by Vinnie Apicella

Been a big buzz surrounding these guys in the wake of their well-received "Live For Today" EP and it's unlikely the tone will diminish after the liberty bell ringing of their thirteen track bulldozing of political posturing and public apathy. Sharp-witted to go along with sharp hooks and tongue, nary an issue is relieved from redress. Crossing to and fro from a plosive dose of Emo-Core and Melodic Punk, "Tomorrow Come Today" features some of the most insightful lyrics ever put to print. Whether demonstrating their disdain for governmental hypocrisy on the Street-wise "Eviction Article" or "Dying On Principle," or misguided idol worship, "Full Color Guilt," "Bathory's Sainthood," with the latter poised for Pop-chart perfection as the unlikely yet one of the more absorbable AOR-weighted blasts of full bore blasphemy put to paper, few come away more insightful or intriguing as do BSF. "Release The Dogs" is a retaliatory after-effect of 9/11 and how conscience lost out to vengeance and freethinking went straight to. well, the dogs. Brandishing as much heavy groove and melodic charm to promote their patriotic intent, Boy Sets Fire is poised to break big in the Post-HC circuit where several have entered, few will win, and even less will remember the next day. Concurrent to the far reaching efforts of an AFI, parallel lines can be drawn between BSF, then and now where the songs still speak volumes, only more people would receive the transmission. Consider each song a unique piece to the overall puzzle that begins and ends with the idea of questioning authority but similarly, look in the mirror and examine what's wrong. No force-feeding measures necessary here, however, as the tunes come away catchy and clean without round the bend detours or difficult to follow finger play; not mainstream by design, but rather Hard Rock with a purpose and pro-active presentation. Then out of nowhere appears the hidden track ballad that makes sense and is reasonably set apart from the otherwise fast-spreading flames of frustration. Similar to another resourceful yet considerably less serious band like Therapy(?) and more so to fellow new arrivals like Hoobastank or Hot Water Music, looped and thread together like an audible chain of events, Boy Sets Fire's "Tomorrow Come Today" is bent on igniting the power of free speech and independent thought to Rock star music one strike a .

by Vinnie Apicella

Hard to imagine with the combination of sounds taking place here there are only two people at the controls. "Shockwave" shows further maturation for the duo who have developed remarkably well since their decidedly more "aggro" origins. "Shockwave" builds on the Industrial framework that's existed since the beginning, continuing to provide the steadying backbone for their elegant synthwork, effectively weaving ambient fluidity amongst otherwise dark, derisive passages and Marco's throatier vox. "Phoenix" and "Bondage" make for powerful opening moments lyrically unbound and long on instrumentality, soon giving way to the biting "Democracy" and EBM-friendly "The Fruit Of Wisdom," which was lyrically inspired by the movie, "Organs," and similar to Covenant's "We Stand Alone." "Heaven" is amongst the most moving pieces where percussive elements, while present, yield to pleasantly intrusive and continuous symphonic melodies that rarely break step, save for the second long verse. "Mechanical Horizon" was a tremendous leap forward for DF as they merged tradition with technology and solidified their reputation among the EBM/Industrial greats like a Front Line, Funker or Wumpscut. "Shockwave" hasn't the advantage of a great leap as before, nor does it follow a previous flaw, yet in spite of its space in time, comes away as one of the great Electronic records of the year thus far. It's absolutely electric, magnetic, and inviting with not a single note wasted - read "loops and samples." Yet it's every design, every move, calculated and carried out splendidly. A well-varied record, "Shockwave" is more atmosphere than grind; it's valiant and vibratory, without, and surprisingly so, falling for the trap of too much is not enough. They stay within themselves and the songs take on a life of their own - "Nothingness" and "Shockwave," are bottom ended numbers, and both come away as some of the most intense and attractive music of their careers! A booming version of The Swans' "Love Will Save You" at the close proves as domineering and heavy Industrial as DF's done in recent years - akin to a Massive Attack meets Depeche Mode for the grand finale. .

by Vinnie Apicella

First thing that stands out is the biting lyricism that stands out like black and blue amongst otherwise milky white shades of hand holding, heart-tugging Pop music and soft Punk. So rather than taking the true blue theme of she left me for another man and calling it, "Why Me?" or "Broken Heart," and something so monumentally '80s mall stories, here's Fall Out Boy, and God bless 'em, only a year and a half after their first basement assembly, and lettin' fly the open chord and defiance in the face of middle-class frustration. And so cleverly while you're bobbing your head, air drumming or grooving to the guitar pick, rest assured it's not just another "Piss to put you out" retort to the idea of catching fire and hope you both die in the end! I can't disassociate FOB with the million or so other Power Pop/Punk groupies that've clamored to get their college-age anthems on record chain playlists and do the next Goo Goo Dolls tour. Starting there isn't a bad idea actually, and if we went back a few years - say maybe 12 - before the GGD's got all sappy and sweet, the songs had a robust edge to go with the recurring morning after effect to suggest an at work opposing force when shits and giggles weren't all the cruel world had to offer. The Chicago foursome knows this formula and follows it to the letter - anxious, catchy guitar hooks and highly participative mic sharing to add the so-necessary depth to the peak/valley croon of wailing Peter Wentz, a pleasantly evocative personality that's schooled in the BJD style of serve and smile, sing-songy vocal sharing of about 78 and counting. So while separatism isn't a strong point of Emo-Rock music, if there's one quality that stands out from the rest it's the honesty to transcend the shallow bullshit of youth and fake in front of a mirror everything you'd ever wanted to be and say and never had the set to do it. Sociologically sound and satirically sadistic, "Take This To Your Grave" is like the smart-mouthed suburban teen with a grown up vocabulary and the ability to make overdrawn inter-relational commonalities seem poignant enough to warrant a return trip to the CD player every six or seven months. Stand outs and the reason they exist include, "Tell That Mick He Just Made My List Of Things To Do Today" - heard it all before but find a better song title, "Dead On Arrival," a shorter one that deals with, you guessed it, but he compares himself to a record, and that's pretty damned innovative if you ask me; "Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here)" is another heart-tugger with an extra dose of piss to accompany the vocalist's vinegar; and "Reinventing The Wheel To Run Myself Over" is a well worded exercise in self-pity while the closing "The Patron Saint Of Liars And Fakes" plays up the boy/girl I know your secret theme and thus the "take that to your grave." Conceptual? I'd have to say so, but excuse me while I spit. If you're digging bands like Ozma, Taking Back Sunday, Jimmy Eat World, Useless ID, or 5 Cent Deposit types, then this is for you; if you're repulsed by the pre-packaged selling of late teen drama, albeit expertly presented and left of center stage, stick to yer 7 Seconds, American Standard types and never let 'em see ya sweat.

by Jym Harris

The Seattle-based fivesome's sophomore push generates an emotional lift to the listener, transcending the technical prowess of the earlier resulting from their bout with the great beyond and here's their tale of triumph. Loosely based on Orwell's "Animal Farm," GAD touches on every aspect of humanity at odds with themselves and the world around them and derives and displays strength to overcome - "We're Not Orphans," "Epilogue," "Apparition." Weighted on the flighty nature of Prog/Rock's open chorded echo, showy aural breaks and instrumental breakdowns, it's mathematically stimulating and melodically adept music with plenty of playing intricacies and song patterns that often change tempo and depth in minute long clusters. "Ribbons & Sugar" is not predictable, boring, or difficult to decipher, things that often shroud the sincerity of many an instrumental group, good at what they do, but remembered less for complete works. There's a tension and tranquility in the songs as if reliving an entire elemental existence in 33 minutes. Plosive power chords create a dissonant reaction to usually charming, soft woven melodies and voice, lending a modern and edgy Emo-style overtone to the multi-tiered Further Seems Forever to Floyd-ian dream spin. Easy to see why GAB's made such big strides so early in the game - an apparition? Maybe. I like to think they're one of the few bands that puts as much thought into the big picture as they do for the matter at hand. It won't yield much in the way of hit single stardom, but this album has the chance to be appreciated by across the board listeners of a subdivided Rock music and Pop culture for years to come. .

by Vinnie Apicella

Is it just me or there a serious drop off in sound quality between tracks one and two? Sorta lends an ol' school charm to track two, "Turbulence," which like the first, is loaded on caffeine laced power picking and nervous melodies. If there were such a thing as "Speed-Pop" these guys might stake the claim, but such as things are, they're definitely a Punk band bent on blinding speed and carefully laid melodies, the mile wide chorus and graduate school lyric. "Faith" let's up the throttle a might and takes a turn for the commercial recesses of the Power-Pop ethos making for a great sing-along particularly for those of a self-deprecating variety. There's an emotional, lamentive quality to the songs that patches 'em right there with bands like Ozma, The Arrivals, or Taking Back Sunday along with a speed and substance collision in a conscientious bout with self-deprecation and piercing eye philosophy. "Scars Are Tough Too" brings up the rear - hard choice - but hard to discount those plosive riffs and drum fills, it's just the tune free rides either of the first two and exits quickly; "M-98" is similar to "Faith" and single quality material that's more reliant on the melody and groove. First heard these guys on Go Kart's previous "Vs. The Corporate Giant Vol. 3" comp and were a definite standout. Lotsa guitar playing, plenty o' harmonizing, endless philosophizing, and an apparent danger to themselves, that sells the drama with a wink, smile and sting for both ears. If you dig emotive Punk stuff with a Pop twist and split sly and serious persona, Guff's supercharged five-song EP will feed your need. Check 'em out on www.guffmusic.com for more info and look for their new full length sometime this spring or at least after they've secured enough adult supervision .

by Vinnie Apicella

""We're the proud and the putrid and we're gonna wreck this town." reads an integral line to "A Murder Of Crows" and really the underlying factor to the music of Pistol Grip - bullet the bullshit and break free. An LA-based post-Punk, and we'll call 'em "post" for the moment seeing as how they've successfully side-stepped the mislabeled Pop stars in Punk poses and gone the way of the rebel raider of a twenty year gone rude generation from the far side of Brixton - with a lengthy list of wordy fist pump anthems to raise your glass, ire, or voice to, "Another Round" is the next round for the '97 start ups who do songs that question authority, lament lost souls, and possess that all-important air of unity and bloodletting self-indulgence for as much as sixteen hours studio time will buy. PG sports solid playing and a harmonic discourse that only a fivesome can produce, and with it, an underlying choral unity for added "whoa-oh-oh" effect amongst the "If The Kids Are United" brand of suburban street preach. Pistols in the air for "Sweet & Sour Of A Knife," "Empty Shells," "1997," "Marshburn Ave" and the downtrodden "The Rebels Are Dead." And while no previous player is long safe amongst the many a new crew of misfits looking to earn a rank off the popularized version of anarchic discourse, I'm hearing a lot more of The Business, The Distillers, Youth Brigade, then I am a commercialized hybrid-please everyone at once-product that's conveniently Punk at one turn, one their knees the next. "Another Round's" a rigid, occasionally watery, but overall satisfying and believable enough middle of the road ol' school style offering with more character than most.

by Vinnie Apicella

My God a few seconds into "Throw it Away" and I thought I was taking another nightmarish trip down Sesame Street! And yeah, the whole song's got that bubbly, skip the sidewalk from side to side smiley-faced vibe outlining a sore-throated voice box effect to provide contrasting irritability. We're not quite so lucky on track two, but then little did we know The Dave Clark Five would be making their 30-year reunion on a song called "Freakout" no less. The tunes are short and sweet - here's hoping a little more cloud cover rolls in for extra density - and it does on the welcome closing, train wreck of a song that I can best describe contemporarily as that sorta "hit" Vines tune where the lightning bolts crash into their equipment and they stand there playing and striking stupid poses. The songs on "The Black Lips" are top heavy and amateurishly presented to the point where at all four corners of the room, you're bombarded by tool boxes, wall calendars and various assorted fluid stains. Think of it as Garage Rock with a psychedelic twist of Rockabilly, The Wolfman, and Dick Dale creations that when the dust settles, it's like a reprinted copy of The Stones' (circa '67). "I've Got A Knife" is a major kick in the nuts as if someone suddenly decided distribution should expel from both channels - and again, short, short, short. Best song on the record and I can't even finish a lousy sentence before I'm bombarded by fucking Big Bird muttering something about being "Down And Out." I wish I could side step the Sesame Street reference, I really do. Okay, we'll return to the American Graffiti soundtrack for a second trip to Saturday night cinema. I'm not crazy about the name and I'm even less crazy about the guitar player's moon on the back cover, but there's an animalistic quality to this stuff that transcends simple childhood pleasure to the point where not only do you not want to sing along, you're damn near ready to hit the mute button for fear of nerve damage from occasional but out of nowhere fun with feedback. Their style is nothing fancy, just dirty overalls and do it yourself, and if I had to guess, here's the album all of your late-sixties' faves would've loved to make if censorship didn't stop 'em in their open-toed tracks - and somehow guys like Young and Dylan still loosened the slack enough to reel off a good one now and then. These guys are out there chasing their own asses a little too much for me to go ga-ga over, though if we're really to do this right, I'd be under an adequate influence consistent with the return trip I'm taking here. So pop the top and rediscover the combined arts of Classic Rock, primal Punk, psychedelia, sappy Folk and silly studio spurts to keep ya guessing; There's some talent to go with the whole Stones, Dwarves, Dylan, Hives persona - so envision each of the four somehow, and maddeningly so at times, blended together and guesting from one song to another though when we arrive at "Everybody Loves a Cocksucker," all bets are off. The songs say a lot about versatility for The Black Lips, a laugh and a half and fun for all, but ain't enough groove to grab onto and too diminutive to develop any real singularity if not staying power.

by Vinnie Apicella

Aha, so this is where they been hiding out all these years. the self-professed "Fiends" have been fine tuning their ultra cool, ravishingly revolting brand of bat-music for some five years since their last "Big Beat From Badsville" came out and it's apparent they've re-emerged not only the worse for wear, but with that much more ability to wear thin the patience of Rock aficionados everywhere. All is said in only the most endearing terms however, and if not for their outrageous get ups and horror-flick personas, they'd easily be the greatest band the outside world's ever known. As it is they're without a doubt the greatest underground act still running 25 years after it all started. "Fiends Of Dope Island" is vintage Cramps - but then again, so are all of their records - they remain unscathed by outside influence and accepted their fate as true tormentors of popular trends since they first began wielding the whip all those years ago. From the ominous moments of "Big Black Witchcraft Rock," to the groovin' "Hang Up," the voracity of "Elvis Fucking Christ" or the smooth chill of "Taboo," we're running the dark path between sex, drugs, debauchery, and Great Balls of Fire times three, with a number of ill-intended one liners and a well-spring of gratuitous nonsense for another good measure of "bad music" for those in their grip. Having just recently grabbed back their early catalog and re-released it in 2001 on their Vengeance label, "Fiends" is a point to prove for critics and passersby that no one is safe from the swarm of sarcasm and sinister intent from this thematical romp through the recesses of damp swamps and dead brain cells. Aside from three well placed covers, including Jerry Reed's "Oowee Baby," and think Country/Western caped in black clouds, blood-curdling, and booze, it's a thirteen song tribute to the dead of night, the walking dead, and the devil, with a quick two-step stopover on their grave of choice. Never before has a record been more fun to listen and/or follow along to, a rare commodity for a forty-something band of misfits still off on the idea of merging the occult with obnoxious F-laced gratu

by Vinnie Apicella

The record begins with a long, harrowing scream. and only gets worse from there! Now that's "worse" depending of course on the viewpoint of the listener and their threshold for inner ear pain. The Exploited's music is not for the casual Punk fan. It's for the crusty Street-core veteran-minded difference maker with a few more right wings to burn and audacious asses to kick. After numerous seven inches, studio releases and countless comps to their credit, the eighth new dig in some seven years proves anarchy never goes out of style, it just gets more violent with age. And in an age where discontent still runs rampant as the Reagan-era rage that spawned this "2nd Generation" of UK Punk, the same band that brought us teeth-cutting classics as "Punks Not Dead," "Troops Of Tomorrow," and more recently "Beat The Bastards," slams another fist into the face of idealistic tormentors of the damned and down-trodden. Save for a shaved and dreaded Wattie as the usual center point of commotion, the once-famed Mohawks have gone the way of skins and pins, and the ultra aggressive sound is a riff-ravaged by-product of classic Oi! and Metal thrashing mad. Hard to pick among the thirteen cuts here but if you had to grab three before the cell door slams shut, go with "Fuck The System," "Holiday In The Sun," and. it's a tough one but "Never Sell Out" reeks of the good ol' "Punks Not Dead" glory days! What's changed since the early '80s round when they first started? Besides the dozen or so peers that came and went, came back, but should've stayed away, The Exploited's remained the benchmark for relevant stick swinging Hardcore abuse-ment. With the exception of a band like Motorhead, they've influenced more of the so-called "Punk" and "Metal" bands than most anyone. Nearly 25 years later, they're still playing it faster, louder, and prouder than ever before! (File next to stuff like Conflict, Sick On The Bus, Discharge, The Business, Agnostic Front, and Propain. not to mention the worst motherfucking hangover you've ever imagined.)

by Vinnie Apicella

The idea of a new Type O Negative album just doesn't excite me. And granted their music isn't about wild parties and Pop-laced teen anthems with break beats and break ups at the core. But they're consistent to a fault; you either get it or you don't. Interesting to hear Mr. Steele basically trash their last "World Coming Down" record, which I happened to think, was better than the tenuous and endless "October Rust." "Life Is Killing Me" is a definite threat to the popularity placement of its predecessors. The songs possess an immediate impact by striking quickly, owing to some jagged riffing and a catchy vibe, less dirge-like, more inviting and varietal. The name hasn't changed and neither has the theme, but one thing that stands apart from the get go is Steele lets it all hang out, initially apparent on the reckless close out of the balmy "Anesthesia." Sporting their first new material since '99s "WCD," early going tracks like "I Don't Wanna Be Me," an ominous to potent Doom/Gloom fest, the surprisingly uplifting "Life Is Killing Me," and to a lesser degree, the hauntingly familiar "The Dream Is Dead," noteworthy for its fluid double-bass work and dynamic lay it on in thick black band performance. Few go far in mixing their degree of melancholy with this tongue in cheek brand of self-deprecating humor and come away as remotely respectable, yet here's this mighty Cro-Magnon of a band, five full lengths in, formulaic at full force, loud, lewd, and at a loss to explain themselves, yet still they go. Musically more active and tuneful than really anything in their past including their breakout "Bloody Kisses" record, "Life Is Killing Me" lets yesterday's subtleties shine through, whether they include the unexpected, even out of place double-bass drum fills, a cleverly placed instrumental stroll, as with the sitar on the traditionally-minded "Less Than Zero," or a percussive/acoustic sensitivity marking a bittersweet cut like ".A Dish Better Served Coldly." And while "Life Is Killing Me" is instantly absorbable, requiring much less patience than most of their previous work, many fans may find the higher degree of sucrose a bit hard to swallow. There's an awful lot of '70s inspired Prog-Rock motion to enhance the glut of Gothic dreariness that truthfully raises the bar a notch - a welcome addition to the usually buried needle effect that's long lay cold. And then the "carnivorous" side rears itself now and again for the aggressively methodical "I Like Goils," or their bombastic cover song from "Hedwig And The Angry Inch" musical, trimmed simply to "Angry Inch," and no laughing matter if you actually knew the subject matter! Blows away anything they'd tried up to this point, tripping clear back to the beginning that'll bowl 'em over live! There's some inescapable space filler interspersed here and there, mainly through the mid-section where they get caught up too often and too deep in the keyboarding fluff. Overall, "Life Is Killing Me" is a motivated work, if not less cynical than is their trademark, only now elevated by an ambitious presentation and playing that's apparent of a new found desire to break free from the rustiness of old for a fresher perspective led by a sharp delivery and sharper

by Vinnie Apicella

Faster, louder, and arguably poorer than most in their class, Verbal Abuse was amongst the earlier ranks of American Hardcore and affected such influential follow ups as D.R.I., Overkill, and Slayer. Back in a time when spent energy resulted in songs against governmental abuse, societal bias, bad people and "Buds" of all sorts, bands like The Exploited, GBH, Cro-Mags, Agnostic Front, and Verbal Abuse took the idea of Punk Rock unrest and blew it to bits in a hailstorm of flying sweat, spit, and steel toed boots. Beer City combines prime-era VA with a two on one reissue containing 26 tracks split between their '83 "Just An American Band" release and "Live In '84." The sound quality is chaotic at best - and much can be explained by the band member blurbs contained therein about VA's early season struggles - and delightfully underground, if not slightly frustrating for the dead level volume. As of '2001, Verbal Abuse lived on. Where they are now is anybody's guess but suffice to say, Verbal Abuse, as an ideal and by product of our tormented existence, the words and music live on with every f-slinging deviant and malcontent living for himself. Most tunes are repeated live from the studio tracking, though there's a raunchy version of Sabbath's "Paranoid" and the closing "I Wanna Be Me" to add an extra blister to the preceding in-studio burn. The tunes are on and again, quick, short bursts of aggression without relying on too much Reagan-era ragging so many had earlier adopted. Instead, they're more like the D.R.I.'s and Circle Jerk, early Black Flag types chirping about the everyday with forty second blasts of minimum wage malaise and weekend warrior type shit. And Verbal Abuse has shared bills with bands like 7 Seconds, D.R.I., and The Dead Kennedys back in the day, so someone heard what they were saying. they probably weren't listening to either of these albums, but luckily, the reissue comes with words, black and white photos and cleverly done club bill centerfold collage so at least we can see what we might otherwise had missed.