A Wilhelm Scream
Career Suicide

This is Boston, not LA. Even though in this latest work there's a good slice of San Pedro, Minutemen side. Mike Watt, after all, has always said: hardcore is a fundamentalist, ignorant, and reactionary genre. Few rules, unchangeable and impenetrable: a band's prowess lies in making them not an oppressive cilice, but a tool to further highlight their own virtuosity and uniqueness, without betraying the genre itself.

And the quintet from New Bedford proves faithful to Boon's word, as well as embracing his stylistic dictates: dismissing the midtempo diversions of the previous "Ruiner" (good, rather), AWS scorch the earth around them, playing as God intended and making comparisons with their colleagues seem merciless. It’s a shame, truly, but there’s no contest when it comes to live stature, personality, and freshness. The scene can breathe, and Tim McIllrath will finally overwinter in exile, stopping flaunting (horresco referens) the "Out of Step" title on his Gibson.

A work that seals definitive consecration, "Career Suicide" unfolds epileptically through thirteen episodes of frenetic and pure class, fluctuating between Pennywise reminisces and Propagandhi-like litanies: a singular and monolithic track, almost obsessive in the systematic nature of its sharp tempo changes. A remarkable monstrum in hardcore punk literature.

The duty to open the dances falls to "I Wipe My Ass with Showbiz", a slam-dance miniature with amphetamine guitar intricacies, the perfect stage for the vitriolic invectives of the talented Nuno Pereira who, despite his Hispanic roots, drools over the Celtics. But the first masterpiece is surely "The Horse", exalted by the riffs of the two six-string prima donnas. Yet, it is Robinson who steals the scene this way: dueling with Supina and Reilly on tapping licks and with his warm and soft-timbred bass creating a void around him: Alvarez and Freeman look on satisfied, the student has surpassed the masters.

The real cornerstone of the work, the Stingray, vomits torrents of incandescent lava in a throbbing ecstasy ("Die While We're Young", "5 to 9") only to suddenly switch gears and indulge in the most acidic pentatonics, rivaling even Greg Ginn from Rise Above ("Jaws 3 People 0", "These Dead Streets"). All under the aegis, of course, of the good orchestrator-instigator Angelini, the inexorable virtuoso behind the drums.

The formula is more or less the same for all the tracks, but the underlying uniformity does not dilute the offering, in fact, it further enhances its value, leaving the listener floored by the vast range of solutions. No stalls, only masterpieces at the speed of light: how not to mention the great "Our Ghosts (Contemporary/Consensual)", which delightfully departs from the classic song structure, featuring an eclectic Pereira constantly finding catchy different vocal lines, or the more commercial "These Dead Streets", suspended between stop 'n' go and call and response, further emphasizing the uselessness of Lagwagon's offering.

But the apotheosis is entirely reserved for the finale "We Built This City! (On Debts And Booze)": Angelini takes the stage with his technical and instinctive beat, unfolding acrobatically, moving away from its rhythmic function to become the absolute protagonist: in four minutes of enlightened delirium, he manages to condense a wild outburst, a frenetic midtempo, and a tense atmosphere punctuated by Robinson, only to fade away in the most poetic of fade-outs.

In short, we are faced with a highly technical outlet, that finally lowers the pressure of a genre now oversaturated, bloated by its rhetoric and clichés. Life, reaching the end of the first decade of the millennium, still seems long. Of course, "Endgame" permitting.