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.

Say Anything - Anarchy, My Dear

Hey so....this is my first entry for PYP so hopefully it isn't too bad...

This is a short review on the Amercian Emo-Punk/Rock band Say Anything and their latest studio album "Anarchy My Dear". 

Say Anything is the brain child of singer-song writer Max Bemis.

The latest album "Anarchy, My Dear" is the bands fifth studio album and was released just a few months ago.

At this point Ill point out that Say Anything are one of my favorite bands so ill try and not be too biased.

From the moment I listened to the first few tracks "Anarchy, My Dear" has a very different sounds from the albums before, As the title may suggest I was expecting a fast/angry sound but bar the exceptions ("Burn A Miracle" and "Admit It Again") the album its quite slow and has a relaxed feel about it.

A lot of fans who got into Say Anything on their first couple of studio albums may claim they have sold out or lost their edge because its not as angry as their second (and probably most popular) album "...Is A Real Boy".

This album may not have the same feel to the earlier albums that people feel in love with but these albums have been solely written by Bemis, each of the album almost tells a story about whats been happening to him in his life at that time.

"Baseball" - Released when the original line up were in highschool, so the album has a very anxiety feel too it, songs mostly about the teenage angst and having your heart broken for the first time.

"...Is A Real Boy" - Written when Bemis was suffering from his Bi-polar and social anxiety, which bought about the anger and songs of alienation which people fell in love with.

"In Defense of The Genre" - Written and released just after Bemis' first break down and major break-up with a girlfriend - songs still have the angry/heartache fans have become accustom too.

"Say Anything" - Written and release after Bemis spent almost a year recovering from him illness. this is were his music starts to mature, during the writing of this album Bemis had married and spend a lot time thinking about this life and religion.

I find it refreshing almost that a band can keep playing songs that mean something to them without worrying what the narrow minded fans who cant get over "...Is A Real Boy".

"Anarchy, My Dear" In my eyes is a great album start to finish, over the last 5 albums Bemis hasn't lost his ability to write lyrically great songs. 

Bemis' lyrics remain complex but at the same time comedic, anyone that can put  "Don't wanna hear about how the latest Rihanna single is a post-modern masterpieceStop punishing me!" (Admit It Again)

In a song is truly a lyrical genius.

Overall Id easily give this album 8/10 I enjoy listening to it on an almost daily basis, the only negative thing I'd have to say about it is that the last few songs almost drift away, they aren't overly exciting to make me want to listen to them over again as with the rest of the album.

So yeaaah hopefully you enjoyed reading this and didnt get too lost...

Im sure I'll get better at this as we post more.

Stewart.

Answers to the punk movement by rock dinosaurs, that are of a surprisingly superlative quality

Hello, my name is Jack and I write short stories and shit. I don't know anything about modern hardcore or punk, but I sometimes get drunk with Punk Your Pants alumni Max & Stew and I listen to a lot of classic rock, so I'm pretty much qualified to write rambling articles on here.

Before 1976, the '70s were, musically speaking, all about dressing up in sparkly clothes and snorting coke off the ass of a thousand-dollar hooker and then doing one of the following; 

• Playing lots of really long guitar solos and singing about Lord of the Rings and castles and King Arthur and gayness, ("Hard Rock/Heavy Metal/Prog Rock")
• Making slick, accessible songs with lots of wah-wah and keyboards and tightly-wound harmony vocals sung by people who sound like a lot of other people, ("Soft Rock/Yacht Rock")
• Growing a beard, digging out the pedal steel guitar and pretending you're from the Deep South ("Country Rock/Roots Rock")

(for the record, a lot of those songs are outright classics. not Wakeman, though. or Poco. or the Stills-Young Band. ugh. *shudder*


or the Eagles; "I fucking hate the Eagles, man" - The Dude, circa the time of our conflict with Saddam and the Iraquis)

Most artists did all three at one point. Everyone had pretty much quit making psychedelic rock by the end of the 1960s, because coke was cheaper than acid or something and, frankly, when you're really fucking stoned, even 20 minute guitar solos with a violin bow sound good, so you don't really need to worry about sitars and shit. Then punk came, and most of the old guard thought "oh SHIT", although Iggy Pop awoke from his heroin slumber long enough to say "I told you so." If you're a fan of fakkin ol paaank rawwk mate, but you consider the music of the previous generation to be pussy-ass hippy garbage, I should urge you to listen to the following albums.

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were writing dirty, nasty songs with sloppy instrumentation even back in the  early '60s. In fact, it was more or less the reason for their success; while the pre-drugs Beatles seemed like a bunch of clean cut, nice fellas, the Stones were marketed as the type of guys you should keep away from your daughter! They got arrested for pissing in public, spoke badly of the establishment, took shitloads of amphetamines, snarled a lot, and played the boring melodies of blues with a reckless regard. Naturally, they later embraced gospel, country, folk, soul and so on, and their songwriting talent blossomed.

Some Girls was released in 1978, and came after a series of albums that were considered below-par. Although the disco groove of Miss You is a great song, it's a somewhat inauspicious opening for an album that rocks harder than the brittle rocks our Conservative "Coalition" Government would like to throw at poor people. The title track is awesomely sexist and racist, essentially a two-chord rumination on the various nationalities of girls Mick Jagger likes to fuck ("black girls just want to get fucked all night, I just don't have that much jam"). Respectable is some raucous shit about the "easiest lay on the White House lawn". Shattered is the quintessential Stones-wondering-New-York-being-the-Stones jam. These are songs with energy, and there are even some bwooootiful ballads in there for the ladies, and FUCKING FAGGOT CUNTS like me who like ballads.

While his erstwhile bandmate Stephen Stills rounded out the '70s sucking dick for coke, Neil Young was always too much of a cynical asshole ever to be a naive hippy or a jacuzzi-bound soft-rock bedwetter (that said, his records from his blandest, yet still great, era of 1970-72 are the ones that he seems to be most commonly associated with) and when he fronts the gloriously bad musicianship of Crazy Horse, he generally goes from triumph to triumph. Although I personally favour his classic 1974 "I'm rich and stoned yet I feel alone in the universe" LP On The Beach, there is an argument to be put forward that Rust Never Sleeps is the greatest ever of these numerous triumphs.

Perhaps on a punk rock blog it would be best to dwell on the second, electric side. Powderfinger is an amazing 10/10 classic of a song. Sedan Delivery and Welfare Mothers are probably the closest the divisive  and diverse artist has ever come to straight-up-punk, with a sublimely boneheaded approach to playing and great lyrics. And, of course, Hey Hey, My My (Into The Black). An electric version of the song that opens the album, it's a (OK I'M GETTING REALLY PRETENTIOUS HERE, DON'T LEAVE ME) paen to the power of rock 'n' roll music with a Johnny Rotten namecheck, a guitar sound like a leaden-weighted chainsaw through the head, and a door slamming for additional percussive effect. I'm leaving my summary of side one brief because it's not really relevant to the article, but there's no bullshit about its five, brilliant, wonderful, amazing space-folk jamz. Oh, and he recorded it all live, so no bullshit. Check out this album if you like music!

John Cale played bass, piano and cello in the Velvet Underground which, as anyone who's heard White Light/White Heat knows, means he had a resounding influence on the Punk Rock scene, if by accident. His Animal Justice EP is great. I can't be assed to do a massive blurb for any more of these but fuck this shit is off the chain. Check out Chickenshit, the tale of when he bit off a Chicken's head onstage and his vegetarian band quit in protest. His Sabotage/Live record is also rad as fuck.

All came out in '77. All pretty amazing. Iggy invented punk, though so, he knows where it's at. 

Artists who did not fare so well;

• Bob Dylan - made a bland studio album, a bland live album, and then became a Christian, which is pretty funny.
• Eric Clapton - Failed to repeat the enjoyable trick of 461 Ocean Boulevard. Never made a good album again. Is there really any point in this guy making music anymore? All this shit about musical purity of the blues is really faintly masking the one of the biggest hacks in rock.
• Various Beatles - Ringo is just...Ringo. John made an album in '80 then got shot. Paul didn't make a good album til 1997. George was just pretty quiet.
• Grateful Dead - OK, their '77 tour was pretty sick in part, but the Dead really ran out of steam around this time.

ASG (Artist Series Guitars)

ASG or what I like to call them 'Get a Les Paul and Scribble a Logo On Guitars' (doesn't have the same ring to it I know but I'm working on it) are a company who are producing signature guitars for bands that will never be able to get a signature signature guitar from an actually recognized guitar manufacturer. Now for anyone that has never seen or even heard of these "unique" strand of guitars here are some pictures for you.

 Asking Alexandria Model:

Bring Me the Horizon model:

Within the Ruins (Heard of them? No, neither have I) Model:

The guitars are not the only source of annoyance as the website also has a nice little description about the guitar, here is an extract from one of the descriptions. (word for word I promise you this is what they said):

"When we were just kids, launching off home-made ramps with our Powell and Schmitt Stix skateboards, we were blasting Kill Em All and Blizzard of Oz. When we were practicing our pentatonics on our first guitar with our tiny Crate amps, we were watching the bones brigade shred the hell out of pool or watching Jamie Thomas ollie himself over a railing and down a two story drop."

What the fuck? Who would want to give these mugs any of their hard earned money they will only end up either shoving it up their nostrils or make a home-made ramp slightly too high and plummet to the center of the earth. 

You see brands like this is what making the "punk" industry so awful at the moment. It's just too tame, the message behind punk and hardcore is supposed to be about doing it your self. Don't have a local venue? Who cares have a gig in your mums bedroom. It's on the same level (or even worse) than these stupid varsity bands keep bringing out, sure it was cool when Glassjaw did it but that was about 10 years ago and no one else was doing it. It just seems to me that people have noticed that there is no money in buying music anymore so are just trying to create anything that might make some money. 

Anyway, if anyone wants to go and buy one of these guitars the links down below. I've also left a length of rope for you to hang your self with on your way out. 

Peace.

Max.

http://www.artistseriesguitar.com/

Joyce Manor - Of All Things I Soon Grow Tired

I'm going to start this blog with a review of one of the most refreshing records I have heard in a long long time. It's by an ever growing punk band Joyce Manor.

A few weeks back I'd never listened to this band, criminal I know, however I did have my reasons one was that Last 'fucking' FM kept recommending them to me and you see, I'm one stubborn asshole. Anyway I was strolling around the metaphorical playground of the internet and saw that Asian Man Records where bringing out the new Joyce Manor LP. I was intrigued, could it be? No I thought, surely not. Could they really be the same record label that brought out the first (and arguably best) Alkaline Trio record. The same record label that has also signed The Queers, Screeching Weasel and The Lawrence fucking Arms. Moments passed and sure enough it was true. This intrigued me, I had to buy it.

Sure enough a couple of minutes later I was listening to one of the best punk records that I have heard in a while. It is so close to perfection. The album starts with 'These Kind Of Ice Skates' an absolutely great song. But its not till the 2nd track "Comfortable Clothes" when you get really in to this record. From there it goes from strength to strength. Smashing out song after song after wait, what? Is that it? Wheres the rest of the songs...

You see the one flaw with this "album" is its length. Yes I know, I know its cool to have an album under 13 minutes blah blah blah but really. Come on. This is just silly. It's as if they got halfway through the writing process and just gave up half way through. They just couldn't think of anything else to write. I mean they must of really been clutching at straws as they threw in a cover of "Video Killed The Radio Star".

Putting the lack of songs and duration aside this album is still fucking great. It really is a fresh sound in a genre that is getting overly populated by bands singing Justin Bieber songs in Dropped D. It really is a step in the right direction. This review, if you can call it that, is really not supposed to be negative. I do genuinely love this album but I just feel like I have been cheated out of my £6.99 or whatever the fuck it is now to download an album. I feel that instead of this being a short album, it should of been a perfect E.P.

Anyway, you should definitely check this out because it is a great release.

Peace.
Max.

Hello anyone that is reading this.
I've decided to start up this blog that will detail stuff that's going on in the punk world. When I say 'punk' I mean it very loosely. Before you run away in fear of me stabbing you with my non existent  mohawk or moon stomp your head on the floor, its not that "kind of punk". It's the gay shit about girls and non important stuff unlike sticking it to the man (oi! oi! oi!).

Anyway before I ramble on some more be sure to subscribe or whatever you do on this fancy piece of equipment. Be sure to expect reviews, news and other shit.

Thanks!
Max.