American Nightmare
We're Down Til We're Underground

Wesley Eisold can now be found perpetually touring with Cold Cave or writing poetry, in an '80s dark-wave revival that nods to the baritone voice of Ian Curtis, takes some cues from The Cure, and adds a bit of acidic synth to the mix. You might catch him opening for the Nine Inch Nails around the world. This in 2014. A decade or more earlier, say 1998, the story was different. We are in Boston, one might almost say spontaneously: "where else?". Yes, perhaps just California and New York. A few years younger and an even greater desire to unleash his hardcore punk roots along with fellow adventurers. That year marked the birth of the...oops, I'm not sure how to call them. No, it's not emotion or forgetfulness, just a silly lawsuit over the legal use of the moniker that arose in 2003. I could call them Give Up The Ghost, but their birth name is American Nightmare. Much to the dismay of a little-known band from Pennsylvania who sued them for the aforementioned homonymy, they are the American Nightmare. Period.

The mark left by Eisold & Co. in the hardcore world is a heavy one. It's one of those cases where there's an extremely limited discography, yet so decisive. Cartier-Bresson would say it's about capturing that unique and unrepeatable moment. Indeed, beyond the daring reference, the American Nightmare did just that in a musical scene that seemed a bit stagnant, apart from the sacred monsters like Unbroken, who nevertheless were already (sadly) out of the picture. Their first work is a raw and incendiary debut that brings them to the fore ("Background Music", in 2001), and the other redefining themselves first and then placing itself there, as a milestone in the renewal of the American punk scene: "We’re Down Til We’re Underground," class of 2003. Every time I think about it more, when I put on the vinyl, I'm dismayed, a sense of nostalgia floods me. It's been over 10 years since a full length that sounds ever-current, modern, and aggressive like the first day I heard it. Those were the early days of high school, I've now finished university. I presume it's one of those albums that stays with you, you always carry it with you, as a baggage of memories. No matter which musical shore you end up on; you know he's there waiting for you when you want to return to old times, ready to rekindle the flame with that Boston hardcore sound at the beginning of the new millennium.

The heart on the cover won’t fool you easily. Inside, there's no time for catchy moments, melancholic choruses, and sugary moments. The slow semi-acoustic escalation of “It's Sometimes Like It Never Happened” opens up the doors for half an hour to the biting adrenaline of American Nightmare. There is so much personality here, no other band sounds like them, a perfect combination of lethal precision in discharging Eisold’s emotional breakdowns at the loudest volume possible, and an astuteness in rhythmic choices that rage like a never-ending storm. This is, most likely, the brilliance of “We’re Down Til We’re Underground”: there are no lapses, no drop in style, the gears turn and grind out riffs one after the other, a forge of sudden and irresistibly abrasive assaults. They are careful to stay in the right balance between old school hardcore and then revisit it with a modern edge. There’s a disarming ease in wearing the clothes of novel eclectic experimenters along the compositional skeleton. No, there are no ambient interludes. No, there’s no post-rock, even though the five minutes of the final track, “And It's Sometimes Like It Will Never End?” bewilder you due to the dilated and paced mood. None of that. Well, I’ve already endorsed absurd comparisons, so I might as well bring up Mies van der Rohe. One of his quotes was “God is in the details”. Well, I make it my own and rephrase it for American Nightmare. It's the details that make all the difference in this world, every piece here has a peculiarity. A fragment of melody. A glimpse of spoken word that creates uniqueness. They fit perfectly into sounds that are indeed contaminated, yet damnably punk.

A fragility unleashed under tons of hysteria. Every now and then you feel like stopping the spinning vinyl and saying: “Dear, take a breath”. In hindsight, it’s clear why he went on to create a side-project like Cold Cave. There are so many scars to overcome for Wes, trying to make up for his own messes, in situations that end up in a dead end, with an eye on the future, where one can find a bit of peace. Everything struggles to mend among relationships that quickly collapse and dreams that slowly transform into nightmares under the weight of restlessness. There’s a need for some sincerity in Eisold's world, and the music of American Nightmare is. Simple, without embellishments and redundant solutions, but with the right tenacity, it can morph to create a setting where melody carries you or another where the drum beats you down. Your ears bleed, and hope is tragically characterized; the scenario of failure is irritating, but it seems there is no better solution than hiding in unachievable utopias. Remaining anchored to one's certainties, with the same assurance, the guitars draw an armor of stop&go, accelerations, and breaks where you can momentarily restore the situation under the dark pace of the bass. Cynically trying to climb up and overthrow the order of things.

That’s all there is. Also because a year after the release of “We’re Down Til We’re Underground,” the American Nightmare split and each went their artistic direction. Since 2011 they have sporadically played live shows, but nothing that can be defined as a true reunion. No new works on the horizon, and it seems we must be content with these two little gems inlaid at the beginning of the 2000s. A great satisfaction, anyway: “I fell hard over myself again I confess my love for everything. I woke up and needed sleep again, I confess my love for everything with the music bleeding in my veins. Goddamn the yesterdays, with the love for all there is to love. We're who you're dreaming of. With the music bleeding in my veins. Goddamn the yesterdays, with the love for all there is to love. You're who we're dreaming of I confess.”