Band â€“ Robocop
Album â€“ Robocop II
Label â€“ Grindcore Karaoke/Name Like His Master
Release date â€“ available for free download from Grindcore Karaoke bandcamp
Sounds like – Alexander James Murphy beating the fucking shit out of the world.
Guaranteed to give Peter Weller a heart attack, or at the very least make his head explode like the bloke who gets covered in toxic waste; Robocop are horrifically nasty. There from Maine, consisting of Luke on bass, Ryan on guitar and oscillator and Tom on drums. What vocals are present on this release are attributed to all band members and they list influences as â€˜bro-core mostlyâ€™ and interests as â€˜hating everythingâ€™, which is fairly accurate as much of their output seems specifically to be purely motivated by revulsion and disgust.
â€˜Introâ€™ is merely 2 minutes of out-of-tune sludge-metal that sounds like it was scraped off the bottom of a rusty boat hull and distilled through a barrel of oil. When the vocals finally kick in, they sound like the devil coughing into a wind tunnel, all of which bleeds nicely into the next track, â€˜I Hope All Your Friends Dieâ€™ which pummels your ears nicely with a salvo of thrashing noise. The strangled screams are reminiscent of Stza from Leftover Crack burping into a contact mic whilst a wolf is chewing through the cable. â€˜Assassination Marketsâ€™ is fan-fucking-tastic, grind-punk that touches on Seth Putman genius, then back to stocky hardcore fist-swinging grunts. â€˜Car Sex Crashâ€™ is possibly the most aptly named track ever. If you were fucking someone and spun off the road, totalling your ride, this is what it might sound like â€“ only with more feedback and rampant distortion.
You might think this all sounds depressing, but I can honestly say, this is one of the most hilarious albums Iâ€™ve listened to in ages and not a cock joke in sight. Even the cat knows (and heâ€™s been dead for well over 13 years) that Robocop are taking the piss so much, theyâ€™ve gone back in time and are mailing it back to you in thermos flasks. 13 tracks in 24 minutes; with the penultimate track sounding like the first 11 tracks all mashed together then played backwards. Where Robocop actually play tunes, itâ€™s some fairly decent thrash meets grind punk abrasiveness.
Thereâ€™s attitude on this; plus a real sense of time and dedication in places, however in others you know half these tracks were created whilst all three band members were either a) high, b) drunk, c) high and drunk. â€˜Cut Upâ€™ is a particular favourite; a 25 second copy â€˜n paste mash of demented noises, swearing and riffs. This is what more albums need â€“ proper retarded pieces in-between songs, like the Bloodhound Gang â€“ in fact, thatâ€™s who Robocop remind me of â€“ not musically, god no, but the attitude, that stupid double v-sign â€˜fuck youâ€™ outlook. They even manage to throw in a Napalm Death cover (â€˜You Sufferâ€™ if youâ€™re wondering); which is wonderfully followed by â€˜Skramzâ€™, which switches from a scraping dirge of stoned-out metal to gruff, hardcore punk rock.
â€˜Maine Is The Bastardâ€™ is carried by an overly long, drawn-out bass hum and slovenly drumming, interspersed with the sound of someone coughing up their lungs, elements of quick-fire grind and a gameboy malfunctioning. â€˜Aftermathematicsâ€™ is possibly the most disturbing track, coming across as the result of every other song on this release played together at the same time then thrown at some wasps. It also features quotes from David Cronenbergâ€™s Crash, which is high-octane nightmare fuel incarnate. In fact, listening to this piece for any length of time could cause you to seriously question your sanity â€“ I imagine this is what is heard during the end of the world.
To sum upâ€¦â€¦go fuck a refrigerator, pecker neck.
By Ross Macdonald