"Burn Your Bones" is not the traditional screamo album that gently lands on your doorstep like a new neighbor. It's not quite as conventional as the genre would dictate; let's say it chooses to interpret the emotional veins typical of the style in its own way. An album released almost ten years ago that remained there, chained in a niche, not so well-known on a grand scale. Yet I can't quite explain it, because there are plenty of deadly combos in here. Believe it or not, they're delivered in such a way that they don't bore with the stereotypes and trivialities that are easy to stumble upon in the genre. An album released by a group with a Spanish-sounding etymology (slang) aka the Comadre, which suggests you point your compass to the Californian direction on the map. This time the road trip stops east of the Bay Area, in Redwood City, between the headquarters of Oracle and Electronic Arts, where five guys set up a group that could comfortably fall into the category of a local underground cult band. The curious name here is: Jack Shirley. If you were to retrospectively fetch my reviews, you would notice how often his name appears as a producer of numerous, numerous, numerous records. One goes to record at his Atomic Garden and is well within the scene of San Francisco, in short. For once, it's right that good Jack doesn't just work behind the scenes but also puts himself out there as a guitarist. In Comadre, to be precise.
Let's put those feelings into the music, come on. If personal sensations weren't turned into music, screamo would have no reason to exist. See, the Comadre know how to be quite ambitious in this regard. Actually, almost certainly, it's not about aiming high, it's simply about being faced with a group with the right creative flair that has no desire whatsoever to conform to the "chaos plus melody" combo, which is manufactured like a mass production capable of moving Henry Ford. Things become clear soon, and within a handful of minutes during which the bones burn, there's repeatedly a solid ability to pull off the winning "turning point" in each composition. This happens without overdoing it or desperately seeking that sense of the unexpected, and this is where the abrasive fluidity of Comadre is realized. A cascade of riffs that submerges and growls perpetually, without fearing to shift the tracks beyond ordinary screamo confusion. The dose of hardcore punk injected with punctuality and lethal precision isn't surprising, but they can also seamlessly switch to fractured and drunkard rhythms with disarming ease. Drum rolls that crush other drum rolls, a bass that takes control when preparing for the assault, and so on. Changes are a daily occurrence for Comadre. It's not just uncontrollable frenzy; there's compressed creepiness in slow interludes or irrevocably melancholic sing-alongs. Sprayed gunfire thrown in repeatedly, with icy screams that seem unable to keep up with the ruthless speed our guys manage to ramp up. Last train, last call, destroyed vocal cords.
A tape recording on which the melodies etched are rejuvenating, yet ephemeral. Often fleeting and interrupted by the omnipresent flow of despair. Everything fits perfectly into the Comadre design. This is also one of the reasons why you feel the urge to listen to "Burn Your Bones" cyclically. Then, when our guys decide not to hide their more fragile side, things get really beautiful, and luckily among eleven tracks, there are more moments where such wounds heal. Oh, personal experience, there was a time when if I didn't listen to "The Hole in the Ship, S.O.S." at least once a day, I wasn't happy. Try resisting the energy it manages to convey. See, Comadre truly succeed in exploding and engaging you like never before. You're not encountering a cold and detached album; you instantly understand that. It's a lived album. Yes, okay, they're not my friends, so that phrase means everything and nothing, but the sixth sense and a half à la Dylan Dog tells me so. Then, if you listen to it strictly at a high volume, everything I'm telling you explodes without regrets. And who wants regrets?
"My muscles are burnt to shit and this might be all i have left, but someone once said when you start to burn your bones, you will find everything you were born to die for. and if that's true, then consider me dust."
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