Like scratchy old blues records, music box tinkle, a lonely trumpet soliloquy. White guy rapping usually turns me off like lima beans on a hot fudge sundae.
Trendy keyboard, a dash of metal chug, layered harmonies. Wait, here’s where they rock out, there’s the droning breakdown, and yes, they close with the ballad.
Home recordings, from Tom Waits to Elvis/Doors worship, dark ballads to metallic guitar chugs over a drum machine. As weirdly cluelessly demented as it sounds.
Punk rawk all raw and loud and destructive. Yeah, you just got knocked on yer ass by a girl, Fonzie. She’s shredding her vocal chords for you, so listen up.
Everyone thinks that’s a girl singing. It’s a dude named Anthony Green, who was in Saosin. He teamed up with a childhood friend, fresh out of This Day Forward.
Taking Back Sunday-style hardcore with emoting vocals. From Virginia. Not into this style, but the delicate diddling and pussy singing bother me less than most.
Gina from the Lunachicks returns. More gritty NYC rock than trashy dress-up, which kinda made Lunachicks like Gwar or Slipknot. First pass, it’s kinda lifeless.
Irish punk has blossomed because it’s “music of the people.” The other kinda punk is the outcast, the loner, the rebel. Gypsies are pretty anti-establishment.