House Vs. Hurricane need you to buy this album. Forget pirating, borrowing and ripping from a friend’s CD or any other method that doesn’t involve your cold, hard cash ringing through the Austrailian six piece’s collective bank account. Mind you, they’re not after some inflated sales figures or a dollar sign confirmation that they’re not wasting their time, they just desperately need the pennies to at least rent the trial version for a new synth sound. For a band constantly placing their keys at centre stage, they’ve somehow forgotten to invest in anything other than what sounds like a flimsy, plastic keyboard the Early Learning Centre’s music section would be embarrassed to offer up for sale. Claiming their music as “progressive post-hardcore” and “cinematic hardcore”, House Vs. Hurricane bumble out a sound that combines the worst parts of From Autumn To Ashes, Enter Shikari and Chiodos that is as exciting as it is representative of the prefixed sub-genre they claim to belong. There is nothing on offer here that isn’t shot through absolutely every other below-par “post-hardcore” band apart from an even blander sense of self-convinced satisfaction in their homogenised, cul-de-sac songs.
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Throats’ latest self-titled EP is a difficult beast to judge. It does so much right in terms of angry, raging noise making and apparent teeth ripping brutality yet there is something a miss at the heart of all the commotion. The windmilling elephant in the room is Converge’s No Heroes, an album which was surely a massive influence on this 17 minute six track bombshell. Along with the frantic screams, flesh stripping beats and howling guitar reliefs, the doom laden, overhanging darkness that fills every facet of this release marks the EP as a child of its father.
Pulled Apart By Horses’ main strength lies in the energy and impact of their ferocious live performances. Translating such feral energies from the stage and into the studio is an infamously tricky task and after being tipped by almost everyone everywhere to do something rather huge in the year 2010, their self-titled debut lands as one of the most hotly anticipated releases of the year. Can it live up to the hype?
Its got plenty of rough edges but a few scuffed battle scars are the kind of characterful flaws that gives albums some oxygen to breath. A Pulled Apart By Horses show is messy, sweaty and a whole lot of fun and it wouldn’t have felt right locking these songs up in a heavily produced, air tight padded cell.
After building a fearsome reputation on the back of their bruising and brilliant live performances, Pulled Apart By Horses release their self-titled debut full length onto an expectant world in the hopes of ripping a big, beautiful hole out of 2010’s summer.
We begin with Back To The Fuck Yeah as it patters into life. Its an odd choice for an opener that doesn’t quite connect until the chorus kicks in. Once it drops however its a struggle to stop yourself being sucked into its stomping, scuzzy charge into lightspeed. Its the sound of party crasher recollections; of vomit ridden t-shirts telling tales of epic adventures and hazy memories from nights gone by. The scene is set for an album made for the summer months’ late nights to get up to no good with.
With Blood Brothers defunct, Fear Before not shaking anywhere near as oddly as they used to and The Murder Of Rosa Luxembourg all but a faint speck lost to the dust clouds of the near past, who can you turn to for a dose of melodic, spazzed-up hardcore fit for LSD trips on spinning teacups rides? Duck Duck Goose are your new sheet of blotting paper.
Take this band at name value at your peril and open wide for one almighty sucker-punch to the chops. Off Yourself is a work of addled over excitement and attention shredding joy made by men of demented intentions and crazy eyed abandon. With their snarling bass lines, meandering, jazzed up guitars, pounding drums and howling, wailing yelps and screams, Duck Duck Goose spit out round after round of spectacularly unstable hardcore that takes a bite at anything put in front of it. The entire track listing drips with more reckless energy than a fired up hooker stuffed full of Semtex and chilli powder.
Rolo Tomassi; If Cosmology is your entry point then make sure you’re standing (or sitting) on something soft and comfortable. You don’t want your jaw shattering into a million pieces when it hits the floor now, do you? You’ll be needing it as you try and put into words what you’ve just experienced as you piece your world back together bit by bit. For those of you already familiar with the name and the sound, sit back and watch potential become realised.
For the former group, Rolo Tomassi are a nuclear warhead going off in the Tate Modern. Their songs are energetic explosions of textures, ideas and ambition that rattle your teeth with intensity and soak your brain with vibrant, colourful noise. Banshee beating screams, synths from the arcades of the apocalypse and neck breaking rhythms are all hallmarks of a band that never pull their punches or compromise on their output. If they did, their potent brand of chaotically brilliant hardcore would never have made it out of the gates let alone onto a second album.
Cosmology was to be Rolo Tomassi’s difficult second album after becoming the underground darlings of the UK alternative music scene. Such heights were meant to cripple them with compromise and over-expectation as per every other band that gets sucked into the media scrum whilst still young.
Having clawed their way up to the top table of the UK hardcore bracket from the pat-on-the-head position of “them crazy kids from Sheffield with the purty girl that screams real nice” to one of the most rightly respected and exciting bands this country has produced in years, they’ve always thrived on the unexpected. Whether that be the petite surprise attack banshee that is Eva Spence, their fresh-faced appearance or heading out to LA with Diplo at the production helm to record this, their follow up effort, Cosmology.
London doesn’t strike as the most natural birthplace for a pop-punk band. Suburbs and provincial towns seem to be the de facto stomping grounds for such groups who can often sound like desperate attempts to cling onto a second hand Americana that got damp and diluted on it’s way over the pond. Futures however are a pop-punk band from London and you can tell, for all the right reasons.
The presentation on their self released debut, The Holiday, is sublime. The band sound up and above the quality and production value levels of established genre acts backed with big money. Impressive for a artist pushing their own wares DIY.
What a big beautiful epitaph this turned out to be. Daughters’ latest self titled release could well be their last if rumours are to be believed. Crashing home in just under 30 minutes it’s an explosive mix of oppressive, crunchy noise, desperate vocals and screeching, wailing guitars that sound like decayed ruins fired up with fresh electric.
Under the thick foggy overcoat of howling chaos lies song fragments pounded to dust and repurposed for the roaring cacophony overhead. Tracks such as ‘The First Supper’, ‘The Hit’ and ‘Our Queens (One Is Many, Many Are One)’ offer up the smallest glimpse of a hook as bait only to wrap their claws around your midst, dragging you down into the depths of their screaming melee below or ripping you to shreds in the process. Elsewhere, ‘The Theatre Goer’ tears through it’s initial birthing into a violent frenzy of falling masonry, and cinemas collapsing in flames. The droning implosion of ‘The Dead Singer’ sounds like a ket laced knife fight in slow-mo and ends in a pool of blood and tinnitus. The album in it’s entirety is a delicious slab of murderous fury and strangely danceable intensity that splutters it’s wares out like a death-knell disco in the midst of the apocalypse.
Album number three from everyone’s favourite Toronto southern hardcore merchants, and yet again they come up with the goods. As per usual, every track here is packed to the gills with enough riffs to make any fully grown lumberjack weep. Liam Cormier’s vocals are as biting and punchy as ever whilst Scott Middleton’s guitar work can only be described as ridiculous in the best possible way with more pinch harmonics than you could possibly muster the breath to ask for.
Cancer Bats are a band best served loud and this album is no exception to their reputation. The production delivers in sledgehammer blows and shotgun blasts that kick out the intensity needed to do the band justice. Rarely can an act articulate their powers of live performance so directly in the recording studio, yet with Cancer Bats it sounds almost effortless. This is a darker, far more brutal piece of work compared to the band’s first two studio efforts and it takes great delight in hammering home it’s lead fisted ear barrage. You will be left beaten, broken and pummelled to satisfaction.
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Presentation Ideas
As we all know the presentation that we are getting marked on takes place on the 2nd December.
Plan:
1. Go through the group,...
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Green screen work for the show.
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Photos from our first day of filming.
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Production Schedule (first draft and subject to change)
Hello Friends, here are the notes for today’s session as well as the following week’s plans...
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PARADIGHMOND PICTURES CREW
Greg Johnson: CMT
Tracy Mathewson: TAP
Emma Prendergast: TAP
Ben Parcell: DMT
Yi-Wen (Evelyn) Lin: TAP
Tim Dorning:...
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19) A Muso's Guide To Leeds
Muso’s Guide, 25/08/2010
Leeds can be argued the best city in the UK for music. With Manchester or London, the sheer...
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Indian Summer - Aren’t You Angel
For their third recording session, Indian Summer entered a real studio for the first time and...
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this isn’t a ‘real’ cover; I didn’t even know there was one (there are a few different versions of Indian Summer’s discography on CD and,...
