16 September, 2012

30 Reviews In 30 Days: Review #16

Bloodclot Faggots, Bloodclot Faggots 7" (No Patience, 2010)

Bloodclot Faggots were a little-known Australian hardcore band, named after one of the most infamously homophobic incidents in hardcore history, who committed a truly heroic piece of frothing dementia to vinyl and then disappeared from sight. This 7" was recorded with a homemade engineering job that makes Beat Happening seem hi-fi and makes leagues of other ostensible punk bands irrelevant. First off, this 7" is the trebliest little thing you may ever hear in your life that isn't pure feedback. There's ostensibly a bassist on this (credited poetically as "Fuckbutt") but outside of one or two extremely faint notes on the first song he might as well be playing in the other room away from the rest of the band. It is all about a lunatic guitarist with a tinny copper-wire scratchola tone hacking out extremely catchy anthems, a drummer playing the worst kit you could find in a rehearsal room at lightspeed, and a truly genius vocalist who grunts, roars, sneers and gurns out hilarious in-joke "punk" lyrics taken so far into alternate-dimension territory that you just have to bask in the sheer brilliance of it all. This guy's delivery is so far beyond over the top that he's actually near the demented heights of roaring glory that Grong Grong vocalist Michael Farkas regularly scaled on the essential bootleg Live at the Berkeley Hotel. Get a load of what kind of bilious Aussie fuck-you-and-your-little-dog-too ramalama this dude is puking into your ear canal: "Rotten sore/What a chore/I'm so bored/Gonna snore/A million bucks/To cut my lunch/Edge as/The Brady Bunch/Media blitz/Shitty fix/That's all folks/Just a hoax/We're in town/So wear a frown/Our own biggest fans/Quit all your bands/Just do it/Fuck yourself." Those are the words for the first song, "Big in Adelaide," quoted in their entirety. Verily, this man is a poet, a philosopher even. The band keeps up with him throughout all six-plus minutes, unbelievably enough. This 7" is the sound of four fucked-off-beyond-all-fucked-off dudes sitting around in a shitty middle-of-nowhere town, hating the world, hating themselves, hating their options in life, hating the ridiculous rules hardcore unintentionally imposed on punk rock, knowing that they'll probably never be heard outside their own town and maybe a couple of countries somewhere now because of the Internet, and just recording themselves getting one massive brainless amphetamined foaming yawp out. And really, getting that yawp out is what all good music is about, at heart. Someone's blowing a whistle repeatedly on the second song for no reason. It doesn't matter. What rock and roll is all about is in that stupid whistle.

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