DOPPELGANGERS XXX

 In a web of reanimating the (un)dead descends an electrifying Speed Metal assault. Thunder ripping NWHOBHM, with G.B.H. totting (a stout reminder of Punk's importance to Metal), oranges waving, Thrash laced Hi-gh—an outlet for denim and fucking leather.

  Bonus: Wheels.

—Hi-gh
—Murdeath

DOPPELGANGERS XXIX

  Not long ago, the Scrawler featured a revivalist band, which is a case covered on the previous post. Horror Vacui assert so for the Post-Punk lay of the music 'scape—and competently. When HK8 starts disheveling with their Electonic miscreations, it comes off as ambience tinged efforts to less perplex an all-out Noise seeker. So much for an ironic title. The droning wars par!

—Horror Vacui
—HK8

9

  Dystopia is a ricocheting friend. Should be. Or refute and plug that head up the clouds. Nonetheless, it is a curve that continues to confront daily. On the keenest of days, nature unwraps humanity's caution. Total prosperity does occur but not guaranteed. Though natural disruption is not a huge cause for worry—basic human instincts rouse the need for concern as privileges of power to the inwardly unstable are catastrophic.

  With the glimpse 9 offers on a such and interweaving situations, the human contend takes hold. Based on a warring period Germany, when they had superior technology, it is a contact upon animated alternate history. A transcendental scientist succeeds at making a mechanical brain with human-like capabilities—until military interference. Once seized, the mechanoid is inflected with world control and domination—a setting from which it is almost impossible detracting it from.

  World of havoc, war, metal, and discord—all organic life has been wiped off. It is built on a Steampunk, Futurepunk directory; this post apocalyptic world—with the old world still technologically upending—is a shot into an unyielding unfolding future with the punks following a devoid direction.

  Opening up to statutes in their perfect sculpt, The Mad Mane Machine retraces Wells' the time traveler arising to the same in a distant future. Much with its Star Trek allusions as Seven of Nine gets a centre-stage presence—saving a sinking ship. Another moment of Wellsian descent yields itself in the hall of retrieval and archiving, from the time traveler's escapades. Dusty, decrepit, and devoid of life—a towering structure of decaying records. Collective hands are involved in the tid-bit gathering needed to destroy the enemy gladiatorial force.

  From the recollected manuscripts the scientist gave his life for—much to foresee mechanical defeat—the same electric eye mechanism that gobbles and destroys is the same that takes part in disintegrating the hub of the bug hive-mind.

  9 is akin to degraded Steampunk with alternative Cyberpunk sheddings—or primitive Cyberpunk in its best description. Arising technology that fails to boom once the ultimate breakthrough culminates to unmitigated corruption. It purges a lot as a disaster film—once salvaged to savagery the survivors have zero option to figure out to turn the best of their fate. Spiritual aspects of transcendention leave an un-rooted gap on the plane of escapism but given the rushed connections to keep the story linked and running it should pass as a ground to ignore

CFS (ENOUGH IS ENOUGH)

  Punk is a core genre. Whenever I fall back to splitting. Far as sub-genres go, Electronic can not be out-fashioned. Only Punk and Metal come close enough. The three frothing together The Mad Mane Mane Machine is yet to come across. Aesthetic-wise, it is more than possible.

   Simplicity and melody are the first synonyms that best describe a lot of punk. On a recent forefront is Burnt Cross' execution. Clear and concise fuckin' Punk. Simplistic does not stand for defective (mostly) if still not a relation for all Punk bands. One of those rare outfits that completely stretch and entrench can be portrayed by CFS.

  From the heart of Greece—a Mediterranean region derricking forth music The Mad Mane Machine only wishes it could keep up—is a pinnacle and a paragon—Enough is Enough. Hardly inconspicuous is its flirt with Post-Hardcore commencing the prolapse to eminence. Liakos sounds pissed and gruff, with a rough voice to give the music some ID. The extent may not be much if you consider what Jessie Williams does for her acoustic punk—fucking raspy BM. Descent into the rest of the songs has a heavy Oi! preoccupation and the drums would be home to Milkman from The Netherlands' music. Melody and precision are par, a blend with no oscillation. I was the last to expect a Post-Rock insertion to a Punk band, but what the hell—it is as natch as it could ever be written to be, not a farrago.

  Detractors of Punk should let CFS bear witness. The Metal effications are far and wide. Cexyst speaks of infusions that hit the heart, a reflection of OG BM. But Punk does not need anybody. As for Pop goes Punk . . .

HORROR VACUI (RETURN TO THE EMPIRE)

  More Post-Punk. Horror Vacui self describe as punker than dark, darker than punk. Kinda chuckle benefiting stuff. Straight Post-Punk/Goth mash stuff you bet. Deathrock once 5000 palpitates into the melee. Chunks of proliferating missives on a mission to darken auditory perceptions. Even a fusion of Post-Punk and Deathrock is nothing to bring out the best in a band, but a mixture of the best of both worlds.

  Clear cut black and  white. Covered in a two-way infusion as the soundscapes shift and trade sides with either. A rocker could be pulled. A punker can take. A goth should commit. It heavily corresponds with The Cure school of Post-Punk. A somehow competent singer at hand, leading the listener along to the rhythm of the riffs, otherwise letting the main sequences of the lead to shine on such a cold seeker of inclines.

  Light of Darkness offers some speed and urgency. Deathrock and Post-Punk really beautifully fuse here, on paced amplitudes. This is a stolid exemplification amid the embueing chaos and effervescence. A melding that perseveres onto the ensuing track. Though this is a much relaxed one. Continuing with the ever minimalist Post-Punk drum work.

  The lyrics revolve around antis and everyday livelihood. Somnolent and belying thoughts fortified in less augur sangfroid to the sing-song extensions. Keeping it coming, keeping it coldish.

MY DARK HOUSE ([DEMO])

  Any serious music listener will tell you they are not always seeking replication. Not especially where they are in the slightest aware what they are after—or looking for in a new and/or different stuff—sounds like. In that regard, Post-Punk is neither a different story. Once one gets a slight indication of what shit presents itself to be, it is better to stick to the best purveyor of the sound in question. Times are few when duplicates conquer their masters.

  Once the Garage squiggles of [Demo] jar in as the first track spans out, My Dark House storm with affection yet the vocals are very reminiscent of Ian Curtis and as becomes expectant—to a scale of six—, the undercurrent of the music is precise Post-Punk bass drum verity. The other off leash is downtuned Shoegaze—almost to black doom levels, propagating the Nu-Gaze—on the third track that gives it a heavy vibe to a gravitating effect. As soft as the vocals could be, a bleeding palette on immense in boire carous to outpour tweeny emotions. Smudged a little, then smoothly flowing.

  The promise here is that once the actual band's sound is grasped effectively, then divulged through a much distorted lens, it wont provide a staler. Actualizations of Joy Division with less syntactic appreciation may eventually pay off. Worthwhile an effort, like the bassists unrelenting pulse.

ESPECTROSTATIC (SKELETACTICAL)

  Firing up in a shimmering way. On pointers with dishevling relationships with radiation bursts. Anticipate a wake of reanimations and impending consternation as the blasted astronauts regain unlife. All those years of inertia that have molten any memory of flesh are gone now as a plague unanticipated enlists itself.

  Unlife refines itself with consequential drums pockmarking the synth loops. Stellar outstretch soundtracks to a dreadful reprise. Gear shifting melody with tosses of Synthwave. So what makes this punk?—if not recalcitrations of electro- and synth-wave polyphonics in a much balanced but out there way. Dangling aside Synthwave's super cine feel. Apart from Fuzgati's electropunk, it's the exact opposite of what Fuzgati does, yet the the name might suggest otherwise. Or what the latter should be emulating.

  Those drum hits. That is what its moments are, amid electro key touches as the EP clashes with closure time. Certainly indecipherable culminations; ponderings that lurk opportunistically among the tints of dystopia. A kind of watch-the-space-explode anticipations and ruminations. Blipping out from the upsurging space sargassso. Communication frozen. Dashing Horrorwave.

DOPPELGANGERS XVIII

  Daybreak contributed this Powerviolence-heavy release to their God-tier split with The Ultimate Warriors; who deliver with massive Grindcore assault. As a lone offering, Convicted is the updated version of Cryptic Slaughter's . . . Convicted. In Grind we Crust!

—Powerviolence
—Crossover

RE: DESIGN—EXPERIMENTAL

  Goth is aesthetic. Punk is attitude. I don't wish to tie myself down. School is over, and my last project involved experimental apparel design. Any previous project was far from the blog's topic, and even as the blog has slightly changed t incorporate a few objects, the would still not cut it. (Other than being unsatisfactory. Explaining. So punk.)

 

  I made a Steampunk inspired attire. Upper torso is adorned in a leather crop-top (originally to be cap-sleeved), whose rear was fashioned into a tail-coat design. It has a bishop collar with ingrained spikes and shoulder studs. 3 on either side.

  It has a  waistband with collapsible pipe cords, half split lengthwise for ease of attachment on the newly formed flat side.

  The lower torso is a circular skirt, opening at the front, and a half-cut pipe at the hemline of the right side. It is a theme garment. Best suited as a costume. The back is overrun by a spine with spikes contrived to reptile-like protrusions. From hairline to butt.

 Materials:
Recycled leather.
Golden chains/Golden studs.
Cardboard      —Spikes. Spine.
Nylon             —Waisband. Holding plastic cords intact.
Plastic cords.
Aluminium foil —Wrapping spikes and spine edges.
Black paint     —Evening garment and material colour; exposed spine area and nylon.

SLAM ASSAULT (PURIFICATION THROUGH PRIMITIVE TORTURE)

  This already elaborates relentless about getting the punks intended for seated in the sod of sonority -- first notoriety.

  It is not every other time one comes across a band that wields two genres so majestically that one gets to question their perception of either, and more, the coin in query; as either of the two sides overlap, smoothing away the edges -- second quality.

  Slam Assault's smelting of Thrash riffs to ensure they cross over to the Punk and back in their metal state is a dance to the tune of sweet melody -- song of note: Innocent Crying.

  Here is an EP that's a dig straight to the bone. After all, it just weathers all flesh, and the chain-mail links give in to the metallic garbed mayhem. Overwhelmingly, Barcelona has a gem that sure knows primitivity is colourless, and effective, thus best conferred to the mohawk-clad folk.

4/5