Cyberpunk

Cyberplasm ‘The Psychic Hologram’

The closest thing to an official online presence, besides their Bandcamp, is a manifesto of sorts on ‘Thee Cyberplasm Institute’, a cryptic page extolling the hidden powers that lie in the psyche and consciousness. A mini-panic ensues when a strange MIDI file starts downloading as if accidentally stumbling upon some dank, dark web illegality. This is Videodrome for the social media age.

Cyberplasm are an industrial noise-thrash trio from Olympia, Washington, dosed up on William Gibson and 2000 AD Comics spitting caustic punk declarations of war on the socially constructed peripheries of the body amid buzzing ‘Nag Nag Nag’ guitars and acrid drum machines. The electrical smoulder first hinted at on last years EP What Is Flesh? is given more scope to burn with greater ferocity on their debut LP, out via Iron Lung Records.

At just under half an hour, The Psychic Hologram packs hardcore punk, EBM aggro-synths and even a touch of NWOBHM heavy metal into a volatile mix of ephemeral fury. Mötorhead speed filtered through a computer screams with indignant rage on ‘Dopamine Machinery’, before the tekno D.C. pummel of ‘Beyond the Mind’ tears you limb from limb while imploring you to seek beyond the physical realm.

Punchy arpeggios pulse and hiss on the febrile title track, a moment of tense and taut respite amid the electro discord, while the dystopic synths creep again with stinging minimalism on ‘Perfect Body Pt. II’. Sticky residue clings from the two tracks, both terse warnings of the fascist threat on bodily autonomy.

With the cyberpunk themes and imagery potentially looking silly in a lesser artists hands, Cyberplasm has utilised succinctly what makes sci-fi the societal anxiety exorcising and cerebral force it can be, while delivering some of the harshest and exhilarating punk rock that’s out there.

Visit Thee Cyberplasm Institute here.

Girl Pusher ‘911’

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.