The Marshes

(Sike)
by Nik Rainey

Nik’s truism of the day, re: pop-punk, “old-school” variety: it sho’ is hard to do it wrong, so long as you follow the recipe – start with one triphammer bassline, add a tablespoon of feedback, two or three well-preserved bar chords, set to a medium boil for 2-3 minutes and serve on a bed of pounding skins. Garnish with chunks of teenage defiance and sprinkle profanities to taste. Stick to this and you’ll have something agreeably tasty, if none too filling.

To extend the metaphor, let’s just say that Amherst’s The Marshes are less Cordon Bleu chefs than reliable fry-cooks – their fare is hot, consistent, and there’s plenty of it. Of course, it’s a very familiar taste. Not to say that they’re slavish imitators or that they don’t deliver dependable pit fodder, but there’s a hell of a lot of rancid offspring of the bad religion known as melodicore around, and The Marshes don’t yet distinguish themselves from the pack.

But never mind – it’s comforting sometimes to know that you’re buying (into), and staying on the well-trod path insures that they never misstep. Steven Wardlaw’s strafe-stringin’ is a virtual encyclopedia of fifteen years of punks from ’81-vintage L.A. blooze to the odd Hüsker Dü electrical storm. Colin Sears’ drums are hard but never heavy-handed, and Emil Busi’s bass is buoyantly brash, as are his vox (he’d be wise to cut down on the petulant Billie Joe-isms, though). If all eight songs smack of remembrances of punk past, at least no two sound the same. And lyrics like “I do not see people/All I see are fucking machines” – wa’al, that’s par for the course. But let’s face it, music like this can’t be touched by critical mewlings like these – this is tactile smek – the stuff of all-ages matinees of the soul. Mosh away, kiddies.