Neither of these albums are new. One of the bands doesn't even exist anymore. But both came in with a recent shipment of stuff from our good friend over at Big Neck Records, the home of one of my favorite garage otufits of all time, Seger Liberation Army. Needless to say, I tore into these with abandon.
And I’m still tearing . . .
The Burndowns – S/T
An absolute frenetic, frantic, and fantastic fury of primal methamphetamine fucked up punk rock. Burndowns are a chemical amalgamation of the basal abandon of hardcore with some solid straight up, post-70’s punk attitude. Songs burn-out in a smoky tailspin after two minutes of non-stop, adrenaline-surging guitar rage and drum punishment. Perhaps it’s the slight touch of Oi! Style punk that rides through the back bone of this one that elevates it above the heap. It’s something, because Burndowns have produced one of the more scorching punk albums I’ve heard in while.
I could go into each song, but to be honest, there’s no need. At near breakneck pace, they pass so quickly it’s kinda hard to tell where one starts and the other ends. An entire side of this album passes faster than a bloated guitar solo in some noodling-ass prog band. But this I can say, amongst the volume and guttural velocity, Burndowns know how to write a song. Great, catchy choruses punched into the air with gangland vocals, make this one an instant ear catcher. Primitive guitar solos fire through the pounding chaos of accelerating punk abandon. Vocals are appropriately gruff, but not hardcore. Raspy, throaty, but clean enough that you can even hear what he’s singing about. If you care, that’s a good thing.
“Where You Been,” is a blur of guitar chaos and choruses. “Out of My Head,” passes by even faster. “Tell Me Why,” is a pounding terror, the drummer punishing his skins as if he was beating the face of a Las Vegas gambler who owed him money. Dig the tone on the guitar solo and the Oi! Vibe. Strong work. “Nothing Better to Do,” rounds out side one and maybe the best song on the side. Kicking off with a slightly cleaner, fuzzed garage tone, the boys lay straight into a true-on singable, memorable chorus and gangland vocal hook. You want punk, you got. One big splenic vent of bile. Reminds me of The Bones. Love it.
Buy form Big Neck Records. It's only $8
Baseball Furies – Throw Them to the Lions
This other treat from Big Neck Records blew me away. I got a thing for bands that can properly combine the discord and spittle of punk with the chunky, bass-massive darkness of post-punk. Bands like The Estranged and more recently The Beautiful Mothers have hit it square. Now that’s a perfect description of this release from Baseball Furies.
I’m not a long-time fan. Never heard of these guys before. My sole association with baseball furies are the 10” action figures on my bookcase modeled after the characters in the Warriors movie. So I got no reference to compare these guys to their prior releases which I understand are grinding, primitive garage punk and roll. I also understand that Throw Them to the Lions was the Furies parting shot. Their last ride off into the sunset. And all I can say about that is, too fucking bad.
Cause what I’m hearing right now should be damn proof positive to any fan of near-putrid, garage-y post punk that Baseball Furies were only skimming the surface of what they could do. This is one glorious bastard of an album. Bringing in a boozy post-Replacements sensibility to their bass-thumping grime and rock. The Furies stopped just short of what undoubtedly would’ve been a masterpiece for their next album. Each song here is a visceral attack of angular, throbbing, guitar agitations that hit you like a soccer kick to the crotch.
“Blood on my Hands,” kicks us off with a scratch of guitar that builds like a TSOL missive. When the bass kicks in it packs enough power to dissolve your liver. Propulsive, subversive, mean. Oh yeah. The darkness that’s draped over this song could almost be like some lost Bat Cave shit from the ‘80’s. “Are You Going to Point Your Gun at Me?” picks up the pace and the agitation factor with epileptic spasms of guitar like Gang of Four on uppers. A huge post-eighties vibe runs through this, scraped up, thrown into an oily can, tossed into the back of the garage and allowed to fester and ferment for months. Nearly rabid bass playing propels this beauty with the intensity of a snared animal about to gnaw off it’s own leg to escape from a trap.
Then “Don’t Leave this Place,” leaks out sounding like the best Replacements outtake I’d never heard. Either that or some ugly step-brother to the Hoodoo Gurus. The pace is slowed, the bass brought way up front, the vocals assured. A true sing-along post-punk anthem. “Cultural Dump,” ends side one riding the Iggy wave like a fetid surfer on a sea of sludge.
Plus the whole thing comes on some of the coolest clear vinyl I’ve seen. If the names I mentioned trigger a little hormone release from your pleasure center, buy this.
--Racer
Get it from Big Neck. It's worth the $12
And I’m still tearing . . .
An absolute frenetic, frantic, and fantastic fury of primal methamphetamine fucked up punk rock. Burndowns are a chemical amalgamation of the basal abandon of hardcore with some solid straight up, post-70’s punk attitude. Songs burn-out in a smoky tailspin after two minutes of non-stop, adrenaline-surging guitar rage and drum punishment. Perhaps it’s the slight touch of Oi! Style punk that rides through the back bone of this one that elevates it above the heap. It’s something, because Burndowns have produced one of the more scorching punk albums I’ve heard in while.
I could go into each song, but to be honest, there’s no need. At near breakneck pace, they pass so quickly it’s kinda hard to tell where one starts and the other ends. An entire side of this album passes faster than a bloated guitar solo in some noodling-ass prog band. But this I can say, amongst the volume and guttural velocity, Burndowns know how to write a song. Great, catchy choruses punched into the air with gangland vocals, make this one an instant ear catcher. Primitive guitar solos fire through the pounding chaos of accelerating punk abandon. Vocals are appropriately gruff, but not hardcore. Raspy, throaty, but clean enough that you can even hear what he’s singing about. If you care, that’s a good thing.
“Where You Been,” is a blur of guitar chaos and choruses. “Out of My Head,” passes by even faster. “Tell Me Why,” is a pounding terror, the drummer punishing his skins as if he was beating the face of a Las Vegas gambler who owed him money. Dig the tone on the guitar solo and the Oi! Vibe. Strong work. “Nothing Better to Do,” rounds out side one and maybe the best song on the side. Kicking off with a slightly cleaner, fuzzed garage tone, the boys lay straight into a true-on singable, memorable chorus and gangland vocal hook. You want punk, you got. One big splenic vent of bile. Reminds me of The Bones. Love it.
Buy form Big Neck Records. It's only $8
Baseball Furies – Throw Them to the Lions
This other treat from Big Neck Records blew me away. I got a thing for bands that can properly combine the discord and spittle of punk with the chunky, bass-massive darkness of post-punk. Bands like The Estranged and more recently The Beautiful Mothers have hit it square. Now that’s a perfect description of this release from Baseball Furies.
I’m not a long-time fan. Never heard of these guys before. My sole association with baseball furies are the 10” action figures on my bookcase modeled after the characters in the Warriors movie. So I got no reference to compare these guys to their prior releases which I understand are grinding, primitive garage punk and roll. I also understand that Throw Them to the Lions was the Furies parting shot. Their last ride off into the sunset. And all I can say about that is, too fucking bad.
Cause what I’m hearing right now should be damn proof positive to any fan of near-putrid, garage-y post punk that Baseball Furies were only skimming the surface of what they could do. This is one glorious bastard of an album. Bringing in a boozy post-Replacements sensibility to their bass-thumping grime and rock. The Furies stopped just short of what undoubtedly would’ve been a masterpiece for their next album. Each song here is a visceral attack of angular, throbbing, guitar agitations that hit you like a soccer kick to the crotch.
“Blood on my Hands,” kicks us off with a scratch of guitar that builds like a TSOL missive. When the bass kicks in it packs enough power to dissolve your liver. Propulsive, subversive, mean. Oh yeah. The darkness that’s draped over this song could almost be like some lost Bat Cave shit from the ‘80’s. “Are You Going to Point Your Gun at Me?” picks up the pace and the agitation factor with epileptic spasms of guitar like Gang of Four on uppers. A huge post-eighties vibe runs through this, scraped up, thrown into an oily can, tossed into the back of the garage and allowed to fester and ferment for months. Nearly rabid bass playing propels this beauty with the intensity of a snared animal about to gnaw off it’s own leg to escape from a trap.
Then “Don’t Leave this Place,” leaks out sounding like the best Replacements outtake I’d never heard. Either that or some ugly step-brother to the Hoodoo Gurus. The pace is slowed, the bass brought way up front, the vocals assured. A true sing-along post-punk anthem. “Cultural Dump,” ends side one riding the Iggy wave like a fetid surfer on a sea of sludge.
Plus the whole thing comes on some of the coolest clear vinyl I’ve seen. If the names I mentioned trigger a little hormone release from your pleasure center, buy this.
--Racer
Get it from Big Neck. It's worth the $12
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