Sense Field
Building

THE REVIEW

I'm not sure if this is (was) really a great album.
Probably not.

The little I know from the heights of my boundless ignorance is that it doesn't make you want to throw it in the air after the first 45 seconds.
And this instinct isn't all that infrequent with these pseudo-hardcore-melodic laments.

Let's also say that these Los Angeles guys didn't invent anything new, and the genre they're offering is well-known to all of you: one of the most self-referential and repetitive, whose notes have been transcribed on the staff since the time of Quartetto Cetra onward.

But for what it's worth, por migo it's one of the best Californian melodic hardcore albums:
and the beauty is that it was released decidedly past its prime, when the genre, if it ever had anything to say, had already said it at length at least ten years earlier.
And this despite at least a third of the tracks struggle: pieces tending to be listless and perfect for a slightly mature teenage audience who play Mira El Dito.

In subsequent albums, this tendency toward pop-collapse became the group's absolute trademark, definitively shifting them into a neither-meat-nor-fish zone, which calling forgettable would be a compliment.

I told you: already the genre is what it is, but then they also get it into their heads to be crowd-pleasers.

Yet that handful of tracks (which I won't list even under torture: go find them, oh dear) that make the difference are really pleasant, impactful, and successful:
endowed with the right balance of aggressive instrumental humus and unsentimental melody that's hard to resist.

The real driving force is the velvety dry pipes of frontman John Bunch: a typical third-rate wrestler name and for this alone, adorable.

To make you shiver, I could describe it as a cross between early Offspring and later Offspring.
Imagine that.

Joking aside, the sound system bluntly recalls Adolescents, Dag Nasty, Bad Religion, Pennywise, and the clattering company. However, allow me to emphasize that rarely from those pens have such sharp and lightning pieces emerged.

Nearly twenty-five years later, of that dull mess, it's perhaps the only album whose tracks I remember and still listen to with pleasure today.
Great for the morning run as the first timid rays of sun appear, before the tropical heat arrives to scorch what few functioning neurons you have left.

Put on your rotten shoes and hit play.
The rest, they do.
Almost.