Breach
It's Me God

God is me. Actually, let's be clear: the GODS are THEM. Of course they are, they really are, damn they are. Maybe not exactly gods, but then what do you want to call them? The masters? The prophets? The messiahs? There are few post-hardcore lovers who do not love Breach (raise your hand if you know one). Yet for some mysterious reason, they never quite received the fame they deserved, never fully, they were outsiders, rebels. Forever relegated to being a "cult" band, tied to their productions that feel like an old musty basement, loved by those who can truly appreciate them. Because that makes it much cooler, right? Having a band that stays there, for a select few, yeah yeah, I agree. But then I rethink it, and nostalgia hits me like a tidal wave when I think of the injustices in the music world, when I think of a group like them not being known by all who might appreciate them, and especially when I think that now they can't say anything anymore: disbanded. From the moment they decided to disband, Breach created a void in the new hardcore world that will never be filled again, many have learned from them, many bands that we now think are magnificent, sure, but no matter how hard they try, they can't emulate the greatness of the masters. And that's what should make us reflect on what a musical reality they were, on how significant Breach truly were, the "younger brothers" of the great Refused.

This review, if you want, can be considered a tribute to their memory. The tribute of a fan who discovered them too late and now can only wallow in self-pity for this omission. But why did I choose an album like "It’s Me God" if I wanted to celebrate them in that way? Don’t think that the reviewer here didn’t love “Venom,” didn’t go through “Outlines,” and didn’t mangle his ears with “Kollapse.” Why did I choose an album like this? Fundamentally for two reasons (besides a third: I literally ADORE it): it didn’t have particular luck. Often I feel obliged to review albums that deserve rivers of ink and instead received very few lines from Italian listeners, or at least I found very few; hence my “moral” duty to review it. The second reason is technical/ideological: "It’s Me God" is, without any doubt (at least for me), the most representative Breach album. The title lays the cards on the table: God is me; now we will show YOU how it’s done. And they do, they truly show us how a post-hardcore record should sound in the purest and most consistent way possible, and seeing as we’re here, to the technical and historical importance an album like this can have (it has influenced many bands), they wisely add an artistic validity as well. What?? How am I expressing myself? Validity “also” artistic? Okay, I’ll express myself better and without mincing words (Breach doesn't need it): "It’s Me God" is an authentic M-A-S-T-E-R-P-I-E-C-E. Truly authentic. In what sense? Meaning that just listening to the first moments of “Valid,” you understand. Maybe you thought "but look, Breach, let's listen to them for a couple of minutes shall we" and then you stayed there not for two minutes, but for two HOURS, listening to the same song repeatedly, continuously pressing the reward button on the stereo until exhaustion, before moving on in the listening process, totally captivated by the sinusoidal distortions, by the noise temptations, by the apocalyptic contortions, by the anticipation that grows and fades into a spasmodic hallucinatory loss of every point of reference: just you and a wall of sound in which you got lost and can no longer return. And you listen to it dozens and dozens of times, searching for something, a how, a why, trying to understand where that genius spark that gives a song like “Valid” all that subversive charge that comes out violently and overwhelms you, overwhelms all your feelings like a 20-ton truck. But then you give up and accept it as it is. You can't understand it; Breach isn’t made to be understood, they’re made to be loved (yes, just like women). But that’s enough. It's enough if “Valid” will reward me: with every listen I get lost, I lose myself, I feel a multitude of emotions that can't be laid out on a piece of paper, I don't care to know “how and why” I feel them, I tried to understand it but failed, and I don’t care.

And the same goes for a song like “Bloodlines,” with saturated and rich distortions like a kilo of spoiled mayonnaise, with a cynical and calculating bass. And then the anguished search that grows and gets lost in the void of “God Forbid Me,” and the distorted and schizophrenic architectures of “Deadheads,” or the cold and meaty violence, all imbued with a noise spirit, of “Painted Face” and so on. It’s useless to describe such a work: you have to experience it. Your soul will describe it to you in the best way, mine did it for me and I gave you a glimpse, yours will do it for you. I do not recommend leaving a work like this unheard; your ears might not forgive you. They might rebel, escape and never come back. Oh well, I warned you. I care about my ears. Isn’t that right, God?