The Cavemen
Born to Hate

THE REVIEW

New Zealand is near Australia and so far, that's a given.

I always imagined it as the Switzerland of the antipodes, for some reason, and more or less I never cared, just like with Switzerland.

Then, I typed New Zealand on Google and the first results that appeared before my eyes are, in order: the Wikipedia page; Clara Webber explaining why she would never go back to live in New Zealand, not even dead; the news that in New Zealand every year 500 young people commit suicide; five unknown facts about New Zealand, for example, that it is the country geographically farthest from Italy.

Personally, I add cemeteries.

I haven't done research on New Zealand cemeteries on Google, but according to the Cavemen, there must be quite a few.

The Cavemen are a gang of four young lads from the suburbs of Auckland: a band, I mean, in the sense of Paul singing, Jack playing the guitar, Nick on bass, and Jake pounding the drums.

Band, perhaps, gives the idea of a marching band playing along a procession for a patronal feast.

The Cavemen, however, are a gang of delinquents: I would never have dared call them delinquents, but they tell of having met in reform school and titled their first single "Juvenile Delinquents."

They are dedicated to beer, girls, and rock 'n' roll, in no particular order.

They are also passionate about outings to the aforementioned out-of-the-way cemeteries and taking selfies posed beside tombstones surrounded by weeds and trash.

Just like the one that stands out on the cover of their first, self-titled LP, which is a bomb.

If you play rock 'n' roll in a gang of delinquents, then rock 'n' roll is called punk-raw: Eric Davidson, the singer from New Bomb Turks, certifies it, and he knows the subject like the back of his tattered jeans.

If the debut is a bomb, the follow-up makes even more havoc.

I hope they drop the bomb on me, they sing in a track.

Just saying.

Born to Hate: a grand title for a punk-raw record.

After all, titles are important; they clarify the simple philosophy of young delinquents.

Wild. I'm in pieces. I Hate Art. His Name is Satan. The speed of death. For me, you're dead. Bad girl, bad boy. I'd kill you (just to see you dead).

Now, I don't know the distance between New Zealand and Ohio, nor if there exists a road from here to there, but these punks are - musically - among the most credible heirs of the Pagans' spirit: it's the same arrogance, healthy rage, rawness, filthiness.

Only they have a deep garage attitude and play faster: after all, if Jake wears a Motorhead shirt on the cover, there must be a reason.

Punk-garage, like DMZ, but much more, because forty years have passed, and they have not passed in vain.

Sensational, for those who live for these sensations.