Punch
They Don't Have To Believe

Punch: a thrusting blow, especially with the fist. The review could already end here. Ungaretti would be proud of me. Since a few words need to be spent, they are given willingly because this "They Don't Have To Believe" is truly a work deserving of its rightful spotlight. Directly from the usual, tireless California and the never sleepy San Francisco, this group is actually a side project. One of those where the less you know, the better. In fact, I don't understand a thing about the carousel of who plays on the record, live, and who enters/exits the group. Let's try not to remain anonymous though, because there are some significant names and surnames. The usual suspects, among others. For example, someone from Loma Prieta: Brian Kanagaki and Val Saucedo played (or plays) in the band. In short, while some have fun in Beau Navire (Sean Leary), these two are liberated here, as if they needed to be given the mother creature. The two previous records (plus the inevitable singles/EPs/splits) were released on Discos Huelga, which is actually Val's label. This time they are signed to Deathwish; oh, what a surprise. Another reference is that the production is entrusted to Jack Shirley, with whom I've lost count of the times he and his Atomic Garden have appeared in the acknowledgments of dozens of artists from the West Coast scene (and beyond). Have you caught the drift, then? In Palo Alto, ask for him and you're good.

Quick summary, for a lightning-fast synthesis. Inside you’ll find hardcore, period. Then, okay, let's be precise, and from the control room, I am suggested that it could be interpreted as fastcore or powerviolence. Yes, fast is fast, no doubt about it. You have 15 pieces, then you let loose for 19 minutes, the math works out, especially if you include a track (?) that hits six seconds of napalmdeathian memory (my goodness, what a dreadful neologism, so horrid that I’ll leave it, yeah) we understand our guys wanted to act like a modern version of Julius Caesar: veni, vidi, vici. Indeed, Punch triumphs from this hermeticism in their compositions. Thrashy riffs that bring to mind the most classic old school, speed fluctuations causing adrenaline-pumping changes of direction, a drum that between tupatupatupatupa incessant and reduced interludes also decides to shoot you in the face with a blast beat reminiscent of grind. And then there’s her, dulcis in fundo, Meghan O'Neil. Her? Yes, because, at least until September (when she decided to leave the group, damn it), Punch was led by a voice so shrill, sharp, and excited that it broke every barrier and obstacle in its path. It's said that from the closet in the recording studio, while the vocal lines were being completed, Bruce Dickinson appeared dressed as a sweeper to proclaim a "scream for me Meghan" and then disappeared back into the shadows.

Someone pissed off Meghan. Acidic and venomous, without pauses, I don't think she even takes a breath. In every facet, she is exasperated; however you want to see it, it is irrational and uncontrollable rage that is shouted with irreverence: "Will you be judged? Will you get comments? Will you get stares? Will you feel helpless? Will you be followed? You've got to walk in pairs. Don’t we have anything else to offer? You only see the surface. Your unwanted opinion is worthless, but not harmless. Our looks, our bodies, are none of your fucking business. We don’t exist for you to appraise, not a compliment, no fucking thanks". The structures are stripped to the bone. Skeletal and bursting, it couldn't go any better. No plastic-like sounds from the last hour (the recording is live to tape), just so much energy to spend and release seeking the most killer and bewildering ferocity, thanks to the lethal support of Dan Africa (guitar), sharp as a razor that manages to flay the softest skin. There's not much to puzzle over; it's a compelling vortex of resentment and personal anxieties thrown out without anyone steering the train. The crash is inevitable.

Quite simply, if you love extremist hardcore, "They Don't Have To Believe" must be yours, laden with an enviable DIY ethos. It's a gem that scratches, strikes, and doesn’t care to look anyone in the eye. There are no embellishments in the case; painful as biting the tongue until it bleeds, it makes its way while you pick up your skateboard and go down to the Pacific shore to pull off some tricks, listen to this in your headphones, and isolate from the rest of the world. It's worth it.