Posts Tagged ‘Static Shock’

Cold Meat

There’s a time for cool waters and calm heads and there’s a time for the righteous infection of fire-forged punk. Somehow its been time for both in these past couple of weeks, but right about now the latter is feeling pretty apt. Perth scorchers Cold Meat have graduated from their early short-form firestarters to a full length that showcases their pounding, primal, elastic scratch. Built on a foundation of tire-thick rubber riffs, the band kneads and pounds the basics of punk through an emotional and musical ringer. The riffs are meaty and land with enough force to bruise heavily. The bass ricochets around the speaker space with a sinewy menace. While squarely in the mold of punk purveyors like Magazine, X-Ray Spex, or The Adverts, they borrow the alternating current corruption of post-punk terrors — finding common ground with the hot bile invective of The Au Pairs and the writhing discomfort of Pylon.

None of the garments of the past quite fit them, though, and that’s to their credit. They chafe at categorization, but Cold Meat mostly look to take a hammer to the societal mirror and do it with a wicked smile on their face in the process. Doesn’t hurt tat they’ve got the twenty megaton howl of Ashley Ramsey in their corner as well. While the music beneath her squirms in pain, Ramsey rounds up every last inch of sneered and seared animus and hurls it at the listener. I’m a sucker for a voice that packs a versatile volley of grievance, pain, disappointment, and derision and she nails the nuance every time. While I can’t say I levy Andy unsettled scores with ZZ Top and their fanbase as the band seems to, elsewhere Cold Meat seem to bring good reason and welcome harbor to their various picked bones. Its a record of its time — bred on the scraps of the past but fueled with the earned anger of a younger generation left in the cold to fend for itself.



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The Uranium Club

Minneapolis’ cracked punk purveyors Uranium Club are back with another LP that draws from the miscreant/art axis of ‘70s derangement that exists between the loosened strands of punk and the buttoned-up prescription of post-punk. The band swings through manic guitar runs, folding riffs into origami shapes that seem ill-advised, yet wind up absurdly catchy if the circadian rhythms of your psyche are knocked properly askew. The band is breaking the catalogs of Dow Jones & the Industrials, Pere Ubu, Devo, MX-80, and Wire over their knee and shuffling the pieces into an order that reads like a buried Burroughs if only you could find the cipher.

They jumped off of the counter and onto the decks with their last EP, proved the madness can’t be contained to 33 revolutions per minute on a live follow-up, and now they’re rubbing oven cleaner in the wounds left raw and reeling with a brand-new slab for hire. The Cosmo Cleaners is stretching your consciousness out through the left nostril and jamming the nozzle of an aerosol air freshener up the other, 9V batter firmly planted on the tongue for full effect. Seemingly stumbling from chord to chord, Uranium Club has actually got the chaos mapped meticulously and printed on line ruled circuit boards for the taking. They punctuate the perilous peaks and crumpled valleys of their songs with car horns attenuated to specific frequencies that’ll induce involuntary full-body jerking. They keep the rolled aluminum din swinging while simultaneously laying out a full spoken word screed over the top. They won’t be taking questions after the session.

With The Cosmo Cleaners the band is proving that their lauded early releases were no fluke of human condition, and more to the point, should have served as a warning rather than a welcome. They’ve set out a statement of ill invective with their latest for Static Shock, built of motor oil and bacteria and given life like a viral golem doomed to wander the streets in search of blood. There’s a heavy sense that the members of Uranium Club find themselves to be more intelligent than you, and perhaps they’re right, but they’ve been left bored and bruised and no job sates the backlog of bile in their system quite like issuing ire through reel to reel. So, they’ll take your twenty dollars and stuff it their socks, saving up for another aural attack, another manifestation of manifesto made metal down the line. Enjoy it… or don’t. I’m not sure that it makes a difference, but it definitely leaves a mark.



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