Kills bring us nine thick slabs of post-hardcore post-punk
that sit somewhere between Jehu and Damaged - but with
new wavy pop choruses and dance grooves injected into their hearts.
Dark jaded yet romantic decay kind of stuff that tends to escape
from NYC every now and then. The sound of a new expensive pair of
high heel stepping on rats and syringes as they stumble out the
door and into the dawn. When the first rays of daylight hit an empty
dope bag on the street and, from a few feet away, you mistake it
for a diamond. Dirty and shiny.
poet Zachary Lipez’s voice is more full-bodied and in-tune
than I’ve ever heard it – entering British pop territory.
The JJ Paradise Players Club rhythm section of Bill Miller and Jim
Paradise prove that they’re still one of the tightest and
most muscular in New York, Johnny Rauberts and Tim Murray’s
dual guitars do all kinds of slippery octave work, feedback, precise
glass shard slicing, and, in odd places, full-on macho man powerchording.
is one of those records that contains equal parts metallic brutality
and catchy candy melodicism. As Zach says, "Metal feels good
in your mouth." What if the Strokes didn’t spend their
twenties being rock stars but working at Mars Bar instead? Did you
get it? Have you got it?
of Metal MP3
Hands Up MP3