MRR Column #314

YOU’RE NOT WITH US

It’s moments like this that make me wanna whip out my ding-a-ling and piss in the mouths of punk rock’s Geritol-downing bleeding-heart soothsayers. I know, I know—blah, blah, fucking blah…complain about the talking heads and dropouts. Whatever. Last month I promised a “journey,” or some shit, through the SACRED SHOCK LP, so, throw on your Snuggie cause there is something about this Austin band that just connects with me in all the right ways.

I always feel people look at my ridiculous fanaticism with so many bands that others deem mediocre, as a way of me trying to be extra profound and confusing, whereas I, on the other hand, look at it as an in-joke that no one else will ever get or even care enough about to double check their work (at listening to music). Not that “mediocre” applies in any way to SACRED SHOCK, but when I’m amped on something, I seriously geek out like mad. I get stoked out on the details—like the way Billy sings “We don’t need anyone’s heeeelp,” the second time through the verse of “Bow to None” on the second Deathreat LP, or the way that one little girl is fucking busting it on the hoola-hoop toward the end of K*** P****’s “Hot and Cold” video. Perhaps it’s their ability to grab perfect guitar leads every fucking time, or the way Alex doesn’t just sing along with the guitar parts and it sounds so damn nasty…whatever the fuck it is, those details, that make me rewind, over and over, or to listen to/watch a captured perfect millisecond of time, is forged into the grooves of You’re Not With Us. Why, at 30 years old, do I still listen to hardcore every aching day and still get super pumped on it? ’Cause of records/bands/people like SACRED SHOCK.

So here’s the scene; you’re generally a pretty calm, cool and collected person and very much an introvert, but you’re at a show and a band that you fucking love is about to play. Most people are still outside smoking or mingling or looking at merch or whatever it is that punks do to flex their “cool” muscle, and the band isn’t even at the tuning stage yet. They are still just adjusting cymbals and plugging in amps and shit, but you’re getting too juiced to concentrate on looking through boxes of distro records, which you too tried to do but just ended up flipping real fast through one or two boxes ’cause you’re so anxious at what’s about to transpire that you’re standing right in the center of the room, arms crossed, waiting impatiently as the adrenaline start pumping harder and harder, because you actually don’t know what is going to happen. The typically sedate being that normally lives in your body may just lose control and find itself coming-to midway through a running front flip off the PA speaker. You know what I’m talking about—that extra pounding in your heart. An extended pick slide and one-chord-riding guitar part opens this record and is the recorded equivalent of that anxiousness and those moments, with its perfectly simple back beat to make your heart violently palpitate. Towards the end of “Blur of Reality” things dilute into a maniacal flurry of uncertainty, as demented cackles drown out pleasantries in favor of psychotic fervor.

Everything is corralled into the second cut, “Checking Out,” with barely enough time to open your gills and catch that last quick breath of stale, carcinogenic air. Paranoia creeps up at a faster clip here and just as things start to get dark, some melody, which, in all observation is permanently inert in SACRED SHOCK’s tunes, rears up in the form of a great riff and “harmonizing” vocal parts, to hypnotize into a state of sub-(un)consciousness like a pill handed forth in a tiny Dixie cup by a silky-smooth arm clad in white sleeves, before the alarm goes off and you’re back at work, where you remain for the duration of even the next beastly tune, “Closed Doors.”

With “Bloodsucker,” it becomes increasingly apparent how utterly sick the songwriting is on this record. Do you break something? Do you cry? Does someone get hurt? Is it you? Things develop mechanically. Like an assembly line. Bombastic beats lead to simply primal riffage as time trudges forth ever-slowly with the ticking of a punch-clock as the anxiety of your eternal internal bondage has you by the throat before throwing up your hands in submission standing to leave another agonizing day behind you. The A side ends with “New Medium,” a dirtier hardcore ripper with zero trickery or flamboyance and packs basically as much punch as any other tune on You’re Not With Us.

The second half of this LP opens with “Kill the Royalties,” a cover of the second song on the HEADCLEANERS’ Disinfection 7", that I didn’t even notice was a cover when I only had a test press (natch!) and CD-R of this to listen to. I listen to Disinfection weekly but SACRED SHOCK has “made it their own” as much as they possibly could.

Track seven is “Parasite and Host,” which, I’d say is my odds-on favorite joint of them all. It’s like a two-and-a-half minute, high-frequency manic-depressive stupor that jerks the psyche back and forth between being stoked on how shamelessly tough it is and how catchy, pristine, and out there…ad naseum. The guitar parts alone are the highlight of this platter.

Things kind of level out there through “Compound Life,” “Live or Die,” and “Dume,” all of which have their shining moments, like the dark charging second half of “Live or Die” as it fades into nothing. Which leads us to the final bruising stitch that is “No Services.”

In the past month I’ve spun this record so many times while prepping to pen this tome, that it’s affixed itself to the fabric of what is my impending nervous breakdown, stemming from irresponsibility on my part and daily life in the filth and fancy that envelopes San Francisco like a parasitic fog. It sonically validates and rejects existence of “paradise”—proof that every darkness has its comfortable corner, and every light, its blinding stress. I can honestly say, without a reasonable doubt, that this, my friends, is a perfect punk record. Maybe you picked up on all that?

****

The feeling of anticipation I referenced in the early part of this column is still fresh in my mind after witnessing DESTINO FINAL tear the motherfucking house down two Fridays in a row, at both Burnt Ramen and SUB-Mission. Their set at the SUB-Mission show was, without a doubt, one of the top-three most furious and intense sets I have seen in the 14 years I’ve been going to hardcore shows. Barcelona, I hope you can appreciate what you’ve got with this band. Hell, there are so many sick bands in Spain these days.

Outro:

-ENGLISH DOGS To the Ends of the Earth.

-Upcoming MÖRPHEME / D-CLONE split!

-Two new CROW records!

-Can’t wait to see SKITKIDS and AI.

-There are a few fairly common records I’m after, so if you have access to any MASSKONTROLL records (even the Warpath 7" on Havoc), MISERY records (except Children of War 7"), HEALTH HAZARD / SAWN OFF split 7", STATE OF FEAR Wallow in Squallor 7", or the second SUFFER 7" that you don’t need, get at me: [email protected]. Eventually, you will find this column at deadstareforlife.blogspot.com, which I plan on doing more with in the very near future. Toodles.

MRR Column #307

I Don’t Care If I’m A Loser In A Game I Never Played

This is my final column as a coordinator of Maximum Rocknroll. Starting next month, this column will be strictly about music. What a novel idea, right? If you’ve been keeping up (yeah right, do people actually read my column? Big up to my fanz!), you most likely already knew that. It’d be dishonest if I said I wasn’t pretty excited. I’m ready to move on to whatever it is that the next part of my life will bring. I’m tired. Working here and working full time at another job has taken a massive toll on me, mentally and physically. I knew right away that it was an impossibility to do both but I tried anyway. Can’t fault for that. As my dad said in his high-school yearbook entry, “Try as hard as you can and no man can ask for more.” I’ve always lived my life my way by my rules, respectfully of course, even when something inside me expressed better judgment. Live and learn. It’s the only way. 

I moved out of the Maxipad three weeks ago and I already miss the bouts of the Judas Priest blasting from Scott’s room going toe to toe with Roehrs’ all-day Victim In Pain sessions. I’m sure in a month I’ll even miss sitting in that captain’s chair intently trying to figure out which one of Quark’s quarks I’m currently contending with to fix some problem in a layout, while Hubbs rocks the newest Down By Law record or the Violent World: Tribute to the Misfits at 3am too. Instead, I’ll be twenty blocks away listening to something equally horrid, like my “best of Alkaline Trio” mixtape, in my room while trying to get Lucy to stop eating out of the trash. To everyone that has wished me luck, given advice, said “What the fuck are you doing?” and every Shitworker, contributor or advertiser that I encountered in the last fourteen months, thank you. For everything!

****

Similar sentiment appears other places in this issue but I really feel the need to voice my personal sorrow regarding the unfortunate end of Sound Idea/Burrito Records. I only ordered from Bob a couple times since my initial awakening towards the wonderful world that is mailorder and, in fact, Bob refunded my money for the first order cause I didn’t order the minimum of $10 worth of merchandise (if I had read the whole ad, I’d have known better), and I never made it to the store—I haven’t been to Florida since I was ten—but Sound Idea was one of the most honest, dedicated, affordable and hardworking distribution spots in the world that we know as punk. Not that there aren’t many other distros out there that also embody these same qualities… It also shows a great deal of respect on Bob’s part for what it is that we all love by bowing out gracefully before having to compromise any of his ethics. Mr. Suren, I curtsey to you for all you’ve done for the punxes of the world, and wish you nothing but the best of luck. Your efforts will be sorely missed in these pages and our record collections. 

****

By the time this issue hits news stands the world over, the U. S. of motherfuckin’ A will have elected one of two incompetent menaces that are left in the race as the mouthpiece of it’s biggest assholes. It’s like a big fucking joke that they forget to let us in on. I’m not gonna pretend that I understand politics beyond knowing right from wrong, never mind the quantum physics that is presidential politics and “the electoral college,” but either way, we’ve already screwed the pooch. This country cannot be fixed beyond a nuclear winter and just plain old starting over. Besides, I’m too busy dealing with the identity politics of figuring out if I’m a “Joe The Plumber” or a “Joe Six Pack.”

****

And with that, I bid adieu. This month’s playlist: Dillinger Four Civil War, Latin Dogs 7", Olho Seco/Brigada Do Odio split LP, Leuzemia LP, Deathreat Consider It War LP, Rain 12", Insomnio’s second LP, Diplo’s “Dutty Six Pack”—a mind-blowing mash-up of Black Flag and Cutty Ranks, and I finally like the Rites Of Spring LP.

Thanks for listening.

“My life my choice, my life my choice, my life my choice, my life my choice, my life my choice, my life my choice, my life my choice, my life my choice…”

MRR Column #306

“Would you still be my friend if these fries weren’t there?”

In Your Face “The Grub...” “Keep your hands off my fries. You’ve eaten yours these are mine.” Genius and stupid. But seriously, words to live by, words to die for. 

I know it’s fucking stupid and cliché to start a column with this copout bullshit statement, but I really ain’t got dick to say this month. Nothin’. No killer records, really. No terrible records to write about either. I’ve kinda got senioritis too. Starting today, I officially have one more month as coordinator of Maximum. Tonight I just moved my first load of “why the fuck do I still have all this” stuff out of the house and into my new pad. Starting tomorrow I’ll be living in a single family home with a big ass yard in the inner Richmond district of SF with a couple friends. An affordable single-family house with a yard in San Francisco is the bay area real estate equivalent of a Fix Vengeance. Psyched, but on the other hand moving fucking sux! Why can’t I get rid of old birthday cards from my parents or piles of crappy doodles that I did at a job I had five years ago cause I didn’t feel like working that aren’t even good or interesting? I just can’t. It’s so stupid that whenever it’s time to relocate, I have more and more pointless fucking crap to lug. When I moved to Portland in 2001 three of us fit all of our belongings in a fucking Hyundai from Boston, and now here I am with 27 huge boxes to move across town plus a bed, guitars and amps, stereo shit and a giant record shelf. I’d say it’s time to settle in and stay put or get rid of all this crap. Speaking of housing, how ‘bout that economy, aye? Honestly, who gives a shit. You know who’s gonna be fine no matter what happens to them? We are. Those of us that every month have to find some way to pay their bills and scrape by every fucking month without a penny in their pockets four days before pay day. We’re used to this shit and will be the ones laughing when they come and take away your fucking Hummer. Shit’s gonna get rough though. Everyone’s so comfortable having everything they want and everything they need, that when it comes down to pure survival, shit’s gonna get crazy. Hell, the other day I saw a dude in a wheelchair get beat up and robbed on Mission Street and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, I was too far away. People are fucking scum but when it comes down to survival, the gloves are off.

***

My favorite songs this month couldn’t be further from punk, to be honest, but these are some other things that have kept me going for the last thirty days… Lemonheads “Uhhhh” from Hate Your Friends a perfect song—great lyrics, crude Replacements-sans-wankery riffing, and enough angst to keep it out of the college-rock drone zone. Hell, practically the whole record is killer. The Clay’s songs on the Great Punk Hits comp LP are straight killer and the guitar solos alone make me melt. I’ve been trying to keep the Underdogs “East of Dauchau” on the hush hush until I found a copy but fuck it, right? If I were a true asshole, I’d tell you that this song is the blueprint for No Hope For The Kids and Criminal Damage. I know it’s not rare or expensive but I can’t find a copy, so someone send me one! Gastunk “The Eye’s” on A Farewell To Arms—it’s bouncy, it’s catchy, and the solos are all teased hair, white Flying-Vs and make up. Ace. And last but certainly not least, the debut EP from Japan’s Unkind somehow managed to slip by our radar. This mammoth EP, appropriately titled Crustie Not Hippies, along with the Kriegshög 7" might be my two favorite EPs of ’08 and are gonna be giving Framtid some real competition. More on this record next month.

If you made it this far, thanks and I apologize for wasting your time.

MRR Column #305

As time pushes closer towards my departure as a coordinator here in Maximumland and I contemplate what my role at the rag will be in the future, I think one thing I'm almost certain of is that I'd like to try and use this column to fill the void left by the not-so-recent departure of Mr. Cordova and try to cover the more youth-crew/mosh-y/sXe hues of the hardcore spectrum. Not exclusively of course, but it's something that is severely lacking here and I’d like to change that. Well, I just plan on writing about hardcore in general. We don't actually have any columns dedicated exclusively to hardcore, though we certainly do cover a lot of it. 

A friend recently scored a huge collection of records, mostly from the late ’80s thru early ’90s and of the straightedge/mosh persuasion. After filing away the records he wanted and trading off what he could that he didn't want, I got the privilege of taking the leftovers off his hands. You see, right now I am way into bottom-of-the-barrel crap from this time period/scene, inept mosh, as I have dubbed it, and was way more than happy to waste precious space in my room to house his scraps. It's one thing to be “a completely shitty record,” but what I'm looking for is a whole other ballgame. The shit that makes your jaw drop and your friends laugh hysterically for like 20 seconds before ordering you to turn it off. I honestly like this stuff. So, in keeping with the future goals of this column, I feel, what a better way to start than a run through of some highlights from my score of some of the worst straightedge records of all time. Here goes nuthin’.

Thus far (I still have about 80 records to listen to) there are two hands-down champions of the This-Sucks-So-Bad-It's-Mind-Blowing award. The first one being a 1991 7" called Chance To Live by a band called Discontent from upstate New York. This fuckin' thing is the gold-standard of “inept mosh” and leaves all competition in the dust. The vocals are so loud in the mix and I'd be hard-pressed to find a finer example just how off time a singer could be that it's incredible. A telltale sign of “inept mosh” is that fucking terribly piercing high-end early-'90s wandering bass sound, which is most definitely present here. With different vocals Chance To Live could be another sub-sub-par early ’90s NYHC record but as is, this platter is easily among the worst of the worst and thus one of the best records ever.

The other was a familiar face—something that a couple friends of mine had during my hardcore infancy but don’t recall ever hearing—though I was whole-heartedly surprised to see that it was released on such as high-caliber a label as Nemesis and produced by none other than Bad Religion's own Mr. Epitaph Brett Gurewitz. I'm talking about Once And For All's Thinking Man's World 7". What better way to open a shitty record than some god-awful fuckin’ slap bass. Oh, and what's better is that said playing technique runs through the whole first song (and obviously most of the record). Track-two is a rotten adaptation of that “War, huh, good god, what is it good for...” song that starts with the A-Team theme song. Ugh. Woah, I can't believe I made it this far with out mentioning that the vocals are the some of the worst faux-rapping I've ever wrapped my ears around. I mean, this dude's really actually trying to rap. Fuck. A true gem.

It would also be unfair to let this column go by without mentioning the record that sparked my interest in finding more records like this: Step Aside's I'll Take Darkness 7". I got this a while ago (though I did score a second copy from this collection) and I doubt Graham had any idea what kind of monster would be unleashed when he said “Oof, that record is bad,” or something to that effect, at Amoeba during one of his recent visits, cause I bought it anyway. Definitely more “together” than the Discontent 7", but this is just sloppy enough and with just the right “wrong” production to hang on. One or two more practices and these dudes would slip right into the forgettable zone. 

There were also some surprises in this box of records too. Some shit I had never heard of that was actually pretty good (obviously second or even third tier, but still good): the early-era Rev. stylings of Powerhouse’s 7" from ’89 on New Age Records, Pittbull's “I've Given Up/Don't make Me” 7" fuckin’ rules, both B'Zrker 7"s rule, as does the 7" from Leckie and company's pre-Voorhees band Steadfast, along with some long-gone old favs like Eye For An Eye Omega Drone, Kingpin 7", and the Boston Hardcore, In Memory of Reggie Lewis comp (best Dive song). And last but not least I finally got back The Current, Outspoken’s finest hour. There was a point when all the second-generation youth crew bands and those still hangin’ on from the first were dabbling in the emo and this record (and the Turning Point LP) are the high-watermark of the time. Fuck man, New Age Records had the lock on that shit; Grip Friction Burn Fatal, Resurrection, Mouthpiece, Outspoken… there was a point in my life when all of my favorite records were on New Age. Now I wholeheartedly understand if you go and listen to some or all this crap I’m talking about and think it’s pure shit whether you’re hearing it for the first time or revisiting something. You should. This era was truly unique in that it was an era where pretty much every band sucked and I’m probably the only one out there that can still stomach this shit. If Grip played tomorrow, I’d go. I wouldn’t travel to get there, but if it was close, I’d go and be psyched.

Playlist: everything above, A Farewell to Arms comp LP, Unit Pride 7", Coward/Gasmask split LP, Ultraviolent Crime for Revenge 7" and everything else on Riot City. Send your Dead Wretched No Hope For Anyone 7"s, Underdogs East of Dachau 7" and Krakdown 7"s to me at the MRR PO Box. Especially Krakdown.

MRR Column #304

So tomorrow I turn 30 years old. I always thought I’d be bummed to see this day come, but I’m actually really excited for it. Punks, cover your ears, but I’m kinda excited to “grow up.” Not surprisingly, this approaching milestone reminded me of something from my youth, and not a nice thing either. When I was in sixth grade I got busted for selling M-80s (those are really powerful fireworks for those that don’t know) that I stole from my dad’s closet to this kid on the school bus. The only reason I got nicked is ’cause it just so happened that a handful of other kids also brought fireworks to school that day and used them to set the downstairs boy’s bathroom on fire. Obviously this whipped the administration into a frenzy to find out who had the fireworks in school that day. So, yeah, I got pinched and ended up with a seven-day out-house suspension. That meant that I had to stay home from school for seven school days. It wasn’t as fun as it sounds, I assure you. The reason I was thinking of this is because Rachel, the girl that gave our names up to the principal, was killed about a year later by an acid-crazed nut-job that lived on her street when he hit her in the head with a cast-iron frying pan. About seven years later I was a freshman in college and sitting in my dorm room doing homework with the TV on when I hear the names of Eric and Chris, the two other kids that were busted that same day with fireworks at my school. They had just been arrested for killing a group of girls in some state park in New Hampshire. So, out the four people involved in that crackdown, I am the only one that still has my freedom. I may have no money and no future but at least I’m not dead or in jail. Things ain’t all that bad I guess. Now on to the noise!

Lebenden Toten played a two day stint here in the Bay at the beginning of July, and while I had seen them mucho times in the years I lived in Portland—and they were always great—never have I been as impressed as I was with their set at Gilman earlier this month. Maybe it was watching Randy tower above everyone else in the crowd while dancing and singing along to his former band. Or maybe it was the mood. Whatever factors you pin it on, everything was in place to hit me on all the right levels. The feedback was vicious through the mammoth new sound system and the band’s energy level was top notch. The night before the Gilman show, Leb Totes turned in another stellar set, though this time in the much more intimate setting of the basement of Thrillhouse Records. Opening the show was the debut of a new Bay Area band, Morpheme. This band of younger cats really blew me away. Their set was a blinding feedback soaked screaming mess—It was loose as could be but was devastating nonetheless. Then, I got home and put on their demo... holy crap! Where the live set was sloppy in all the right ways, this demo is a laser-guided ear-bleeding attack on the senses. Keep a lookout for this band and see my review in the demo section for more. It’s been an all-around killer year for shows around here, with Walls still holding the belt, Lebenden Toten, Needles, Straightjacket Nation, and the last Jump Off A Building show are also among the best I’ve ever witnessed. The bar has truly been raised. 

How could I let this column go by without mentioning such a momentous event as a new Gauze LP? Puh-leez. As I stated a few months back, there’s a clause in MRR’s rules for review material that states an album can only be reviewed once in a year’s time regardless of format or label, so, often times really worthy releases have to get the slip. This year a few bonzers have fallen prey to this rule; Skitkids LP, Unseen Force LP, Reality Crisis LP, and now the fifth LP from the long running gods of Japanese hardcore, Gauze. All saw reviews of CD releases less than twelve months earlier. I probably don’t really have to mention how good this Gauze LP is, but I’ve actually heard complaints about this record... Do you people have brains? Or ears? Jesus Christ. To my ears, on this fifth LP, Gauze picks up right where they left off—playing hyper blasts of crazy stop ’n’ go hardcore that makes everyone else look like amateurs. Dynamics up the fuckin’ ass! I mean, fuck, some of these dudes are grandfathers, and they have more energy than most high school basketball teams. This record smokes, as I knew it would. Not only has Mr. Prank brought us this masterpiece this month, but also Paintbox Singing, Shouting, Crying and Earth Ball Sports Tournament vinyls and the new World Burns to Death LP—all monsters. I can only imagine the work involved in getting these four crucial albums out at once. Take the time for a pat on the back, Ken.

This month also saw a new LP from a band that I think is one of the most underrated hardcore acts on the planet, Extortion. 2006 saw their debut LP Degenerate, which was followed in 2007 with the Control 7", and now in 2008 they’ve dropped their Sick LP. This beast is Extortion’s most tumultuous, powerful, and direct work yet. Coming so close to what one would call power violence, this is just mean and angry hardcore of the most violent order. (Violent like an earthquake, not a drunk redneck.) Another band that normally exists somewhere in the same sphere of influence as Extortion is Hatred Surge. The reason I say “normally exists,” is because Hatred Surge’s “Servant / Bestial” 45 that dropped this month is a real departure from the usual Inglewood-influenced power violence style of Hatred Surge’s other releases. This record is pretty much as heavy as it gets. The A-side, “Servant,” follows its vocal and feedback opening with a part that is almost jazzy in its discord before trampling all with a thundering boom. The tension in this track is really amplified by the spaces between the notes, not to say that the notes themselves aren’t heavy as all get out. “Beastial,” on the flip is similar in its uncomfortable neanderthal-ish (not the band) bluntness. This is brutish music for brutes, to say the least. Every single time I listen to Hatred Surge, on any record, it amazes me that Alex plays every instrument on these recordings. A true master.

Sash Mori rules!

[email protected] and deadstareforlife.blogspot.com

MRR Column #303

STREET JUSTICE

My take on violence is as follows: I’m generally not a violent person, hell, the last time I got in a fight was some years ago when some drunken wannabe frat boy from BU randomly walked up to me on the street at 2am while I was walking home from a (losing) night of poker with friends and accused me of harassing his sister earlier that night at some party that I wasn’t even at and just punched me in the side of the head. At that point what was I to do but destroy this half-wit and his friend that was trying to pull him back? When all was said and done, his friend, rather hilariously, continued beating the crap out of him for putting him in such a stupid situation as I walked toward the Cambridge Street bridge (as featured in a scene from the original Thomas Crown Affair) and home. There are just certain situations where flight is not an option. It’s a survival instinct and a natural human thing. Sometimes though, you also just can’t help it and there is no other way to get your point across. What’s the point of this, you ask? Well, someone that works for this very magazine, someone that we trust, is taking advantage of that fact and has been stealing brand new records out of the to-be-reviewed bin. This is the second time it’s happened in the last six-or-so months and most recently stole FIVE FUCKING LPS!! You have got to be a complete loser and absolute fucking coward to steal records from here. These were brand new records that you can get anywhere and if you can’t afford to buy them, boo-fucking-hoo. This is a business and a home, not some fucking collective free-box. Not only are you taking advantage of us, but you are taking away from a punk record archive that is the only one like it in the entire world, and you are ruining things for the other 60-plus Shitworkers that come through these doors every month by forcing us to question intentions. So, next time you come by, and unfortunately this will fall on everyone and not just the pathetic piece of shit responsible, don’t be surprised if things seem a little awkward. It’s an inevitability and as much as I’d like it not to happen… The bottom line is this: you have proven that you are absolute scum on multiple occasions (it’s easy to profile that it was the same person when all of these stolen records are similar in style/scene) and when we find out who you are, and we will find out, it’s gonna get nasty and after you’re “dealt with,” we will drag you through the mud so bad that you are never trusted, ever again, by anyone. Aaaahhhrrrggg. This shit makes me so mad.

On a much lighter note, the haus has been chock full of punks from all over the globe of late and it’s been tons of fun. Most recently the Aussie buoys and gulls from Straightjacket Nation spent close to a week here at the Maxipad and green taped and filed an immeasurable amount of records. I’d just like to say that on top of being a face-ripping top-notch band, Dan, Emily, Dave, Al, and Clint are first-class individuals and I had tons of fun enjoying your company and you are welcome back any time. Fuckin’ sick! It still makes me sad to look at the ping-pong table all put away. Straightjacket Nation and Needles’ sets last week at Balazo gallery were probably the highlights of the year as far along with Walls in the way of live shows. Needles just sounded so fuckin’ nasty and Straightjacket Nation kept that fire burning straight through to the end of the show. Pure bliss. But back to what I was saying, besides those Aussie bogans, long-time MRR contributor and scene-reporter of far away locales, Luk Haas, finally made his first trip ever to the U.S. of A. and spent some time here at the house. While he was around, not only did he record two one-hour radio shows of exotic punk from all corners of the globe (one of which is already up on our site), he took the time to sit down with Layla, Cissie, and I to let us interview him for this rag. Look for that in the next month or two. Luk’s stories and travels make me feel like a complete failure. 

The land of Maximumium has been a land of great change recently and since I failed to do so in my last column, I feel it’s only right that I extend my hand to welcome in Ms Layla Gibbon as MRR’s new distro coordinator. She’s basically been at the job for two months now and has come in like a forest fire to burn out the old dead undergrowth and stimulate new growth and forward motion. I’m glad she’s here, she’s definitely taken Martin’s kick-in-the-ass-business. On a similar trajectory I think this is as good a time as any to announce that I will be stepping down as content coordinator. It’s really crazy to me that this is my tenth issue as coordinator of Maximum. This decision just made sense, really, but I will stick around as long as it is necessary to fill my shoes. We are working on a couple leads right now and we will keep you informed. 

The Invasión La Caza LP is one of the most powerful hardcore records in some time. Amazing. Find it at all cost!!

I think it’s high time I pony up for a Judge New York Crew on Schism. Got one you don’t need? Or an older Judge shirt size large?

I Wanna Pee Pee In The Disco Mommy