Fans of wacko caterwauling and oppressive noise are sure to find Genetics a lo-fi and hideous laugh riot. It's hard to imagine music less in tune with indie rock values or just plain rock values circa than whatever it is the Locust is doing on Molecular Genetics from the Gold Standard Labs , a collection of obscurities that packs 44 songs into almost as many caterwauling, grinding, ugly-ass minutes.
Screeching bursts of arrhythmic synth noise? Microseconds of groove suddenly obliterated by a minute of hairy blast beats? Torturous polyp-producing screams? Fucked-up time signatures that would give migraines to all three members of Rush? These sounds are not doing big business on the summer festival circuit. With scene politics blessedly in the rearview of my life, this take seems patently insane to me now. Maybe it was the goofy onstage costumes or the knowingly kitschy packaging.
Because otherwise, how could anyone listen to this stuff and think "sell-out" unless they'd fallen so far down the extreme music rabbit hole that anything less than total sensory assault felt like pop?
On the other hand, canny marketing might be the only explanation for how these guys, as ferocious and uncompromising as any of their peers, found themselves as the deranged cousin to the screamo explosion of the early 21st century. This was music so intrinsically alienating that it could only ever hope to appeal to a small coterie of pain-addicts and assorted other masochists.
One did not buy records by Spazz or Crossed Out or even the Locust because they wanted to make nice with their wider peer group. Here's how your "standard" Locust tune goes: The band screams and bashes for a few seconds, pulling tricky extreme metal moves with a hardcore band's looseness and brute force.
Then everything drops out for a goofily sturm-und-drang breakdown, or keyboards that sound like incidental music from some schlocky s sci-fi flick.
Some more bashing and screaming, and we're out in less time than it takes to microwave a defrosted frozen burrito. True, occasionally they throw the creepy-crawly electronics up front or at the rear for a change of scenery, which with stuff this potentially monochromatic is important. From this collection: "Moth-Eaten Deer Head" comes over like a horror movie in miniature, the shift from the intro of wheezy keys to the full-on roar of the song itself being the moment where the protagonist throws open the bedroom door to find the whole place drenched in gore.
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Who Wants a Dose of the Clap? Perils of Believing in Round Squares. Flash's Theme. Bring Your 6 5 Italian Carbine. Siphoning Projectiles During Selective Amnesia.
Flight of the Wounded Locust. This Is Radio Surgery. Spitting in the Faces of Fools as a Source of Nutrition. Sever the Toes. Well I'll Be a Monkey's Uncle. Moth-Eaten Deer Head. Brand New Set of Teeth. How to Build a Pessimistic Lie Detector. Nice Tranquil Thumb in Mouth. Normal Run of the Muck Compensation for Conversation. Stucco Obelisks Labeled as Trees. Straight from the Horse's Mouth. An Extra Piece of Dead Meat. Twenty-Three Full-Time Cowboys. Backbones of Jack Asses.
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