Iceage
You're Nothing

We are no longer surprised by anything, let alone by punk played in 2013.

I am the least qualified to talk about the latest "effort" of a band like Iceage, also because I only know the basics of punk. The most uncompromising and reluctant to succumb to the allure of current hype might doubt, while those who were dazzled by the promising debut "New Brigade," which a couple of years ago brought these four reckless teenagers from Copenhagen to international attention, might exclaim "what?, only 4??, for the new punk sensation of the 2010s???". But what can I tell you, my friends, I like the album, and sometimes I need something different: "You're Nothing" sounds fresh, it's adrenaline, it's full of energy, it pleases, stuns, decompresses. But to call it a masterpiece would be an exaggeration (after all, we're still talking about punk played in 2013).

"You're Nothing" speeds like a train running away at full speed, rightly doesn't reach the half-hour mark, it simply doesn't need to, it immediately achieves its objectives (short-term objectives), showing no signs of faltering: in half an hour Iceage reshape punk material in an unprecedented decadentist perspective (is there a dark punk label?), delivering a bitter, dark, personal work that will undoubtedly offer more than one point of interest for those like me who cannot be defined as fans of the genre in its most canonical form.

The furious yet melodic riffing of Johan Suurballe Wieth; the shrieking voice of Elias Bender Ronnenfelt, who seems to have entered the studio short of breath from running a 40km marathon; the apocalyptic rhythm section composed of Jacob Tvilling Pless (bass) and Dan Kjaer Nielsen (drums): they look assertively to the past, more precisely to the late seventies British punk and early eighties old school US hardcore, where dissonances, noise fury, martial drumming, and slogans that burn in the throat are ingredients that make the picture more complex.

It's not an easy balance that the very young Iceage achieve: nihilism and suburban rebelliousness copulate wildly throughout these twelve insane shards that overflow with discomfort, existential distress, and degradation. A dirty and chaotic production helps, yet knows how to enhance the individual work of the four musicians, who certainly do not flaunt conservatory preparation, but know how to achieve with great effect what they seek. Because they have the inspiration and manage to update the squawk of the most crude punk to that ice age that is theirs, our contemporary era, capturing the invisible spasms of a worn-out youth that no longer knows how to dream or claim its rights: a decadent spirit that miraculously does not end up clashing with anger and indignation, and that shifts the axis towards the fragile boundary with properly post-punk territories (think early Joy Division, but how should I tell you!).

After all, doesn't post-punk derive from punk? But if the assertion of this banal notion were the contribution of the Danish quartet's music, then we could close the garage door and all go home. There is rather another thing that Iceage subtly suggests (but it’s only an intuition for the most sensitive souls), that even black metal comes from punk. And black metal fans, indeed, will not be able to smirk at adverse sonic mixes, imbued with epic melancholy, which will remind them so much of the typical flavors of the Norwegian cellar.

I would say that at this point I could stop writing nonsense, spare you the track by track, and be satisfied if I leave you at least with the overall sense of this album: the idea of being grabbed by the ferocity of a wolf with a broken backbone. Blind fury but also a lot, a lot of bitterness in the words and music of these guys who with unexpected maturity give us one of the most vivid and ruthless frescoes of our times.

I would give them a chance.