What is the future without the past? Give me a simple answer to the question, “What is time?” Lovely all these nonsense shapes that words can form, isn’t it? Let’s slow it down a bit then. Focus. A bunch of “stuff” happened in the past. Some of that stuff is music. After letting that music marinate for a decade or so, we discovered that some of it is eternal. There was no way to tell at the time. The past had to be informed by our present aka it’s future. Oh, but what of the excitement of The New? The daring that dares and does what no one has done before and is great because we haven’t had a chance to meditate on it yet. That is so wonderful too. Is there a way that both the time tested old and the no-one-can-put-a-finger-on-it new could be one ulta megazord? Thats where VNC steps in from beyond the landscape, crushing your cities with a giant metal toe.
Precise ribbons of drum flutter and guitar notes that roll around like Thinking Fellers marbles; sitting in a dark haze of lofi nope-age that serves as a bed for one of the greatest atonal punk chants you’ll ever hear. Time has folded over on itself as every decade presents itself at once. Enter the Futursaur, your new leader:
There are a few idioms that have sunk in the subconscious substratum of the lingua franca which is Punk Rock. No matter whether you are some wannabe fucked up kid trying to smuggle drinks into an all-ages show, or an old dude who never got rid of the leather jacket, the presence of these idioms in a song will bring to your mind analogous images of abstract fury and teen-age fever. They include the handclap of doom and the agony of distortion, the feral grind and the primeval wall of barbed wire strangulation. They are the secret code of which this culture is made, buboes of the nihilistic plague which instils fear in the hearts of God-fearing citizens. But one thing is clear. You can learn these idioms back to front, but you can’t fake the accent with which they need to be pronunciated.
Nothing People can talk the talk. Enemy with an Invitation, included in a 7” of the same title released in a deluxe package by Permanent Records bristles with the black and white fury of its ancestors- the Cleveland proto-punk diaspora and Chrome’s cybernetic trashing in the Tabernacle of bad vibes. It’s all in there, like the blurry snapshot of a moment of cathartic violence. We keep on believing.