Arena's suck ass and this is WHY WHY Y!

Recently I went to the local cinema to see 2 hours of Daniel Craig smash the shit out of various landmarks throughout the U.K and it FUCKING ROCKED! The film was awesome but there was one thing that was ruining the film for me through the hole god damn thing and that was the fucking audience. If you haven't realized by now everyone in the world is a dick apart from your friends and even they are dicks 95% of the time (maybe that's just me). Everyone else sucking means that in turn cinemas suck because you're surrounded by people chewing on pop corn, rustling sweet packets, sneezing, coughing, laughing, crying, screaming and anything else that takes your attention of the film. This, for me, ruins the film.

I will give you an example in how it ruins the film, for people that haven't seen the new Bond film (stop reading this and watch it) there is a part of the film that is supposed to be harrowing, sad and make you want to rip your heart out of your chest and throw it at Daniel Craig's beautiful face...Ignore that last bit... anyway this hole sadness emotion that some people (losers and gay lord's) feel is COMPLETELY ruined by the fat sweaty dude next to you crunching his fucking popcorn and the lame ass guy in front of you coughing uncontrollably.

Half way through this 2 hour ordeal I realized this is EVERYTHING that is wrong with huge gigs that take part throughout the world everyday. The band you're seeing maybe the best band in the world but everyone around you...well... they are most certainly not the best band in the world, they cant sing, they are ugly and they are always taller then you so you can't see. Every time I go to a big arena show I cant help thinking "This would be perfect if there was 3000 less people". You see at a smaller gig there are no barriers, people are way more friendly and the band always sound 100% better.

I know its cliche to say but you should be "supporting your local venue" that doesn't mean putting the venues logo as your Facebook picture or constantly spamming your online companions with the latest gigs at the venue. It means go to more shows, take your friends, drink some beer, have some fun, sing some songs, kiss some girls, wake up in the morning with a hangover and do it all again the following week/month/day. If more people do this it means that bigger acts will WANT to come to your local venue not just because its in between where they want to get to! Hey, you never know, you may enjoy it in the process.

What makes Title Fight Good?

Now if you read my post earlier (found here if you didn't) you will be confused into the reasons for me talking about Title Fight instead of Saves The Day. So to explain I've been listening to Title Fight all day so I just thought it was right. Anyway...

Title Fight are an awesome punk band from Kingston, PA. In my eyes they have a perfect mix of punk and dare I say it? "Hardcore". Now when I say hardcore, I mean it loosely. They have that vibe in which you can only find at a hardcore show. A vibe that makes you want to crowd surf like a sweaty, jobless version of Kelly Slater. Also the band themselves are into hardcore which also helps (search YouTube for Bad Seed for examples).

Reason Number 1 for Title Fight being awesome is that their last album, Shed. This is probably in my top 5 if not top 10 albums ever. It is everything a punk album should be - Short, to the point and a kick in the teeth. It has the catchy guitar that we have all come to know and love in Title Fight it has the speed of four hundred horses and more importantly it has the sing along's. Every song could be sung along to by a school choir if you lost the instruments (unless you went to Gene Simmons 'muthafucking' Rock School or have Mr.Shneebly as a temp teacher for a week). If you haven't heard this album yet I thoroughly recommend it to anyone with an interest in any sort of punk.

Another thing that makes Title Fight good is their notoriously crazy live shows. You can't really describe the atmosphere or events of a Title Fight gig unless you have witnessed the organised chaos for your self. As you would expect there is the usual antics you would expect at a hardcore or punk show but there is a huge difference as well. There is something in the atmosphere at a Title Fight gig that you don't feel at any other gig. For the brief hour they play you gain a unique bond with everyone around you. Everyone's there to have fun, have a few beers (if that's your thing) and chill out with their mates. And in my eyes this is what makes Title Fight so good, it is feel good, friend making music, where instead of being judged on what band t-shirt you are wearing or how tight your jeans are you are sharing the love of the same band with everyone there. This fun aspect is what is lacking in the punk and hardcore community I feel people are going to these gigs for the wrong reason. Instead of going for to show support to the band and have a good time, they are there for a new Facebook display picture or increase their followers on Tumblr.

If you get a chance to see Title Fight you should definitely go and see them. If not don't worry go and buy 'Shed' you won't regret it.

Peace!
Max.

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR (Part Two)

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

I drove out to the docks with this youth in tow. We’d’ve been there in no time, but I held us back by ten minutes when I stopped to purchase a spray deodorant for him, to keep his overwhelming malodour at bay. Naturally, he set fire to it and shoved it down my throat. Good kid, I thought. He had spunk.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked

“I don’t have a name. Names are mainstream.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase. Why do I keep hearing about Edgar Cunt being at the docks? What could the docks possibly have to offer for a successful punk rock...” I hesitated at the next word “...singer?”

“I don’t know shit, geez. Maybe he couldn’t hack it no more. It’s a tasking lifestyle, being a punk.”

“Tasking my ass. You should’a been in ‘Nam.”

“You were in ‘Nam?”

“No, but the social stigma for conscientious objectors is damn-near intolerable.”

He looked at me with disgust. I couldn’t fathom why.

“What’s the scoop, then?” I asked “Who’s your man around here?”

“He’s here somewhere. Maybe behind that crate...”

“Why would he be behind a crate?” I said. He looked at me silently. Guess the answer was pretty obvious, I just didn’t know it. Maybe I’m not so cut out for this business anymore, I thought. I stepped behind the crate to investigate and felt something connect with the back of my head. Blacked out.

When I awoke I was greeted by a waft of what smelled like a juxtaposition of incense, marijuana, and semen. I tried to get my bearings in the darkened room, grasping at whatever I could find. Eventually I caught a light-switch and it flickered on. It was a lava lamp. I wondered what kind of godawful pit I’d been imprisoned in, but no answers immediately came to mind, so I decided to sit on the beanbag in the corner of the room and wait for somebody to come get me.

The noxious fumes had just about got to me, and I was reclining back in a golden slumber when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Opened an eye with trepidation. A dude with crystalline locks of excessive hair was gazing down at me.

“What’s the deal with all this kidnapping business?” I said “You’re lucky I’m no prude; this could be considered impolite in certain circles.”

“Word on the street is that you’ve been snoopin’ about after Edgar Cunt.”

“Snoopin’ I sure have been. I’m fuckin’ Snoop Dogg here.” He didn’t seem to get the anachronistic reference, and I’m not sure I did either

“Uh...well...I’m here to tell you...”

“Wait, you’re here to tell me? Is this not your place? Surely I’m here so you can tell me...well, whatever information you’re on the verge of divulging.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Richards. I’ve got an arsenal of Emerson, Lake & Palmer records, and I’m not afraid to use them,” he snapped.

I shuddered as I noticed the record player in the far corner of the room “Whaddya want from me?”

“I want you to leave this case be. Tell your honey from the band there was nothin’ you could do. Edgar Cunt and the Piss Merchants are history.”

I’d never hit a man so hard as I hit him that moment. What kind’a man did he think I was? One who gives up on a case? No dice. ‘Specially not when there’s some prime punk pussy involved.

With stars spinning around the enforcer’s unconscious head, I entered the main room of the complex. It was sordid. Chicks fuckin’ dudes. Dudes fuckin’ dudes. Chicks fuckin’ chicks. All the combinations. All of them seemed to have beards like overgrown rhododendron bushes, especially the chicks. Ghastly sounds emitted from the expensive speaker system; endless, meandering guitar solos. A lady looked up at me from the carnal carnage on the floor. She had fine hairy prickles with large orange hips. I think she nodded, then she went back to fuckin’. Fuckin’. Fuckin’. Too much fuckin’. As I say, I’m no prude, but what I’m talking about just ain’t decent. I wondered how long it’d take ‘til my interrogator ceased to be out cold and he and his ELP LPs caught up with me. In the bedlam of the speaker system, the guitarist tired of his display of virtuosity, and presumably slipped off the recreate the scenes of this establishment, leaving the drummer to take over. Any sane human being knows that a drum solo is a signal that it’s high time to get the fuck out of there. At that moment, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” I yelled. The guests were too stoned, and too engrossed in orgasm, to notice that none of them had any idea who I was. I opened the door.

“Oi oi. Anyone want some ket?” asked Will Corston

“Will?” I lowered my voice “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, y’know, doin’ the rounds, shifting the product. What brings you to Laurel Canyon?”

“Ah, so this is Laurel Canyon. It’s a long story. I was kidnapped. I think Edgar Cunt might be here.”

“Oh, dawdy fucking kaka.” boomed Will

“STOP!” the man who had tried to force me off the investigation was charging towards me, gat in his hand. His friends just carried on fuckin’ “You shall not leave this place!”

Corston flipped his piece into my hand, and I shot the bastard in the chest. He collapsed to the Persian-carpeted floor, his freak flag flyin’ no more. His friends kept fuckin’, although one of them was now buying some ketamine from Corston. I decided to do what I do best; investigate. Perhaps this madman’s dying words would provide the information I so desired.

“You yuppie punk rock scum” he croaked, as I towered over him

“Hey, I still favour the Hard Bop era.”

“’Fore the Piss Merchants reared their ugly heads, my group, Carter, Carter, Burrows & The Aliens were the hottest band on the Strip.”

“Looks like you got refrigerated.”

“This new generation, man...I don’t get it...”

“Hold your tongue or I’ll cap you once more, and this time it’ll be final. And don’t you ever call the Piss Merchants ugly again. Their bass player is a very attractive woman. Where’s Edgar Cunt?”

“He’s upstairs” he coughed “In the laundry room.”

“Thanks. Got any last words?”

“I...don’t think a triple-album is self-indulgent...”

And with that, he said his goodbye to this world. Can’t say it’ll be worse without him. Upstairs, I released Edgar Cunt. I knew it was him because, when I asked him, he spat in my face and kicked me down two storeys of stairs.

“Fancy giving us a ride, Will?” I asked, nursing my wounded bones

“Sure thing, mate. Where to?”

“Back to the Bedlam Cellar. I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

On the drive back, Corston sold Edgar Cunt two ounces of ket, which they proceeded to consume in their entirety throughout the drive’s fifteen-minute duration. Eschewing the traditional concept of parking on the edge of the sidewalk, Corston drove into the door of the building, throwing us out of the car windscreen. Exhilarated, I took a snort of the horse tranquilliser, for which Edgar nailed my arm to the hubcap. When I released myself, I gazed around the club; people were dancing with great enthusiasm, drinking their drinks, listening to their music, and I noticed a number of other crashed cars dotted around the room. Then I saw him; the punk rocker who supposedly had no name, responsible for leading me to what could have been an untimely death or, at the very least, a particularly unpleasant ménage-a-trois.

“Hey, cunt!” Edgar looked around at me. I assured him “Not you.” I threw a piece of glass from the shattered windscreen at the man who’d betrayed me. He yelped. “Call yourself a punk? I thought sadism was your forte. The only sorta punk you are is the kind that gets ass-fucked in prison.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah?” I remarked through gritted teeth

“Oh yeah.”

In a move that shocked him, I ripped off his safety-pin decorated denim jacket. Underneath lay something that nobody would dare to display in the Bedlam Cellar; a Pink Floyd t-shirt. The whole room went deadly silent.

“I...er...you know me, I’m like Johnny Rotten! I just, er, forgot to write ‘I hate’ before their name. Silly me! D’oh!” he gulped

Nobody spoke. It was so tensely silent, that you could hear a safety-pin drop. After a minute or so, the leader of the band onstage screamed “Let’s get ‘im!” and stage-dived head-first into the crowd. In a matter of moments, vigilante justice was administered on the conniving Prog-enthusiast. As she emerged from the top of the angry mob, the woman of my dreams appeared to wink at me. Then she levelled the broken bottle out of sight, and he was finished.

Two years later, Lana told me that the Piss Merchants were seeking to embrace a more New-Wave direction, with a prominent jazz influence, and I joined the band on tenor sax. I still do odd detective jobs but that’s more a hobby now and, besides, since we married I mainly associate with those in the Punk Rock community. Those folks know how to get it done without me. I still think Emerson, Lake & Palmer are fucking awful.

What makes X good?

Hello internet world, I have been busy as of late doing real things that will benefit me in ways other then cool internet kudos and scene points, so sorry for my absence (I'm sure that no one has even noticed that I haven't posted anything but who cares)

Anyway I have come up with an idea which may or may not suck/rock. There are a lot of bands out there that I fucking love to the point of stalkerish tendencies but when people ask me "Max, you sexy yet sophisticated man. What makes said band so ruddy good?" I tend to get flustered, stutter then have an accident in my pants. No this is not because I am socially backwards (My girlfriend would argue otherwise) it's because there are so many good things about the band that I don't know where to start. So I have come up with a devious plan in where I will sum up why my favorite bands are better then yours and why you suck at life and why I am ultimately superior to everyone else. However I may leave out the latter I haven't decided yet.

I will start later with Saves The Day, although I haven't made a concrete decision yet. Anyway, come back later for your punkyourpants fix.

Peace!
Max.

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR (Part One)

HARRY RICHARDS: PUNK ROCK PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

Harry Richards is my name. I’m a private investigator. A shamus. A dick. Course, you can’t use that last one in the present day. It’s a cynical world. Been in the business a few years now, approximately ten, I’d be inclined to say. Maybe...no, twelve. Twelve years I’ve been running the errands not of society as dictated by our institutions (I was in the police force for some years. Not anymore, of course. It was an acrimonious split.) but of the common folks who want something done. Maybe it’s unseemly, but ain’t my job to say. I just pocket the cash and gather the information.

Was going thru a financial rough-patch in the fall of ’76. Drinking too much, too. Ask my friends, and both of ‘em would tell you that I’m a great one for blowing it all on the brown. By “the brown”, I’m talking whiskey, of course. Not heroin. I’m no beatnik. Never been one to “get” the pop culture phenomena, inasmuch as I’ll never understand the kids’ problem with spinning a Coltrane LP and smoking a few Camels...but, heh, I guess the last couple’a generations lost their desire to wind down. Everyday grind ain’t stressful enough for ‘em, so they gotta add to the frenzy with their music and their goddamn hairstyles. Y’know, I’m sure you can gage my reaction when this broad walked into my office one day. Legs like a ladder to heaven, but I couldn’t help but notice she’d covered her body in what looked like the remnants of a crashed jet.

“Siddown, lady” I said, and she spat on my floor. This was not an unusual reaction from my customers, so I sipped my Scotch and asked her “What’s the problem?”

This time she spat in my face, but she had a verbal response too, “This guy I know’s off the map all of a sudden. Hasn’t been showing up to gigs. I’ve been subbing for him but the band are getting pissed.”

“What kinda music d’you play? Lemme guess...cocktail jazz?” She strung me up  from the lightbulb by my pelvis

“Punk rock, you dinosaur. Do you never hit the Sunset Strip?”

“I dunno, is there a liquor store there?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she yelled, drenching my face in mucous “You bet your ass you know where the sunset strip is. A barfly like you would know that shit anywhere. Fucking loser.”

I dropped from the ceiling, taking my lightbulb with me “What’s the guy’s name? You got a snap?” I asked, gradually getting to my feet and massaging my pelvis

“His name’s Edgar Cunt.”

“Have you asked Mr and Mrs Cunt where their son might be?”

“Shut it, pig. And, no, of course I don’t have no fucking photo. That would be pretty lame and superficial. We’re not fucking Pink Floyd. Go to your beloved liquor store and buy the latest issue of Punk Your Pants if you want to see what he looks like. Fag.” She swung at me with a tasty left-hook and everything went to black.

When I came to, I could’a been in worse spirits. Not only had she left me my hundred dollar fee (say what you will about these Punks, preferably outside their house with a fuckin’ megaphone, they’re not dishonest), but I’d caught an upskirt on my way down. No panties. Must’a been a radical feminist. With the masochistic babe on my mind, I headed down to Anbu’s Liquor Store and, as she’d ‘requested’, purchased a copy of Punk Your Pants, mistakenly filed out of plain sight, underneath some editions of Tits Express and Banging Anal Chicks Daily. Good job I checked that section of the magazine stand pretty religiously.

As I walked back to the office I lit myself a smoke and rifled through the mag, careful to stay on the sidewalk ‘case my inattentive eyes led to an altercation with an automobile. It pained me to read about this garbage, but in a matter of minutes; there he was. Edgar Cunt. Turns out he fronted a pop group called the Piss Merchants, and they’d been getting rave reviews all across the board. The kids were flocking to their shows like sheep to an abattoir, dying to get cut up by the brutal sounds. What could’a happened to him? Maybe he’d joined another group, but I doubt there were any prospective employers as hot as the Piss Merchants. Maybe he’d been kidnapped? Some of their fans seemed pretty rabid.  There was only one way to find out; I was gonna have to pay a visit to a Punk Rock club.

In the Bedlam Cellar, I sidled up to the bar and asked the barmaid for a double whiskey on the rocks. She poured me a whiskey, spat in it, and then filled it with actual rocks. Seeking minimal ear-damage, I positioned myself on a table at the back of the bar and looked around for anybody I thought might hold the answer to the mystery of Edgar Cunt’s disappearance. Kids, I thought – they all looking the fucking same. I’d almost finished my whiskey, and it was nearly showtime for the first band by the time somebody approached me. A fine looking guy with a thick-set stature and well-kept spikes of a hairdo (by the standards of his peers) marched towards my table, and perched himself on the previously unoccupied stool next to mine. Maybe I’ve cracked it, I ruminated.

“Alright, mate?” he asked me in a deep Estuary-English accent “You want some ket?”

“Some what?”

“Y’know, ket. Ketamine. Special K. Horse tranquillisers.”

“What, are the kids not smoking pot anymore?”

“Ah, naw, naw, mate. They want summin a little more extreme, d’youknowwhaddamean? Wanna get their ket buzz on. It’s the shit, mate, trussme. Fuckin’ bangin’. Absolute piff. Wise investment, mate, I’m tellin’ ya. K –E –T. All the way from fuckin’ Compton.”

“I can do without, thanks. I got my whiskey.”

“Ah, well, never mind, never mind, that’s what I say! Will Corston, mate.” He offered me a hand, which I shook “Main man for ket in the area.”

“Pleasure. I’m Harry Richards. Private investigator. You know this band who’re playing later? The Piss Merchants?”

“Not on a personal basis, G, but I know someone who does.”

We walked towards another table, populated entirely with grotesque figures of punk decadence. Will introduced us.

“This is Sonny Fuckface, plays guitar for Gentile Spirit, the best Nazi Punk group on the Strip.”

“Pivotal figures in the musical hate movement” sniffed a balding, bespectacled guy rather pompously. I later found out he was a music journalist  by the name of Garden.

“Sonny, this guy’s Harry Richards. He...”

“I run a label.” I quickly intercut. Mr Fuckface took this as an opportunity to square up to me with real venom

“Oh yeah?” he said “You wanna sign us? Oi oi.”

“Listen up, Fuckface, I’m askin’ the questions here. You know a guy called Edgar Cunt?”

“Edgar Cunt? Sure I know Edgar Cunt.”

“When d’you last see him?”

“Why, you wanna sign him? We piss on his shit band.”

“I wanna sign anybody with that Punk Rock spirit. Just answer my questions.”

“Yeah, I spat on him only yesterday.”

“Where? You got the info, and I might have something for you.”

“He was getting in a Taxicabcar. Said he was heading for the docks.”

“The docks? What’d he be doing there?”

“Fuck do I know? You gonna sign us up?”

“Well, are you playing tonight?”

“What kinda fuckin’ Label Boss doesn’t know the line-up?”

“Ah...well...I’m only second in command. Before I make any decisions, I’d have to consult my superior, Mr Goldstein...”

He kicked my scrotum to the Himalayas and left me alone.

I’d managed to hobble back to my seat just in time to see the Piss Merchants take the stage. There she was. Ripped jeans, ripped t-shirt, several areas of ripped flesh, she played bass with the least groove I’d ever heard, and sang in a manner that sounded less like the deliverance of a melodic pattern than the erotic cries of a predatory jungle beast. I was in love. Transfixed with her, I didn’t avert my eyes from the centre of the stage even when the guitarist fashioned his machine-head into a shank and brutally stabbed a member of the audience in the front row, actually creating music with more melodic structure than the rest of their set. Sounded kind’a like Miles. I may’ve been in hell, my balls killed me, the whiskey sucked, but damn. That broad.  I heard a voice in my ear. At first I thought I was just imagining her post-coital whispers, but in an instant I realised two things; firstly, it was not in her nature to whisper. Secondly, I could smell the stale body odour of a late-teen male.

“Hey...you.”

“Hello?” I turned ‘round, irritated. It was your common-variety punk rocker

“I hear you’re a Dick?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“No, I mean, a Private Investigator.”

“Oh yeah, I am.”

“And you’re looking for Edgar Cunt?”

“Sure am.”

“I’ve think I might be able to help you.”

TO BE CONTINUED...

4 ways to fill an album.

I've been a music fanatic for years now and I have noticed that on every album there is always one method of filling a space on the album to make it seem longer then it is. So here is a list I have compiled for the people out there who want to fill some album space, or just for people who fucking love fillers, but then again these people probably aren't reading this because they either can't read or are smelling their own balls. Anyway here goes:

(This was supposed to be 5 ways to fill an album with an extra section under the heading of "covers". However I ran out of time and effort by the end. Bite me, write your own blog that no one reads.)

1. Intro's
I hate intro's. They are a waste of time and effort, in my eyes they are songs that have been written to a half way point, the band have got bored, can't think of anything else to write or are just too fucking punk rock to finish the song (fuck the rules man punk rawk 4eva).

Intro's seem to be really, really popular in the Hardcore genre. They usually start with a drone of the E string to "get the crowd going" or some shit. I understand that if the band are playing a show but when you hear an intro 9/10 times your listening to an album and unless your a prick or suffer from ADHD you won't be running round your bedroom punching the walls. Here's an example of these core as fuck bad boy "songs":

2. Instrumentals
Generally instrumentals are rubbish. There's no two ways around it. Now don't get me wrong I'm not talking about good instrumentals I.E Pink Floyd's wonderful Great Gig In the Sky. I'm talking about when punk/hardcore/metal bands try to do instrumentals. When half the song is feedback building up to a disappointing premature ending (the sort that this blog title refers to).

It is rare to pick up a CD (or vinyl if that's your thing) nowadays and not hear a lengthy, dull instrumental that doesn't really go anywhere. I'am not trying to slate the instrumental genre as their are some awesome bands doing some pretty cool things (Brontide, As I Watch You From Afar etc etc) but I just feel let down when bands I know and love for doing standard song structures do the same thing but without any lyrics on an album, it just doesn't make sense. Anyway here are two prime suspects for boring instrumentals:

3. "Fillers"


Everyone knows the songs I'm talking about, the type of song that the band have no intention of playing live, releasing as a single or even listening to again. The type of song that the band wrote so the collection of songs could be called an album as it didn't have enough songs without it. These songs really get on my nerves there are no need for them. I would much rather have an album with less tracks on but overall a better listen. Their have been some examples of short albums that I have really taken a liking to at the moment, the first one has got to be The Mourning After by UK metal band Last Witness. The album has 8 tracks of toxic riffs and face punching vocals loud enough to make Corey Taylor lay a fresh steaming turd on his bathroom floor. My next example of a short but sweet album is Joyce Manor's latest release 'Of all things I soon grow tired' (see my earlier posts for details)

Before I start rambling on about cool short albums take a pick of a few prime suspects of all filler no killer (cheers Sum 41 I was really struggling to think of something to write...)

'Hidden Tracks'


I've never understood the name "hidden track". This is because they are about as hidden as a casino in Las Vegas, when you are a punk/hardcore/metal or any other heavy sort of genre your songs are usually under 5 minutes long (unless you sing about dragons, never get laid and still live with your parents). So when you see the last track of an album is 15 minutes long you start to scratch your head. Since when did my favorite band that write about partying and "picking up bitches" start playing World of Warcraft? Then you listen to it intrigued in the unknown mystery of the long song and you get to the 4 minute mark and the song is over...What the hell... Wheres the rest? and then five minutes later there it is, a boring, usually acoustic piece of shit that no one cares about.

The main culprit of this godawful crime is Glassjaw on 'Everything you ever needed to know about silence' one of my favorite albums ever recorded until you get to the last song, well what you think is the last song. Ages after one of the best songs of the album you get some stripped down piano song that is quite frankly shit and unnecessary, leave that shit for your own time Daryl!

This will enrage a lot of fans that like Glassjaw however the people that will be angry are going to be the same fans that if the band did a shit in a CD case sent it to their house with a label on the front saying "new album, its shit btw" would think that it is an iconic, master piece because its "never been done before". No your fucking wrong, it has been done before but the person that did it is know in a mental hospital shitting and pissing himself every time someone walks past his padded cell.

Peace!

Max.

Acid Eater - "Black Fuzz On Wheels" (2010)

This is a comprehensive list of the things I know about the rock 'n' roll group Acid Eater;

1. They are from Japan, which puts them as an exciting anomaly in my iTunes, with DJ Krush being their only countryman I listen to on a regular basis.
2. They released an album called Black Fuzz On Wheels back in the heady days of 2010, and according to YouTube, have released some other ones at some point.

I'd estimate that Acid Eater have somewhere between three and twenty-six members, although their songs are cloaked in such an unutterable volume of distortion it's pretty hard to tell if people are playing instruments or there are just some guys hitting dustbins and other household items in a style reminiscent of 1960s garage rock. Most bands turn up the overdrive on their guitars, but Acid Eater also turn it up on the bass, drums, vocals, and the lead instrument; an ever-present Ray Manzarek-esque organ. This makes the songs that little bit more TOTALLY FUCKIN' X-TREME BRAH. Paces are fast. Some of the songs are covers, apparently, although I don't know of whom.

Returning to the vocals, in addition to being fed way over the limit, they are completely unintelligible. Perhaps it's different for Punk Your Pants' substantial Japanese fanbase, but the majority of it is processed by my ears as "how now brown cow". Right, I've completely run out of things to say about Black Fuzz On Wheels because I listened to it the other day, couldn't be assed to review it then, and now I'm actually listening to Tattoo You by the Rolling Stones. Time to switch the track...

Looks like they're a bona fide fuckin' event live.

If the guitarist is playing anything, it's nigh-on impossible to tell due to the manner in which your eardrums are being assaulted, so the hooks (and by God, there are hooks) are provided by the organ. Just listen to Yes, Motion, the exciting opener. With the powerful groove being totally simplistic it's all about that organ which is all like DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUH DUMDUDUM. Shit fucking shreds dude! Shreds hard! Although it doesn't literally shred, because Acid Eater aren't self-indulgent assholes like Steve Vai or Joe Satriani. Seriously, who the fuck listens to those tiny-penis-compensators? Other guys with an interest in fast, complex guitar playing, I suppose. So...guys with small dicks. Key word being "guys". Ever seen a girl listen to "shredding"? No. They'd rather listen to the smooth soundz of Japan's Acid Eater!

This is a mad, psychedelic record, and it's called Black Fuzz On Wheels, so you know it's gotta be badass. Hit up the sordid sounds.