We have been going on about Times New Viking since the invention of sliced bread more or less, you know they did it with mangled melodies, burning wire and serrated peaks of distortion, a sonic field of love fever, a mattress in a bedroom crammed with memorabilia and grainy posters from legendary shows only ten kids attended, Pat broke his ankle trying to invent a new dance to this jerky shitgazing craze, a yellow cast covered in old skool graffitti of the fuck this world lets make a new one variety eventually discarded on top of a pile of sneaker detritus, yes, in some basement in Columbus Ohio they sat like mediums saturated on a universe of 90s glory and ectoplasmic garbage, the best of which harkens back to the glory days of psyche garage primitivism, and then they vomited it like cold coffee over black slabs of Siltbreezy vinyl, if you stare hard into these records, not the sides etched with lyrics like cryptic messages in a county jail cell for party hard types, the other side, flip it now, you can glimpse hallucinatory vignettes of doomed love, pristinely sloppy balladry and frantic manoeuvres of epic nihilism, fragmentary visions in the floor of Harmony Korine’s editing room, a total hurricane we can’t wait to see live in their show with No Age and Los Campesinos at Komedia in Brighton this Tuesday, as part of the Shred yr Face tour.

Times New Viking- No Sympathy

This you can get in their Stay Awake EP.

Jesus weeps every time I play Catatonic Youth’s Piss Scene EP in the stereo, the needles cry me a river of blood as a sludgepunk juggernaut spills out of the speakers and lays waste to the room with methodical viciousness, their music is a malevolent force situated somewhere in between Chrome’s machine sex stomp, Suicide’s gnarly ululations, J&MC’s toxic drone and the no future attitude of the true dead icons of the Cleveland punk pantheon, weasel exterminator pop to scare the shit out off your parents, broken bottles, barbed wire around your wrists and lycanthropic transformations in a feral moshpit which some exit minus a few teeth, perchance a limb, every song is a poisonous nugget and a harbinger of doom, viscous drops of black stuff accumulating in a strategic location south west of your ribcage, bad voodoo to be deployed against the concrete walls of reality under a sky the colour of a television tuned to a dead channel.

And this is them being sweet.

Catatonic Youth- Freedom Vanilla

All good psychedelic music converges into a blurry event horizon of truths, myths and preternatural images floating around you like burning ideograms in the interstitial space between heaven, hell and the there and now of some Japanese video game concocted by an illuminated wannabe God designer off his face on some really fucked up acid, hence the normality of my listening to Los Llamarada in their latest 7”, out in Italian label AVANT!, and thinking, sweet baby Jesus everything makes sense, if Can had been a psyche garage outfit with a penchant for recording dissonant stomping epics from the vantage point of a vulture gliding in the incandescent winds of the Mexican desert, good Samaritan anointing the sick and dying of the world with a hungry kiss which is an end and a beginning, then ‘Oh yeah’ would have sounded like this. Fucking uncanny kids, fucking uncanny.

Los Llamarada- Against the Day

WE ARE HAPPENING GLOBALLY

NYC and Brighton: anti-dualistic turbine of fucked up power, and the horrible concretion of an ideology that lives by night. Welfare for the sick, Dario Argento is our prophet.

NYC on Tuesday, Dev from Lightspeed Champion and Telepathe guest DJ

Brighton on Saturday 18th October, the old skool hardcore nerd out where it all began, then off to Angry Dance Party at Micro.

Epilogue -
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