In practical news-cycle terms, the time lag between this columnโs deadline and publication dates could antiquate the tone of this intro. That it was written under the yoke of a sadistic Tory death cult with no principles beyond the belief accountability is for peons was clear and true in May 2020, and will remain so through June. But as I stare wistfully out through the bedroom window at the grounds of my sprawling estate (a small communal gravel car park), before wedging it open so the supersonic sound of Sial jostles with lawnmowers and reversing delivery vans for position, is assembling out there to natter and fistpump along to these jams a socially responsible near-future ambition? Or will a killer combo of VE Day Caucasian conga fuckfests and economy-not-science public messaging move us back several squares? Non-bet-hedging sub-question: can all releases in this column be appropriately enjoyed either alone or with friends, like a fine wine? You best believe it!
Talking of Tory death cults, in most contexts the notion of looking to Singapore with an admiration for how they conduct business would be their exclusive preserve โ unless youโre talking about contemporary hardcore punk, where Sial are one of many bands tearing it up in this south-east Asian nation. If we wish to fold Malaysia and Indonesia into this observation, that takes us to this digital mixtape of the regionโs current scene, compiled by Sial guitarist Hafiz Shamsudin. His band contribute a song from their second and latest LP, Tari Pemusnah Kuasa (La Vida Es Un Mus), the entirety of which is a foaming blood blister of obstreperous anger.
Sial (Malay for โunluckyโ, but with extra utility as an insult or vulgar emphasis โ it doesnโt seem to really have an analogue in English) hold the distinction of being the most sonically punishing band Iโve seen at any Static Shock Weekend, thanks largely to Shamsudinโs earplug-deriding guitar tone. This is fully present on Tari Pemusnah Kuasa from the opening โAbintaraโ onwards, and an instant-migraine foil for Siti Fatimah, whose gloriously arresting vocal is like razors on a waterslide. Burly and bombastic yet never indulgent or metallic, albeit a bit heavier-sounding than their previous three releases, Sialโs brand of noisepunk/crasher crust is reliably filthy but teems with ripper riffs (โTikam Lidahโ; the imperious title track) which the recording puts on their rightful pedestal. Theyโre not really ones for variation, all eight songs on here presenting their fundamental idea and hammering it home, but thatโs generally the nature of this stylistic beast.
Also on La Vida Es Un Mus โ whose continuing release schedule answers a question I briefly floated in my last column, โWill it still be possible to buy new releases via mail order?โ โ is the debut LP by Rat Cage, who like Sial I probably should have featured before now. A Sheffield unit, on record Rat Cage is a one-man band (save for a bit of guest guitar and backing vox) โ Bryan Suddaby, stalwart of several punk bands from the city, the man in question. Tangibly a case of โIf no-oneโs going to make the exact ideal music in my head Iโll just have to do it myselfโ, Screams From The Cage is somewhere between first-wave Swedish hardcore and the pockmarked gluebag ravings which oozed out of the UK at about the same time, with production hefty enough to bundle later-on spawn into the mix: if you like anyone from Doom to Disclose to late-80s Poison Idea thereโs no reason why this shouldnโt be in your wheelhouse.
Once again, the riffs here are both huge and crucial, with cuts like โMidnight Death Rideโ holding a level of rock & roll sass at their core that isnโt often found in music like this. Drums, Suddabyโs usual role in his other bands (Sievehead and Dry Heaves are ones Iโve covered in Straight Hedge), are ferociously paced, sometimes almost grind or powerviolence-like in their overwhelming pummel. A couple of token spoken parts betray a no-nonsense Yorkshire burr thatโs wiped out by the intensity of Suddabyโs vocal style, as befits a collection with consistently excellent ultrapunk titles such as โJump Off A Buildingโ, โA Country Fit For Idiotsโ and โNot Got No Hopeโ.
My friend the search function tells me Iโve mentioned Brightonians Vile Spirit a few times before in passing, when covering other bands the members play in, but debut LP Scorched Earth (Quality Control) will earn their first description of substance. Lawks, this is heavy! In a way that neither their previous cassette releases โ a demo and two janky rehearsal recordings โ nor even their more-than-serviceable live sets prepared me for. The addition of a second guitarist, bumping Vile Spirit up to a quintet, is undoubtedly a factor, but Ben Hillsโ voice is increasingly death metal-adjacent, the blurry instrumental approach taking on a frosty blackened vibe. Nonetheless, Scorched Earth is a hardcore record all the way.
Getting me harking (un)pleasantly back to those Sex Vid and Cult Ritual records from a decade-plus ago, here the chuggy feedbacking parts glow with mystery, the sped-up sections live the chaos; songs are predominantly under two minutes but occasionally break four, โGoing Homeโ and LP closer โAbstractionโ eking out their seasick-swirly metallic menace without outstaying any welcome. Not that this is the kind of thing which exactly asks your permission to hang: a proper revelation, to an outsider/sometime interloper like me at least, and one that puts clear water between Vile Spirit and pretty much anyone else in current UK hardcore.
And yet! If that all sounds good, you should probably cop Disappointment (Fuzzbrain), the debut tape by Londoners Sterile, who formed last year and were until very recently called Sterilization. I wouldnโt peg these four songs as metal, true, but frontman Karim Newble (also of the slightly cleaner-cut Mastermind) seems to be leaning into full vocal demoncy โ and was that a micro-quick โRaining Bloodโ reference I caught in track two, โRunning Awayโ? This demoโs swampy, crypto-psychedelic weirdness impresses itself on you exponentially, so what first might appear as beefy HC with added phaser effects open out into a patchwork of alarming tempo shifts, deathrock ghastliness that doesnโt skimp on the tribal drums, solos that choke the air like smog and more than enough godโs-honest chug to keep you barrelling round your nearest gravel car park. Slot Sterile alongside Permission and the latest โ recommended! โ Raspberry Bulbs album, if you please.
If this edition of Straight Hedge was a Super Bowl, Goldie Dawn would be the half-time show, providing valuable light entertainment in between juiced-up maniacs running into each other. A Glaswegian affair who materialised in early 2019 โ drummer Jordon Hutchisonโs past life included membership of briefly hyped Birthday Party-ish sorts The Amazing Snakeheads โ their four-song debut 7-inch comes via Drunken Sailor: a label whose activity, like the afore-reviewed LVEUM and QCHQ, seems impossible to slow down. Goldie Dawnโs beat is powerpop with the snap of 90s garage rock, or vice versa. Glammy handclaps are generally either audible (โGone With The Wildโ, the Sheer Mag-worthy โWhatโs Inside (Never Dies)โ) or feel like theyโre imminent; singer Kate Thorburnโs enunciation of โsmash it up!โ on the chorus of โCrimeโ is almost certainly intended as a Damned homage, and almost certainly not supposed to remind me of โReady To Goโ by Republica, but if I canโt unhear it Iโm going to spoil your fun too. โItโs Nothing To Meโ adjusts itself to an agreeable punky-honkytonk canter that I guess sounds like a ton of things but reminds me of that neat Cheena album from a few years back, topping off an EP of varying moods but acres of singular personality.
Again delivering the goods in banks of four, this cassette by Stockholmโs Power Face is billed by label Interceptor Editions as a โpromo tapeโ whose lead track, โStruck By Lightningโ, will be on a 7-inch later this year. Is my decision to review this instead attributable to my impatient urge to tell the townspeople about Power Faceโs blitzing mindmeld of classic hardcore and classic rock? Could be! Does it also have anything to do with the last song, โIs There A Better Wayโ, being a Status Quo cover, this providing the means to fulfil the dream of discussing Status Quo in this column? (To wit: the original, recorded in 1975, is protopunk to the marrow of its bones.) This press conference is over! Power Face do our beltloop-thumbing heroes fair justice, but the three originals here have already banished doubters by then โ if, that is, youโre in the market for some skatecore party snarl, NWOBHM-tinged derring-do and the gay abandon of Apocalypse Dudes-era Turbonegro. I know I am. In fact, thereโs room in my skull for both this and the recent debut album by Chicago band Man-Eaters, which does almost exactly the same thing.
Catching up with Warsawโs Jad on the occasion of their new 7-inch, the self-released Wstrฤt: an LP last year, Strach, made a ripple or two and these five songs are even more economical and spitefully nihilistic-sounding. If you think hardcore should be a vehicle for social comment rather than sunken-eyed navelgazing, Krzysztof Paciorekโs lyrics might be a sticking point, although should you be requiring translations from Polish like I do, it surely makes more sense to just roll with it and allow yourself a good (bad) time. So all-consuming is the stompy intensity of the first four songs โ captivatingly tinny guitar solo on โPฤtlaโ, dropout-before-the-swell mosh part on โZwykลa ลmierฤโ โ that it almost obscures Wstrฤtโs creepy gothic (in the sense of atmosphere rather than genre) tendencies, which hove into full view for the slow menace of closer โSpalona Ziemiaโ. Brickwall, but in a black shroud: international HC heads assemble!
This brings me to the A World Divided tape label, which began operations this year and is the brainchild of one Ghas Divided, a Montreal-based Tunisian. Its M.O. is promotion of Mediterranean-region underground punk, to date incorporating bands from Spain (specifically Mallorcaโs Orden Mundial, reviewed in my last column), Italy, Greece, Turkey, Israel, Lebanon, Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. Ticking that last box are Maraโa Borkan, whose two-song demo offers a portal to a world unknown โ even if strictly speaking, weโre left in limbo for now.
Maraโa Borkanโs name is Arabic for Volcano Woman, befitting these feminist punks and the molten invective they spill over five and a half minutes. Thereโs basically zero info out there about them at present, although an email to Ghas yields the news that the band are still together (their own Bandcamp page indicates these songs were first released digitally in 2015) but wish to remain anonymous for the moment. Right, so the music: โChnowa Amaltโ cruises on a wicked downtuned basement-HC riff with added recurring late-80s grunge axewail and a singer who can hold a broken-glass note like nobodyโs business. โChnowa Kont Tetsa Werโ is pretty similar, but with a more explosively rocking chorus and some gangtastic backing vox. Whatever this band were gunning for here, it certainly canโt have been โBlรณm meets Firewalkerโ, and yet that is what Iโm hearing.
You might be au fait with Philadelphia musician/poet/MC/activist Camae Ayewa under her primary artist name Moor Mother. If youโre especially plugged in to her transcendent Afrofuturist noise, you may even know the Crime Waves 12-inch she and Mental Jewelry โ another Philly soloist, name of Steven Montenegro โ collabed on in 2017. Replete with choice heavy dub bits, what sounds like a grime homage and even some brief fuzz guitar, it wouldnโt have occurred to me to review it in Straight Hedge: I like to think Iโm decently inclusive about what can go in here, sounds-wise, but the artists have to bring up their interest in punk and/or its attendant culture in the first place, right? Well hush my face, as Moor Jewelryโs follow-up release does exactly that: Ayewa describing the True opera cassette (Don Giovanni) as an โimprovisational punk recording, an ode to the punk we grew up listening to or the feeling we had when we started listening to punk.โ
Not only does the result sound very little like Crime Waves, it establishes a very self-specific identity without really seeming like itโs trying. Recorded in two sessions, one expanded to a trio with drummer Philip Price (also of avant-proggers Kayo Dot), the improv element is more than detectable in the footloose spontaneity, but the rhythmic teamwork is psychically tight. I get a major Teenage Jesus/Mars no wave vibe from things like โJudgementโ and โWorkingโ, as well as a more recent gem in Bay Area deconstructopunx Neon. A funk aesthetic gets pulled taut enough to snap, โLe Grand Macabreโ sprinting towards the tape like Big Boys or Beefeater, and โ I think I realised this a while ago on some level but needed a heavy guitar backdrop to crystallise it โ when Moor Mother repeats lines her voice often reminds me of Zack De La Rocha. No issue with that, I might add by way of wholeheartedly recommending this crucial freak-punk wildcard.
United Mutation: an 80s hardcore obscuristโs idea of a well-known band, or an 80s hardcore dabblerโs idea of an obscure band. Heck, why not both? The aura surrounding this group is bestowed on them by their actual music โ frenzied, at times startlingly original speed demoncy โ first and foremost, but the tortuous wait for anyone to properly reissue it has played a considerable part. Dark Self Image, a vinyl collection of their early recordings ending that wait, has itself been mooted for several years, and peerless punk archive imprint Radio Raheem have done a typically bang-up job โ 26 songs and a big booklet inside a gatefold sleeve which even replicates the bandโs rad collage artwork on its inside.
From northern Virginia and thus technical out-of-towners regarding the Washington DC hardcore scene, though in practise barely a stoneโs throw from the capital, United Mutationโs outsider status stems from them being a squad of Hawkwind and Grateful Dead fans who did acid to aid songwriting and hardly ever played live. Theyโre often bracketed with Void, another crucial DC band who werenโt actually from DC, but for their brief time in the shadows of the sun spun the thrash aesthetic even further into abstraction. Vocalist Mike Brown monstered his righteous lyrics, as anti-war/ Reagan/ white supremacy/ Washington political elite as you like, from the darkest part of his diaphragm: hardcore frontpeople on this tip are ten a penny today (circling back to Vile Spiritโs Ben Hills, for instance) but even metal singers had barely countenanced such behaviour at the time. Numbers like โI Know A Placeโ and โFlies & Liceโ are head-melting psych puzzles that make ample use of post-production effects; the three studio sessions that make up Dark Self Image were done in pretty quick succession, so thereโs no real discernable progress across this half hour, but United Mutation were out to lunch while 99%-and-the-rest of USHC bands were still spooning cornflakes. Cool postscript: UM bassist Jay Fox later ended up moving to an Antarctica research station and forming a band with guitar improv don Henry Kaiser when he did the same.
