Although I haven’t yet received my vinyl copy of this EP, I have heard that the packaging is a real pain in the ass, that you need a letter opener to open the fucking thing because it comes in an envelope like a greeting card. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, but for now I’m only concerned with these eight new songs, which, in true Torche fashion, tower over you like a crest of foamy sludge rock, threatening to break at any moment and swallow you whole. Despite the fact that the Florida band is now a three-piece, they don’t lose anything where volume is concerned; Songs for Singles is as deliciously frenetic, catchy, and heavy as anything they’ve ever done and even reaches new pinpoint horizons on some occasions (“Hideaway” and “Arrowhead”), as if they’ve brought laser daggers to a knife fight. Songs for Singles is only about 22 minutes long, and while the majority of that is a gush of iron-gutted crunch and fuzzy grooves, it closes with two expanded songs (“Face the Wall” and “Out Again”) that lay out and draw you into a void of dynamics and a hypnotic tempo of riffing, respectively, tickling every capillary in your body. Torche is in a league of its own, really, so packaging be damned. I’d gladly gnaw on a padlock to get at ‘em if it came down to it.
From The Heart Attacks to Poison Arrows to Biters, the long road of rock n’ roll glory for singer/guitarist Tuk has been littered with trashy riffs, drug problems, and dead ends. The usual suicide story that sticks to every tight-pant Thunders junkie like a safety pin on a worn out leather jacket lands a lot closer to sad than success, but if the stigma doesn’t kill ya, it can only make you stronger, right? Probably, which is why Tuk hopes his latest bubblegum machine, Biters, will break through the bastard cliches and avoid the inevitable burst that comes when you sink your teeth into the cheap, sticky solution of reckless days and wasted nights. Whether that happens remains to be seen, but for now our springboard is this self-titled EP, and goddamn it if it’s not screamin’ at me like a gaggle of teenage groupies. With the five deliciously catchy glam punk ditties on board here, I don’t know how the Biters are ever going to avoid burnin’ out in the gutter like a bunch of high school dropouts. This is some magic marker mayhem, man, part Cheap Trick power pop, part New York Dolls lipstick rock, and all jukebox jive. If the Biters aren’t the biggest band in the world real soon, we’re all doomed.
Here’s two things I know for sure about Filth Rations, the new EP from Trap Them: I’m glad it’s only four songs long and their calender-inspired song titles still confuse the hell out of me. First, I can actually digest the Salem, New Hampshire band’s latest vomit-inducing cacophony of extreme metal (their first on everyone’s favourite black imprint, Southern Lord) thanks to its limited running time. Sure, it still tastes like dog carcass, but that’s not too bad when you’re just taking a bite. It’s the perfect filth ration, if you will. Making it through either one of their previous full-lengths, Sleepwell Deconstructor or Seizures in Barren Praise, more often than not guaranteed a trip to the emergency room for a stomach pumping and an electric dance with a defibrillator. No one, no matter how many bolts they’re missing, can handle that kind of brutality for an entire album and live to tell about it. Second, let me introduce you to days Thirty-Eight, Thirty-Nine, Forty, and Seven (also known as “Carnage Incarnate,” Degenerate Binds,” Dead Fathers Wading in the Bodygrounds,” and “Digital Dogs With Analog Collars,” respectively), as Trap Them’s journal of grindcore terror counts ever onward, detailing a hellish misanthropy laid down by comic book enthusiasts with an evident score to settle. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when they reach the last day, but I sure as fuck know I don’t want to find out.
Torche
Biters
Trap Them