Lookin' like yer from seventy nine - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #76

Today I’mma drop my bombs right in, this is Rolling Thunder, because Heavy Cream don’t fuck about and I guess I’ll follow their lead. There’s a killer guitar tone like the roar of a hundred hueys over the Mekong and drumming like bullets punching holes in a tin shed and soaring over it all like a (F-16 fighting) falcon is a punk’d-up pumped up female vocal and the whole thing is slathered in a foot-thick layer of butter spread over the floor and walls and ceiling and dripping down behind the radiator of just the stunning still-quivering post-punk arrogance that snorts and sniffs and makes ya wanna dance to something heavy enough to punch a fist-sized hole in your chest. That’s all. Go out, buy it, add an annexe to your mung-worship altar.


It’s no surprise that Suzi Quattro is up there as a reference point for these spectral chicks Pied Pipering their way through modern rock and roll; I’m thinking this is the post-Nirvana Pleasure Seekers; because those girls were so right on in such an oppressive atmosphere and not that much has changed in heavy music. Bands like this could be the real way forward, if they get half a shot these ladies are gonna grasp that with both hands (and jump on it hard, both feet). I’ve already mentioned the guitar and if y’all can’t take my wittering you better skip to the next paragraph because the rest o’ this one’ll be kneeling in the dirt licking the well-maintained boots of this fuzzy punky scuzz bucket guitar. Usually punk revels in the lo-fi guitar, if it doesn’t sound like a wasp inside a shed, it isn’t punk but this guitar is way more outta the noise rock department, with a full guarantee. It arcs through the air like lightning between conductors, huge blue bolts of sound shooting out of yer stereo, with the shotgun drumskins backing it up the whole album is a monument to heavy, a damn massive monument. This is probably the sound the sound made by wind whipping around the Motherland Calls, that axe be thunderous. This is essential punk motherfuckers. Think Ramones, ‘cept replaced during the interval by the members of the Pleasure Seekers in an alternative reality where miniature electronics were never invented and amplifiers are the size of warehouses and playing them too loud causes all the valves to simultaneously explode and disgorge showers of glass and molten metal over the performers and the audience at the end of each gig. Where the amps are manned by people pulling switches to reroute steam like Metropolis. That is, roughly, the sound they’re hittin’.

Another tack, imagine Pulled Apart By Horses were influenced by Sleep. Better still, Earth. That’s an apt description. Monolithic constructions forced with cattle prods and psychological warfare into the tiny cages of punk aesthetic so tight that their fur comes out between the bars on all sides and all you can hear inside is a profound growling that chills yer bones. I’ve been listening to a buncha Brain Donor recently (column no doubt incoming) and this is kinda like what they did for Blue Cheerisims but ground out of the Ramones. I realise these comparisons are as useful as a lawyer when yer trying to get spiritual so let me simplify it. Hardcore punk has been careening towards the big stone wall of heaviness for a long time now, crashing against it as we, the unsuspecting crosshatch-decal’d dummies bounce around in the car and the rest of the music buying public quietly makes notes about exactly how hard our heads had to hit the windscreen to shatter it; and these guys hit that wall and then bounce back into instant familiarity and listenability throughout.

Super Treatment is well named. The production is plastered thick like wallpaper paste, so thick it drips off everything, the vocals most overtly; but the whole package is slathered in a high gloss sheen of lo-fi grunge garage production thick like eight coats of humbrol painted on a bluebottle and watching it desperately try to fly away, the songs are just a collection of dead brightly coloured flies scattered over a demented child’s desk. I’m gettin’ severe acid flashbacks to that blissful and ballsy early Chloe Alper incarnation Period Pains, where a similar to-the-point punch drunk punk sustained an excellent EP of some of the greatest punk songs I know. Just like Period Pains, Heavy Cream batter their once-red Dodge clear across the punk highway, swaying furiously, not caring about green or red signals, only looking out for some other speed freak getting his own trip on. Trust me girls, you’re streets ahead of anyone who could touch ya.

Go get it from Infinity Cat records and go find their facebook, this is essential shit motherfucker.
Written under duress by Steven.

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