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The Royal They – Foreign Being


theroyalthey-foreign-beingBand: The Royal They
Album: Foreign Being
Label: King Pizza Records
Release date: Out Now
Sounds like: Be Your Own Pet cutting you open with their guitar strings. 

The stark contrast between the explosive snarl of album opener C.N.T. and the closing pop-punk blast of Weekender is one of the many, many great things about Foreign Being, the second album by New York trio, The Royal They. In fact, this album twists and turns itself inside out, reshaping constantly, but it is anchored by one common goal – to hit you hard and make you take notice. At first, it felt solely driven by anger – sure, there’s rage in this – boy, is their rage. The guitars howl and fizzle with acidic intent; but there’s also a hell of a lot of heart in this and that heart is pumping raw, bloody emotion from every ventricle.

Take C.N.T. for example (what’s missing? Just “U”) a rabid, powerful, brackish snap of furious noise; a rallying cry for those who have ever felt alone or lost in light of certain events in the entertainment industry. It points fingers and calls out all those with their “perverted breach” and talks of their “sick deceit” and is capped off with the huge “I know you’ll try to fuck the world/But you will not fuck me” scream from vocalist/guitarist Michelle Hutt. Powerful, emotional, burning rage spat with such passion and such vitriol and one of the best album openers I’ve heard in a long while.

Addiction and loss pepper the buzz-saw raw rock of Sludgefucker (excellent song title alert) as talk of twitching eyes, misunderstood anger and referencing moments of pure bliss (but being unsure why) are punched into your ears, whilst the dual guitars scrape and contort through a muddy slide of clawing turmoil. It’s also excellent and a brilliantly constructed rapid-fire piece of fiery riot-punk. This is met with the sledgehammer drums and booming riffs of Pandemic, which belch and hack a hoarse rasp of detuned, Torche-lite noise, held together with shuddering and bruising intent. Absolute credit to the guitars on this track, which chime with trepidation and stalwart misery and expand The Royal They’s discordant and blemish-erupting sound even wider.

The pedal isn’t always slammed firmly to the floor though – there are moments of reflection, especially on the cool-sounding indie-jam of Veritas, which builds into a crunching hard rock number, with an ever-so Smashing Pumpkins-vibe to proceedings and showcases the delicate beauty of Michelle’s vocals as opposed to her earlier snarls of cutting rage. Needler follows a similar path, as though you’re being stalked by the taunt guitar lines, the “I want you to know…” vocal croons and the churning, discordant riffs which lurch, belch and batter the airwaves, only to suddenly revert back to that eerie, menacing tone. Don’t be fooled by the sing-song voice Michelle has on the scything Say Less – while it might all sound all rainbows and smiles in the delivery, the noisy, ramshackle Be Your Own Pet-riffs and teeth-rattling percussion are devilishly corrupting.

It’s when we reach the end of the album everything starts to crackle with three chords and permanent joy. I cannot get out of my head how much Weekender sounds like a 90’s TV show theme. There’s something so “sunshine happy good times!” about the melody on this. “Yeah, I’m where I wanna be right now/Yeah, there’s nothing else to figure out” states Michelle, her lyrics bouncing brilliantly on this pogo-tastic pop-rock banger of an album closer, which absolutely shreds with infectious and confident zest and ultimate enthusiasm – superb.

More people need to hear this band. The frothing rage and high-five fun times in The Royal They is utterly captivating right from the word go. Foreign Being is a jagged, snarling, heckling, vitriolic blast of cathartic, boiling and positive punk. Join their racket now, you need this in your life and your ears.

Grab a slice of Foreign Being by The Royal They from King Pizza Records here or download directly from their bandcamp. Treat yourself.

 

Top tracks: Sludgefucker, Needler, Gullethead, Weekender

Links

The Royal They
King Pizza Records

Lizard Hips

Lizard Hips

Junior Vice President of Keep It Fast. In other news: I work in social media, talk about dinosaurs, run a book club and have amazing facial hair. I am also a male man who is still not dead.

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WHORES. – Gold


Whores. - GOLD.Band: WHORES.
Album: Gold
Label: eOne
Release date: Out now
Sounds like: Blood pouring from the sky. A badly planned knife fight. Cars crashing over and over.

“No you can’t come inside / We built these walls so we could hide.”

You’re not ready for this. In fact, you were never ready at all. This is beyond your comprehension. WHORES. (as they like to stylise their name) are forcing you slowly into a mincer, watching as you struggle, scream and cry out in pain as the mechanism slowly devours you, pulping your body into unrecognisable strands of meat. Having released 2 EPs (Ruiner in 2011 and Clean in 2013) Gold is their first slab of new material in 3 years and with a new rhythm section (bassist Casey Maxwell and drummer Donnie Adkinson) alongside guitarist, vocalist and shouty-angry man, Christian Lembach.

If the production on this was some form of mineral, it would be a mudslide; a cruel, filthy, flow that never lets up until everything is submerged in grime. The guitars let off an ear-squealing hiss of disdain throughout the 35 minute running time of Gold, whilst the bass rumbles and belches thick, slabs of mulch and the drumming is a tribal hammering of bloodied determination. That’s not forgetting the vocals – Lembach’s voice has twisted into an even more feral and snapping animal, channelling moments of Jacob Bannon’s inhuman-screech alongside weird dinosaur-like yelps and the sound of a man equally having fun and annihilating everything around him at the same time.

Gold launches itself from a huge stack of speakers with the grumbling bass of Playing Poor, which doesn’t have time to get out of the way of the drum rolls before it’s completely flattened under a bombardment of punishing speed-noise-punk. It’s a slaughter; imagine METZ attacking their instruments with power tools – savage, utterly savage, teeth-baring horror; “DEAD INSIDE! DEAD INSIDE!” screams Lembach, before they launch back into that breakneck attack straight for the jugular. No letting up though, not for a moment – as there’s a real Down I Go-vibe to the lurching-riff machine of the next track, Baby Teeth; as it thumps and grinds with a similar undertone of groove-laden math-metal and is devastatingly heavy.

There’s a brief moment where light seeps through the grime on the chewy Mental Illness as a Mating Ritual – it’s blink and you’ll miss it and sounds like another song has worked its way in on the action, only to be tuned out again for that crackling bass-fuzz that doesn’t let up, continuing on the course of a hip-shaking groove of searing damage. The one-two punch of the volatile, guitar-strangulation of Ghost Trash and percussion bombardment and see-saw riffs of Charlie Chaplin Routine add yet more meat to Gold’s impressively gristly attack and both drip with venom and spite.

A cul-dec-sac is a fancy name/for a dead-end street/it’s insane” is screamed, on the scene-baiting noise-punk of I See You Are Also Wearing A Black T-shirt, a track, that surely has to be one of, if not the best 2 minutes and 40 seconds of raw, brutally honest and driving slabs of frenzied energy to have emerged from this miserable year. Spin your guitar around your head, crowdsurf on top of a bus, get fucking wrecked son. There’s a real Melvins-feel on the cathartic rush of grunge-sludge of Bloody Like The Day You Were Born; the buzzing hum of the bass, the vein-popping screams, the hard-as-fuck precision drumming – caustic to the core.

Let’s see how low I can go/I’m gonna sink this ship down, down, down!!!!” roars Lembach, his throat bloody tatters on the closing track, I Have A Prepared Statement. Sounding similar to being given the last rites, this morbid and furious closer is the final curtain and the nail in your coffin. But the coffin is soaked in gasoline and has been set on fire and WHORES. are playing their guitars on top of it.

You might be thinking, “god, this sounds depressing” – far from it; WHORES. lace their morbid grime with the kind of buzzsaw riffs, punishing speed, thrashing lunacy and cutting, tongue-in-cheek lyrics to get the blood pumping. With Gold, WHORES. are the ugly shape of noise rock to come. This crucial and incredible debut hits harder, faster and heavier than anything I’ve heard all year from what you would classify as belonging in the metal spectrum. Let’s join them in destruction.

Links

WHORES.
WHORES. Bandcamp

Lizard Hips

Lizard Hips

Junior Vice President of Keep It Fast. In other news: I work in social media, talk about dinosaurs, run a book club and have amazing facial hair. I am also a male man who is still not dead.

More PostsWebsite

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