A topless, serious elven man sits astride ED-209 – Robocop’s mechanical biped nemesis. The man, in knee high boots, unsheathes a blue flaming broadsword, triceps like greased turtles. ED-209 abruptly lowers gun arms with a whir, unleashing bolts of laser rain in terrifying mechanical rhythm, recoil absorbed effortlessly. The man describes arcs in the air with his sword, trailing ominous cascading light. Expression implacable, his mouth opens, and an unearthly shriek shits you up.
The sound engineer minimises chrome, and maximises the sequencer. Skilfully patterned beats are artfully draped like pearls, the excess fat trimmed. The guitar whines against the humming amp. Fuzz pedals flicker like somnolent cities. The vocalist stands, weight on one leg, arms crossed, lip bitten. The mic in the booth quietly records cicadas through the wall.
The vocals are awesome: brave, pleading, proud, desperate. The guitar is metal, progressive, melodic, evil. The drums are tight and subtle – programmed? Extensive rearrangements switch with choppy signature riffage. Few beat-downs and many lopsided speed garage grooves coexist within a punk structure, the anarchy of hardcore replaced by leaner, tauter muscle – grunge, maybe.
Speed and power. Askew. Traumatised. A pop-ish sentiment; a touch of evil. A black-eyed, bleak expression on an attractive face, redolent of old leather jackets. A warm dusk, a tarmacked place on the desert’s edge, orange streetlamp light – a dusty low slung cabin, two motorcycles, no gas – cicadas chirping all around. Through the window, an 11” mac palely glows a Youtube fantasy.
Post hardcore, emo, distortion, math rock, angularity