‘DBOY write rock and roll, because rock and roll is what matters’, states point 9 of Dboy’s 13 point programme to end sonic austerity, via the Dboy Department of International Affaires. Revolution is in the air, social upheaval looms, and the insurrection against creative stagnation and prejudice of any kind will be waged by scouts sporting yellow neckerchiefs and leather gimp masks. It’s what Marx would have wanted, right?
Dboy is more than a three piece garage rock band from Ontario (or is it Moscow?), but a movement managed by President of the Order of DBOY Scouts Kirill Kutchokokov, espousing the virtues of Dboy love and the inner artistic potential that hides in us all. Currently on the ‘campaign trail’ off the back of their debut album/promulgation Prove Your Love – Live! in Belem, The International Performance and Recreation Council of Russia, in association with Dine Alone Records, presents us proles with Dboy for President, a three track garage rock manifesto heralding the new declaration of rock and roll unity.
Title track ‘Dboy for President’ is a wild and rattling punk thrasher, Raw Power volatility with a touch of Turbonegro glam. Kutchokokov screams the Dboy doctrine through a guitar amp, converting the sceptics with three chord swagger and Dead Boys aggression. The turbo charged ‘Scouts Rule’ swings you round the room for a mere 32 seconds, an electrifying affirmation of the incorruptible brotherhood that is the ODSO (Official Dboy Scouts Order). Dboy for President ends with ‘Communique: A Campaign Born of Denim and Flesh’, a rallying call proselytising the word of Dboy and it’s mission to smash ’emotional cronyism’ and forge a collectivised, rock and roll utopia, to the roaring applaud of the party faithful.
Opressors, posers, fakes, and musical kulaks beware… the revolution has arrived, and Dboy is here and now. Let Dboy into your life, you have nothing to lose except the chains of sonic austerity! DBOY для президента!!!
Become an official member of the DBOY scout order here!
Music right now is colourful, biting, stirring, and so cutting edge you feel lucky to be in the middle of it all. A significant part of this progressive wave, both musically and politically, are the amazing women seizing music away from the tired hands of the male, pale and stale, and smashing the patriarchal rock clichés with vigour.
There’s such an ocean of brilliant women creating reactionary and pioneering music, how does one do that justice by a mere 25 song playlist? This is simply the tip of the iceberg, and the artists that have sound tracked my last few years, an entirely subjective collation, for whatever my opinion is worth.
Here we have a gamut of all manner of musical awe: The icy soundscapes of Void Vision, Pleasure Venom taking a tiki torch to MAGA SS red caps, the digital venom hurled at male entitlement by Girl Pusher, the cavernous mysticism of Iona Fortune, and the kaleidoscopic alien visitation that is Spellling. I hope you enjoy as much as I did!
International Women’s Day is more than just a day, and your solidarity should consist of more than compiling a playlist. Support your local female artists, let’s ensure our venues and musical spaces are safe and free for everyone, and let’s be vigilant at removing the social hurdles and obstructions that stifle great art.
There’s still a way to go, in society, in the music scene and industry, and perhaps even IWD itself. My good friend, singer and musician Amber Watson, has this to say:
‘On the one hand I want to feel excited about IWD and celebrate my womanhood. But honestly I do that every day. It’s the parts of IWD which dosen’t see consistency throughout the year that troubles me the most, and therefore make me view the day as somewhat pointless. Promoters, bookers, venues, labels, radio managers and presenters… etc etc etc… they all hold responsibility to ensure more women are being placed on their line up, in their workforce or hosting their shows etc. Holding an annual day to say “oh look we’re on the band wagon too” isn’t enough to make change. The issues will never be fixed if we leave it to a yearly celebration and conversation. The music industry deserves diversity; creativity flourishes when you have more views and ideas added to the bucket, and shit well we all wanna hear new epic music right? Unfortunately I am not seeing huge movements in the stats across the board, and the industry is constantly disheartening to me. So IWD makes me cringe a little, yes, let’s celebrate, but how about in 2019 we ALL continue to keep that motion swinging and work towards equality like certain organisations and groups are persistent with. Don’t be a hypocrite, be a fully fledged, 24/7 ally, and reap the benefits through some fit as fuck tunes and shows.’
Head over to Noods Radio and discover all the women/female identifying residents and DJ’s being celebrated on their ‘Women of Noods’ feature series.
Check out Loud Women, a not-for-profit initiative dedicated to showcasing women artists and pushing women music journalists, with an option to submit your own editorial contributions too!
Bristol Women in Music is currently ‘under construction’ at the time of writing, but has a growing reputation of raising awareness of the issues faced by women when navigating the music industry. Also organises women focused DJ lessons!
Audiofemme is a NYC femme and non-binary run music and culture blog. Give it a follow!
Bristol’s Exchange is hosting the International Women’s Day Extravaganza, a jamboree across two days, full of live acts, drag kings and queens, and DJs til the early hours. Also screening the documentary So, Which Band is Your Boyfriend In? on the Saturday. Get a bundle ticket for £10, with proceeds going to Mind, to raise awareness of the mental health support for Women and those in the LGBTQ community.
If you miss the Saturday screening of So, Which Band is Your Boyfriend In?, here’s a list of all further screenings.
The Zion Community Art Space in Bedminster Down, Bristol, is hosting the International Women’s Day Gig Night, a roster of female acts with proceeds going to the breast feeding support group ‘Babes@Zion’. Includes Mexican food!
Give artist/singer and radio expert Amber Watson a follow. Not only did she kindly contribute to this post, but is also a talented reviewer at Tap the Feed. I had the great privilege of seeing her sing live, and her 5 minutes was the sincere highlight of the entire set.
Check out singer Annie Nash, a new and upcoming artist returning to the Bristol music scene after a hiatus. Follow her Instagram to keep updated on forthcoming releases!
‘Kill the kid that stole your neighbourhood, not the kid that stole your bike’ is stamped on the cover of last years single and EP teaser We Don’t Care (It Ain’t Safe), avoiding any ambiguity to the target of their attack. To the leeches of gentrification and the agents of community erosion: Bob Vylan sees you.
Bob Vylan have been busy since 2017s Vylan, playing Brixton Academy as part of Afropunk London 2018, releasing a plethora of material on their Soundcloud, and being banned by Soho’s The Crobar, the punk-grime hydra shows no sign of mercy. New EP Dread is eight nail bombs of blistering vitriol, furthering their hatred of bland conformity and the idle complicity of oppression.
Us boppers are introduced to the duo by what sounds like the laconic endorsement from the omniscient DJ in The Warriors, before an exorcism of gnawing demons take place on the trenchant thrasher ‘Down’. Bobby’s expert MC skills are on display in the toxic trip ‘Join Us’, foggy keys sting against gelid beats detailing the alienation that festers when chasing the expectations of a society which has rejected you. ‘What the fuck is going on!?’ Bobby screams on interlude ‘Storm In’, articulating a sentiment of half the western world in the age of MAGA, FLA and right-wing ascendancy, backed by percussive ferocity from drummer and partner in crime Bobb13 Vylan. Punk sludge oozes against Ministry vocals on the toxic ‘Run Up’, then metastasises into ‘Grime Made Me Do It’, a curse against the desperation that grows from the austerity Petri dish. Desperation turns to violence in the bleak ‘Die Slow’, then the final primal scream against the beige, slow, death creep of gentrification in the aforementioned ‘We Don’t Care (It Ain’t Safe)’, a savage and cutting diatribe of middle class vermin and its craft beer/coffee house necrosis.
The fire in Bob Vylan burns unabated, and is captured once again in an EP of searing volatility and socio-political bite. If Vylan was the aiming of the cross hairs, Dread is the pull of the trigger.
Something wicked this way comes. Album opener ‘Red’ is the sound of the carnival coming to town, distant revelry creeping up on you like a sudden, strange spell. The closer the funfair gets, the more dreamlike its lights, candy floss, and harlequin performers intoxicate you. Things aren’t all it seems, and you know surely you owe Mr. Dark something for this kaleidoscopic escape…
Spellling, being the brainchild of experimental artist and part-time teacher Tia Cabral, has become a leading force in the queer/femme/brown psychedelic scene of the Bay Area, replete with extravagant costumes and Parliament/Funkadelic theatrics, and culminating with 2017s critically acclaimed debut Pantheon of Me. Initially toying with the idea of a disco side project, she instead poured her creative intuitions into her sophomore effort Mazy Fly, a haunted record that wears her love of Off the Wall, her Juno-106 synthesizer, and the supernatural on it’s sleeve.
Cabral’s disco inclinations shine on ‘Under the Sun’. Klein & MBO italo-pop bounces with 808 beats and violins, while a stirring synth hovers above, like a melody from another song. What can at first appear disjointed soon become intriguing and part of Spellling’s unique sound, going from Giorgio Moroder to astral ascendancy, floating beyond the ether to the wish of the planet receiving the warmth of the sun. Her silky smooth vocals cast a spell on the electrifying ‘Golden Numbers’, a gorgeous soul piece with vocal harmonies in perfect arrangement, lifted into strange new heights with hollow electronics glitching and wriggling in the sonic sparsity.
Coldwave, Metamatic minimalism chills on the eerie ‘Haunted Water’, Gothic synths pulse like early Legendary Pink Dots, examining the spectral residue of slave ship trauma, and it’s parallels with the perilous journey faced by refugees crossing the waters. ‘Real Fun’ is a prog-opera, spindly wah guitar whispers of aliens looking for music, before exploding into a full on organ pomp and Wurlitzer solo. The Wurlitzer returns on the soaring ‘Afterlife’, a saxophone trickles into the track like syrup against Cabral’s R&B vocals, then swells into a celestial voyage, beaming you up aboard the dazzling mother-ship and whisking you away from your every day mundanity.
Was it all a dream? As album closer ‘Falling Asleep’ eases you back into reality, its drums crash like the rumbles of a locomotive, the carnival’s packed up and off to the next town. Mazy Fly is a thrilling and ethereal mirage of a record, gloriously heady and endlessly fascinating.
In 1981s Heavy Metal, two alien space truckers too stoned to fly their space craft efficiently, extend their elongated noses and snort ridiculous amounts of space cocaine, becoming so blitzed they fly straight into some mad, electric stargate. Along their trip, you can imagine the ships antenna would pick up Europe on TV, a garbled signal of static ridden jingles, formerly sent out like the Voyager Golden Record.
Fusing together his two EP’s originally via As Above So Below Records , the titular 2009 cassette and Volvo Jungle Mist, Rangers man Joe Knight has presented a near two hour lo-fi, psychedelic behemoth. A dense collage of fuzzy guitar licks, unintelligible vocals, sci-fi whooshes and analogue scree, as daunting as Sandinista!, but taking no time to suck you in to its warped sonics.
Listening to each tracks contours and cosmic delineations over their respective near half hours are akin to a fucked up radio perpetually tuned in between channels, Dick Dale interfering with number stations before glam punk clashes with audio of dying Cosmonauts. These sketches and fragments of songs melt together in a bubbling goo, mangled teases of a disco tune or Italo-funk number amid the concrète.
Never for a moment does Knight’s abstractions meander. Underneath the psychedelic film is a keen ear for intoxicating rhythms, and pop sensibilities shine through the aural sludge. At the 9 minute mark on the title track, a gloriously proggy cut kicks in, mean bass and Moroder synths drive like a weird 80s cop show theme. 22 mins in a shiny euphoric keyboard strides anthemically, whereas 23 mins into ‘Volvo Jungle Mist’ treats us to a indie-jangle slacker tune, like a cut from the weirder end of The Brian Jonestown Massacre. Each excursion into Knight’s respective genre explorations always tease with its sound understanding and competency, but flee before out staying it’s welcome.
Europe on TV is a shape-shifting, amorphous blob of a record, utterly alien yet strangely familiar. This compilation still sounds like a wormhole to the edges of the universe as it did in 2009, and will continue to do so in the next thousand years, picked up by aliens along their hedonistic travels.
‘The inanimate, the dead. Everything here lives‘ Alice Sheridan croons on album closer ‘Ice’. The sparks which fly off these contradictions fuel New Haunts’s debut LP Worlds Left Behind both aurally and lyrically, the antagonism between light and dark, beauty and horror.
Worlds Left Behind, mastered and mixed at Bristol’s Free House Studios, is nine tracks of dark-wave, Gothic synth-pop which balances serene atmospherics with nightmarish infernos. Opener ‘Ingrained’ is stunningly cinematic, an electrifying showcase of ethereal sonics and rousing drums with thick synth stabs surrounding Sheridan’s exquisite, goose-pimple vocals. ‘Hymns’ is a gorgeous acclamation to the spiritual binding agent music and art can be, with celestial production reminiscent of Kate Bush’s The Sensual World. Self-titled ‘New Haunts’ is a funeral march, Death in June organs chill the air and further Sheridan’s juxtapositions: ‘Everyone a stranger, anyone a friend.’
Aggression is never too far away, lulled into a false sense of security, you can be smacked sideways with a track like ‘Waves’, a cavernous slab of crunchy electronics and subterranean drums close in on you, a chaotic howl of the visceral oppression of the external world invading our inner beings. Pornography keys swell and drone on the icy ‘Left Me Cold’, whereas ‘Safe out Here’ sees Sheridan adopt a more conversational vocal delivery, frosty reverb punctuated by stuttering drum machines all amount to a thrilling disquiet.
In a scene which can be wrought with uninspired derivatives and by-numbers goth, New Haunts has delivered a debut album demonstrating just how stirring and affecting the dark-wave genre can be, while also producing a piece of work utterly her own. Worlds Left Behind is a powerful artistic statement on the universal and eternal conflicts of life, that profound sadness and the giddy heights of joy are forever fighting each other.
Blood, sweat, and clown grease paint frequently mulch Gabby Giuliano’s grimacing face towards the end of their punishing sets. Offering violence as catharsis, Girl Pusher provides sanctuary from a world growing uglier day by day, holding the agents of misogyny and prejudice to bloody account amid split lips, static screams, and digital venom.
Hollywood cyber punk duo continue their electronic cacophony via DEFACE records with 911, six corrosive tracks of fuzzing assaults that disorientate as much as excite. Opener ‘Where the Fuck is My Ambulance’ creeps in with 911 sirens over audio from the ‘Marcy tapes’ (previously sampled by My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult and The Orb) detailing a runaway hippie’s want for platonic love, before burbling guttural synths and pummeling beats leave you picking your teeth from the floor. A lyrical diatribe of ‘long snakes in tall grass’, less written and more spewed up like bile, raw and abrasive condemnations of indignity at the hands of male entitlement. ‘Reformed Hellraiser’ is a haunting trip into masochism, Jarrod Hine’s drums spasm and stutter against Giuliano’s glitched, whispered confessions of self-perpetuating pain. Pulsing bass synths throb aggressively on ‘Red Was the Color of the Candle’ an acidic paean to utilising one’s burning anger for empowerment, ‘Gentle Marcy’ returning halfway through creating a vulnerable interplay with the intimidating rage. Things speed up on ‘Runaway’, an EBM punk thrasher showcasing Hine’s drumming prowess, before the abrasive ‘Did U Think of Me Last Night’ oozes in with analogue toxicity, a visceral slop of dissonant percussion and bowel churning aural hellscapes. You can scarcely believe that only ten minutes have passed by when finale ‘Out of Breath’ hits you, a fizzing, boiling, stream of consciousness attacking the ‘fucking creatures’ that prey on insecurities, Giuliano ending with the sentiment ‘You deserve starvation, overdose, and best of all, DEATH!!!’
We’re all wounded and scarred by a hostile society, seemingly set to implode before it affords us a modicum of compassion or acceptance. In a messy, divided world, Girl Pusher have created an EP which has exorcised the trauma of Trump’s America, reaches a hand out and offers solidarity, validating your anger and confusion. 911 is a visceral, primal confrontation of a sick society, brutal yet liberating.