Head Wound City have returned to the party and they’ve brought the fun and heaps of destruction ready to kick-start the failing heart. There’s such an intimate, intense urgency to A New Wave of Violence – everything is so tightly wound up, like a million coiled springs that are suddenly released, ricocheting off everything with a cacophonous riot of explosive energy and wild frivolity.
Stretched taunt over a 31 minute running time, Graf Orlock, brutalize and pulverise their instruments through an apocalyptic barrage of seething grind. They also reference tons and tons of other films as well (Arnie gets some terrific shout-outs) nothing is safe and neither are you from the Orlock attack.
Welcome to Ampwrecked, in this issue: Nisennenmondai take a trip to the Event Horizon, The Movielife dust off their guitars, Armchair Committee get sleazy, Holy Gold bludgeon moderate rock, Lonely The Brave discover that the truth is out there, Against The Current dash past, Godzilla Black out-weird even Faith No More and Dead Cross refuse to go to bed. Mr Velocity Hopkins are currently not on tour.
When reading the song titles on Seraphim, you can tell there’s a serious amount of dissatisfaction and boiling anger present within Polonium. This is a very good thing. Before The Austerity Program infected the world with their cynicism, guitarist Justin Foley, bassist Thad Calabrese and a drum machine existed as the entity known as Polonium.
In this issue of Ampwrecked…Head Wound City have scraped their way back with some radical friends, Ghost Mother make a massive swamp racket, Myrone is an electric shock attack to the brain, Wrong drink all your beer, Big Ups point and laugh, Karma To Burn lay waste and Mr Velocity Hopkins contemplate existence.
Keeping their cards close to their chest, I’m not entirely sure who is in Terrible Love, but I know it’s made up of ex-members of *takes deep breath* Funeral For a Friend, Goodtime Boys, Bastions and Grappler; so rest assured, there’s a fair amount of talent burning bright in that melting pot of bubbling hardcore tomfoolery.
The bile that races through the veins of Leeds’ Blacklisters is flecked with hundreds and thousands made out of spite and toxic laughter. Their concept of anything vaguely normal is an utterly redundant feeling – sounding like they’ve set fire to their instruments before they’ve started playing them..