*Note: I’ve been reading a lot of Melville recently. So if that style bleeds into these words, that’s why.*
Call me the Brightly Off-Coloured Discophile. Some years ago-I don’t know how long precisely-being broke as fuck and with shit all to do, I thought I would take an auditory trip through punk. It’s a way I have of fucking over my spleen and getting that sluggish metallic blood pumping. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily smiling at tombstones, following funerals; and especially whenever that angry cunt inside of me gets so riled up, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately knocking on my neighbour’s door, and methodically soccer kicking that motherfucker square in the bag till I hear a pop—then, I account it high time to listen to some punk music as soon as I fucking can. This is my substitute for a strong extension cord and a sturdy hold. With a philosophical flourish the narrator beats himself senseless in Fight Club; I quietly listen to punk. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, every single motherfucker, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards punk as I do.
Punk saves lives, motherfucker. Punk saves lives.
If you enjoy visiting the incredibly loud and claustrophobic worlds of Idles or METZ, then you’re going to love USA Nails. The dudes have even shared a stage with both those motherfuckers. This is the kind of punk that shoots a hole through your wall, pisses on the kids, eats the leftovers, and still leaves you smiling. The tracks are quick and neat. There’s not an ounce of fat on this motherfucker. The instrumentation is tight and the vocals are raw. There are two ways to react to this kind of punk: utter disgust or with pure rebellious joy. It’s fucking invigorating. Straight up, I feel like I can punch through brick walls when I listen to this shit. Idles serves their raw energy with a side of hope in the collective. USA Nails serves their distinct raw energy and burns down the fucking restaurant. Their lyrics deal with a similar existential loneliness, panic, and dread as Melville does at the start of Moby Dick. This album portrays this with a driving force of a goddamn tank. It’s the perfect vehicle to release those harboured feelings without chasing some dumb fucking whale.