illogical proposition, being a good band playing rubbish music. How do you judge a tight and exciting live band with a striking frontwoman whose every alternate song sounds like Lita Ford's "Kiss Me Dealdy"? Just shrug your shoulders, shake your hair and go along with it, I guess, and dumb anthem "Crude" (sample lyric: "dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty, dirty thing") would be the ideal soundtrack. Isn't there a little fourth former from 1987 in all of us somewhere?

Strike a light, guv'nor! Tim Lovegrove from Junkie Brush comes across as incredibly British amongst all the mid-Atlantic accents on this record. Not that we're mocking, as a natural singing voice is one of the things that make Junkie Brush a refreshingly honest, no nonsense band. Straight up, well played, head pummelling punk rock is always a pleasure, even if the recorded tracks lack their live bite, especially "Problem-Reaction-Solution". "Monkey Grinder" has more of a brooding quality, and the quieter delivery stops them from falling into a declamatory Sham 69 pothole and keeps interest levels raised.

The true heroes of this CD are Harry Angel. Ironically, they're probably the least rock of all the bands, yet they cast the most menacing shadow. Live favourite "Death Valley Of The Dolls" is an over-excited yelping little thing, borne up by sprightly snare heavy fills, and its sparse tale of red eyes, unanswered calls and doors closing in creates an atmopshere of suspicion. The much vaunted Pablo Honey influence is evident on "Striptease", where the falsetto elisions are a joy, deliberately edging up to each note like a film noir fink sidling out of a bar room brawl. Harry Angel have acheived what so many face-painted, snarling metallers miss: they are genuinely unnerving, and hugely entertaining.

It's unlikely that we'll see a better compilation of these sorts of bands emerging in the foreseeable future (until Fresh Faces Volume 2, of course), so if you have a taste for more concise song-based rock, we'd advise tracking down a copy.

Cardioplosive

I've been teaching myself to touch type with an online course. Well, I already can touch type, but I only use 4 digits - I figure there must be a more efficient method, and I'm starting to get RSI in my right index finger. But, with years of bad habits, it's bloody hard. I sit there typing in groups of 4 specilaly selected letters & trying to get a high enough score to progress to the next lesson. It's a like a highly frustrating, and deeply boring, computer game. But, then all the computer games I grew up with basically boil down to pressing groups of letters at just the right times - amazing what you can do with a few blocky sprites and bleepy noises, eh?

JUNKIE BRUSH - HEARTS & MINES EP (Rivet Gun Records)

Considering that punk was always supposed to succeed on enthusiasm rather than musicianship ("Here are three chords: now form a band"), it's strange how rarely we come across a convincing punk group. Luckily the Green Day breed of Play-Doh punkers are now fading away, but even the more traditional bands tend to lack bite. Is it because this musical primitivism is ultimately pretty boring ("You've got no ideas: now stop the band"), or is it just that nobody round here has the same sort of nihilist anger that seemed to be common currency in the late '70s?

Whatever the answer, Junkie Brush are definitely in the running for best local punk act. Oddly, though, their greatest strength seems to lie in their exactness, attention to detail and their ability to hold back and control their performances, none of which are generally recognised punk values. This new EP, which is by far the closest they've got to capturing the menace of their live shows, has plenty of punk energy in approach, but is incredibly precise in construction. Somehow, that's a contradictory mixture, like a gleaming and lovingly personalised getaway vehicle. So every time we call Junkie Burhs "punk", it should be understood that there are a definite flavours of clinical US hardcore in the blend.

This isn't to say that Junkie Brush don't have a taste for the brash, absurd and cartoonish that personifies punk - the hilarious title of the first track, "Exhume His Corpse (And Make Him Dance For Money)" makes this clear. And if "Now She's Dead" gets a bit two-dimensional in its childish refrain of "I don't give a fuck, you don't give a fuck", the sneering chorus of "Yes, she was an animal" brings forth pleaant memories of The Sex Pistols on "Bodies".

To show that they have a bit of variation to their repertoire, "Find Another Way" lurches long with a blooze swagger, and the Nicole Steal remix of old favourtie "Monkey Grinder" brings an unexpectedly screamadelic baggy sound to the fore. Simplicity and directness are still the order of the day, however, and this record reminds us that sometimes that's all you need. So long as it's honest. And very very loud.

The Betty Ford Salon

Blimey, I should be on some sort of retainer from Klub Kak, I've reviewed them so often. I never realised until I started this blog how regularly I'd ended up there. I guess it's just the furry freaky friendly hippy atmosphere they nurture. Evan last night, I was reviewing a night at The Jericho, and snuck into KK afterwards to catch the last act. An Oxford institution, indupitably.

JUNKIE BRUSH/SACRED DISORDER/ REVEREND MOONSHINE - Klub Kakofanney, Wheatsheaf, 4/3/05

I promuise it's not just the antipodean accent, but Reverend Moonshine remind me a lot of Nick Cave. Must be the knowingly dark theatrical monologues and the slurred songspiel. Their twin acoustic guitar lineup is elementary but effective, and their songs of booze and frustration are beautifully augmented by a delicate jazz trumpet that I'm duty bound to describe as "smoky" (Reviewer statute 124/B/11). In all honesty, some of the tracks are somewhat wonkily delivered, and perhaps the second guitar should stick to bass frequencies, but they do have bags of character, which goes an awful long way.

Sacred Disorder are an odd proposition as they all sound like they're playing in wildly disparate bands. I guess you'd call it stoner rock, but the vocals (rhyming "pariah" with "messiah") and guitar (shredding and arpeggiating away) are pure metal, whilst the drummer plays neanderthally simply, as if he were auditioning for Finnish uber-minimalists Circle, and the bassist whacks out a sticky root note sludge with a definite goth flavour. A strange brew. I'm not saying they can't play - they're actually a pretty solid little unit - but the effect is so schizophrenic I don't know what to think. Like a disturbed child's Cray-Pas illustrations, they have a wierdly compelling fascination, but at the moment the jury's out on whether they're actually any good.

Junkie Brush are often billed as punk, but I'm not sure: punk was always at least 50% cabaret, and there's nothing cartoonish about this band. Their dense, excitable missives remind me far more of U.S. hardcore: more straight edge than The U-Bends, let's say. So there are no solos, no math rock breaks (though there is an unexpected blues interlude) and definitely no sensitive ballads. Just supercharged howls of righteous ire.

And Junkie Brush do it exceptionally well. The third number (which isn't called "Drunken Cunt", despite what a drunken...person in the audience would have us believe) is especially searing and vitriolic, but over 45 minutes they never flag. To be fair, I find this music something like a tartazine rush: all very manic and exhilirating, but the effect runs out slightly before the set does. Still, if you like your meat raw and clinically served, book a table Chez Brosse and you'll go hoe very happy indeed.