The Bronx

Anything else you read about on these pages, be it a surprise earraping release from Motorhead with

Lemmy rubbing his rank wart on you face – or a solo speed metal album by Slipnot’s Dicknose (who else?), it’s pansy pop compared to ‘The Bronx III’.

And yet, while the LA six remain as ferocious as they’ve always been at their barking best, Bronx

this latest record also sees them crank up the growl-along melodies in their hardcore assaults.

It’s controlled, organised chaos, like The Distillers hinted at
before foolishly disbanding.Bronx


Replace the retching Matt Caughthran with… well… anyone not shredding their vocals and ‘Past Lives’ could even be a one for Pink fans to hum while ironing;

‘Ships In High Transit’ less so, unless what you’re ironing is Pink’s fraudulent mug. Still ‘wanna start a fight’ love?

David Cronenberg’s Wife is not, regretfully, a solo female singer
with an admiring hubby, Dave, watching from the wings.

They’re actually a wonderfully grumpy sixpiece, ploughing the early Nick
Cave/Mark E Smith furrow with aplomb.

In fact, so ingrained is their shambling, scratchy demeanour that they may well be an independent band of the mid ’80s,

teleported forward to the twenty-first century: they don’t interact with the audience,

they mumble into their mics and show a tentative grasp of tuning, but just
like The Fall and The Birthday Party in their finest years, the band and particularly leader

Tom Mayne – have a peculiar onstage presence that encourages you not
to look away.

And what a crappy destroy in the band’s precision it augments in aggression, with the two-note melodies and buzzing guitars taking on a
captivating snarl.

Punk is dead: long gone are the glue-fuelled days when mashing a
6-string was enough to make you a musician.

From Foals to Battles, indie kids everywhere are breaking out from behind powerchords, Grade Eight theory certificates in hand.

Colour, who are spacious if not really immediate, open tonight with shards of IDM support.

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