Punk Burn dishes surreal sonic morsels
CD review
Ryan Nyburg
Pulse Columnist
It’s hard to imagine, but punk rock
used to be shocking. Oh, how times
have changed. These days, top 40 ra
dio is chock full of in-name-only
“punk” rock that panders to 10-year
old sensibilities, played by musicians
who wouldn’t make a rebellious
move before checking it out with a
marketing expert.
What isn’t dumbed-down pop
rock is weepy emo nonsense tailor
made for the Abercrombie & Fitch
crowd. I didn’t get into punk rock to
listen to weepy pretty boys sing
about their girlfriends. I got into it
because I needed a soundtrack to
the exercise of bashing my head
against the brick wall, otherwise
known as daily existence. With The
Blood Brothers new release,
“...Burn, Piano Island, Bum,” I
think I’ve found that soundtrack.
Galling The Blood Brothers hard
core punk would be misstating the
fact a little. It’s more like Minor
Threat smashed into a surrealist ex
hibition. The Blood Brothers grind
away like the best hard-core bands
but without the fascist devotion to
screaming vocals and the same
three chords used by everyone
since Black Flag. There are
melodies, often sweet ones, but they
exist apparently only to keep listen
ers on their toes. After a vicious gui
tar assault, they suddenly switch to
something that could have been
written by Weezer (assuming Rivers
Cuomo took some really strong
acid), only to switch back and pum
mel you all over again. The lyrics
are a pastiche of surrealist images,
creating dark landscapes that make
the pounding beats all the more up
setting. The band uses what seems
like a stream of consciousness ap
proach to song writing that’s a little
more clever than what you expect
from rock.
The album kicks off in true punk
fashion with “Guitarmy,” a quick
blast of rage that clocks in at 37 sec
onds. The title track is typical of the
rest of the album. The duel vocalist
Jordan Billie and Johnny Whitney
sound like they spent the morning
before the recording session cough
ing up their lungs. They screech
and growl through the lyrics, almost
incomprehensibly at times, then
suddenly throw out some melodious
crooning. “Every Breath is a Bomb”
sounds like something out of a car
nival sideshow, complete with Wurl
itzer piano.
The album’s centerpiece is “Am
bulance vs. Ambulance,” a song that
simply sweats menace from its
pores. It’s also the album’s first sin
gle, and the track is already burning
up the college radio airwaves — and
rightfully so. “The Salesman, Den
ver Max” is the quietest song on the
album, practically a whisper com
pared to the rage expressed on oth
er tracks, but uses this clarity to tell
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The band stretches its influences a
bit with “Six Nightmares at the Pin
ball Masquerade,” which sounds
like Captain Beefheart revved up to
maximum rpm.
“God Bless You, Blood Thirsty
Zeppelins” speeds things back up
again and even includes a scary-as
hell “la la la” section. The whole
thing ends in fine fashion with “The
Shame,” a song that just builds and
builds until its rather sudden anticli
max, leaving your brain feeling like it
has been scrubbed with steel wool.
The album isn’t easy to listen to,
but challenging material rarely is. It
stands up to repeat listening since
there is so much to listen to with
layer upon layer of sounds, images
and ideas. While there are too many
rough edges to The Blood Brothers,
particularly in the vocals, for the
band to ever be accepted commer
cially, they at least deserve to be no
ticed. And with the amount of noise
these boys make, it would be hard
not to pay attention.
Contact the Pulse columnist
at ryannyburg@dailyemerald.com.
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