There’s fuckin’ bodies everywhere – against the walls, on the floor, hanging limp from the ceiling fans, guts strewn all over the place like a spaghetti fight gone hardcore, blood splattered liberally. The pulse rate is off the scale; the little red needle making whoopie with the right-hand side of the dial like never before. Fuckin’ intense. Creak… creak… a door swings open. Fire at fuckin’ will, soldiers.
DEMONS! DEATH! BULLETS! BLOOD! FUCK!
Y’see, Ann Arbor do this to a person – they make them see beyond the mundane reality of the daily grind and into some parallel Doom 3 universe where the tunnels of the Victoria Line morph into expressways straight to Hell itself (insert your own comment about Brixton, here). Well, mostly – some of this instrumental punk-a-rock-a could be misconstrued as some kind of Match of the Day ‘Goal Of The Month’ backing track nonsense. Indeed, some of it could almost pass as such - ‘Tortilla’, for instance – but so much more is ruddy terrifying. See: ‘Creep Diet’. Sweat: blood.
Think Shellac getting their low-slung groove on with Justin Broderick, or 65daysofstatic ditching the glitch for some heavy-duty punk workouts. This music is utterly menacing, but completely engrossing. It skullfucks your emptied eyeholes like a randy buffalo after first digging into your synapses with a clawhammer. It tricks newcomers into false senses of security, into fleeting comfort zones, with brief segments of tuneful song, only to crash them into a wall of industrial squall seconds later. Masochistic bastards.
I just hope the train turns tail come the end of the line or none of us are surviving this trip.
8Mike Diver's Score