Riffs Entombed’d pass on cuz they’re too dull, monotone hardcore vocals sprinkled with death roar, and general bash’n’smash that is uninspired and predictable.
Vader is molten lava, boiling over with intensity, passion, and brutality. Meaty grind with no gore lyrics, third-rate computer artwork, or saturated growls.
Taking the art-school hardcore that they experimented with on their debut full-length even further, this EP is like a trip through someone’s private catharsis.
A great way of getting to know one of the more hard-working labels in the underground, even if its bands have not all reached the same level of competency.
Portland, OR’s The Jimmies straddle that powerchord pop/mid-tempo pop/punk line admirably. Many’d namedrop Hüsker Dü, and that’s a really nice name to drop.
Dennis Lyxzen’s no-frills ’60s/’70s mod/garage rock band takes Small Faces, The Kinks, The Who, The Zombies, and The Make-Up and forms another mod rock band.
Most of the bands sound like halfway decent metal bands who might be good on their own terms, but they just can’t match the gory’n’glory of the almighty Zombie.
Equal parts Britpop (Radiohead, Travis), American pop (Elliott Smith), and American indie (Sea And Cake, Low), this is a post-emo band trying to make amends.
The Giraffes, starring Chris Ballew of The Presidents of the United States of America, make pop that is wacky, funny, goofily intelligent, and singable.
No techno remixes, no third-rate death metal, but no real pep either, Snakebites gathering guys with thick metal resumes to romp through Coverdale’s classics.
I’m a sucker for two-minute, straight-forward, three-chord rock, especially when the band’s made up of women in leather, minis, anklets, and spiked collars.
21 cuts of primal dead horse beatings from four guys who sound a lil’ like Sticky Fingers Stones with a crystal ball that can see the Ramones’n’Dead Boys.
Eight of the singles are here, but there is also a re-recording of “Pollen Count” and a remix of “Your Daddy’s Car” for variety. Two new songs are included.
19 artists, some local and some national, who have quite a knack for writing melodies that sometimes twist, sometimes turn, but are pop-oriented at the core.
The Distillers are trashy, violent, swear convincingly, snarl about pretty much everything, and rock harder, dirtier, and meaner than Joan Jett and Hole.