The Clash Wednesday Benefit Show

Sunday, 19th April 2015

The Palladium Side Door, St. Petersburg FL

When you redefine hip hop, the philosophical among us may ask, are you keeping that hip hop real?  The Real Clash are a real band really crossing genres beyond the usual rap/rock equation.  They make songs about real important things with real intent, but without mistaking that for the real work required by today's social movements.  They're inspiring yet humble, in other words.  They're keeping it real though inaccurate, holding this Clash Wednesday album fundraiser on a Sunday, in a fancy venue called the Side Door that patrons don't even enter through the side of the building.  How fancy? The candles on each of the round, linen-covered tables here apparently aren't real, but the provided snacks definitely are.

La Lucha might sound a little fancier and more sophisticated than if their name was in English, but irrespective of that, their music fits the atmosphere at this Palladium bonus stage seamlessly.  It feels like a cool and dark New Orleans bar upon walking in. A jazz trio at heart (winning Best of the Bay in 2013 and 2014), the international sometimes-cover band incorporates in pop, funk, Latin music, EDM warbles and trip-hoppy bits of ginger instrumentation.  To that end they also sometimes incorporate singer Jun Bustamante and her arresting voice. She even sings arrestingly on a Police cover: "Can't Stand Losing You" comes at the end of both this set and La Lucha's new album Standards, Not-Standards.  See Zero Warning's recent video interview with Jun Bustamante here.

Next is another group of Danny Piechocki Birthday Experience 2.1 alumni, Lions After Dark (LAD).  He's only gone and shown up here as a guest bassist as well.  This lot are again primed for this satisfyingly dim little location, not just in their name but in their current sound.  LAD since I last saw them have gotten heavier, verging on hardcore, punk and sludge metal at times, with feedback, and screams from vocalist Maddie Pfeiffer.  That's not to say there aren't still moments of restraint and breath catching. During the track 'Casper' the band invites Jay and Rashad from The Real Clash up to give us a bridge-based preview of what's coming next.  Member of both acts Andrew Roden kind of encapsulates where LAD seem to have gone between his need for two guitars (one is apparently named 'Sparkly') and his Henry Rollins t-shirt. 'Let's Start A War' becomes My War.

While I wouldn't quite describe TRC as militant, they seem a bit like a battalion right now, with 2 rows of 4 members lined up, ready to get on to the task at hand.  The hacky sack kicked around during the strangely dramatic intro indicates more of a lean towards 3 Feet High and Rising than The 3rd World, with Jay Acolyte continuing to blur lines amid his touching Star Wars geekery (Darth Vader shirt, verse about the new trailer in his LAD rap).  To reference another band tag line, is this what hip hop looks like in 2015?  Part of the reason there are so many people here is the sheer number of guests.  There's DJ Rahim Samad, putting well placed scratches throughout the set, violinist Fae Nageon de Lestang from Gainseville's Flat Land, and wind instrument teachers David R. Manson and Austin Vickrey.  (After forming at SPC, it seems The Real Clash can't help but stay close -- The Palladium is owned by the college, these teachers employed by it.)  "Imagine a tambourine with them" says the ever-inclusive Shadcore. No wonder this album has taken a while to put together; just the costs of sandwiches at rehearsal alone must cost a small fortune.  New features include a reworking of 'Stupid,' sexy additions to other older tracks courtesy of the horny horns and a song about shady show promoters taking advantage of artists. Despite all of the instrumentation the vocals are clearer, including those of tonight's third strong female lead, Eliana Blanchard.  Perhaps this could be considered something of a backfire as the many musicians attempt not to stand on each others toes, but the last song at least is nice and loud.

I want to clarify what I wrote in the introduction about The Real Clash and their place as a conscious act.  Even as they begin to organise a benefit for Nepal on June 27th, sales from their shirts and track Embrace are still going towards recovery efforts after 2013's typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines, long after the media has left.  They publicise this long-term thinking in the run-up to and during their own album fundraiser, unworried that it might delay their aspirations as artists, modestly ranking needs above their own.  They are fusing culture to society and not pretending soundtrack alone is enough. They are doing the real work. For this reason you should support them with real money, so that they can continue to make art with real connections to the real world.  

The Real Clash of the Titans

Thursday, November 15th 2012

St. Petersburg College Music Center, FL

In some rock scenes, the concept of 'Battle of the Bands' has taken a nosedive in acceptability over the years.  This is due to a general belief that musicians should not be competing.  Hip hop, on the other hand, has always had an internal dynamic of competition built in from it's earliest days.  But could that now also be on the wane?  This evening showcase for St. Petersburg College's Real Clash of The Titans was intended to include a rap battle.  Despite decent efforts to find "golden tongued" MCs, after a few warm up performances, the night turns into a regular gig.

 

This is not such a bad thing however, as the Hip Hop Ensemble's first show is fantastic.  Jay Acolyte begins by saying what conscious rappers have been saying for decades now: that their intention is to show the intelligent commentary hip hop can provide.  Decked out in glasses and a Mario t-shirt, Jay looks the part of the conscious rapper (though veering close to the conscious nerdcore stylings of MC Frontalot), and for the first song of many he is joined by fellow lyricist Rashad "Shadcore" Harrell. It's a strong opener, and by the time of second song 'Stupid,' 2 more people have joined the microphone wall of sound.  A bit of inverse nu-metal (growling over a beat) takes place before, briefly, a fifth lyricist joins them! (Special guest Doug Leto.)

 

Real Clash of the Titans are taking it back to the concrete streets with not just real live MCs but original beats.  This showcase features all kinds of musicians, and their combining does not feel forced. Each instrument and vocal style is given a chance to shine: 2 drums, bongos, turntables, piano, keyboard, bass, guitar, singing, cowbell, beatboxing, flamingos. Their well-mixed mash-up and also sheer numbers are reminiscent of The Polyphonic Spree or Asian Dub Foundation.  And if you don't think Asian Dub Foundation comparisons are something to get worked up about, you're missing out (the similarities are even closer than that: ADF began as a youth music project at a community center, while RCOTT are from a music department at a community college).

 

There's yet more artistic breadth on display here.  Most of the event has taken place under darkness with deft use of spotlights.  During an instrumental moment, a total lack of light allows for a theater-like moving of scenery, and when the lights come up we're treated to a trash can performance in the vein of Stomp.  French surrealism makes an appearance in the track 'Tribute to Marcel Duchamp,'  and a slower number called 'Chalkboard' acknowledges where the ensemble is rooted in the here and now.  Just when you think no more variety can be crammed in, Dawn Pufahl joins everyone else, playing viola on the Titans anthem, 'Effigy.'  We even get to hear it almost twice as DJay Acolyte kindly stops the piece halfway through so that the viola can be adjusted and properly heard.

 

I am glad these friendly and talented people are The Real Clash of the Titans, as the recent films starring Liam Neeson have been crap.  When the next installment of the franchise comes out, go and see this lot instead. 

 

You can see and hear The Real Clash of the Titans performing at the Tarpon Springs campus, on December 1st, here. 

James Lamont is host of Transatlantic Tunnel on the MYRA Radio Network.

Left Handed Cypher 1.0 ft. The Real Clash, Direwood, Abstract Machine and more
Saturday, 15th November 2014
The Fuzz Factory, Gulfport, FL

Promised a night of left field, avant-garde and weird hip hop, I am confused when super friendly guy Rest in Satin Silence (RISS) announces he'll be kicking the night off with "bad hip hop."  Luckily RISS not only makes music that is left field, avant-garde, weird and good, it would turn out to be perhaps the most left field thing at this Left Handed Cypher event.  He kneels down calmly to record a loop of his own voice, slowly but steadily building up at just the right speed during a 20-minute set.  RISS churns his repeated self sample down to Aphex Twin terror levels, while at other times the scratchy, jerky darkness of the music is reminiscent of producer Burial.  This comparison is only strengthened by a tune where the word "bass" is repeated over and over.  The recordings work with then take a back seat to rapping as the set ends.  Not even the cat tail and ears that RISS is sporting (reminding me of my 9 - 5 in a party supply shop) make me think that the coming evening is going to be anything less than fun.

Somewhere online MC Figment says she will rap for bus fare, but tonight with Florida finally daring to get cold I distinctly hear her ask for a jacket from her car.  (A later disappointment being when I find out that I did not, in fact, see RISS on the 19 on the way to the gig).  Transport credentials aside, the St. Pete artist is from the more traditional realm of hip hop than the opener -- or at least as traditional as a white, female, nonsexualised act can be considered.  Figment's rock solid beats and great voice can be best heard on the Etta James/Pretty Lights/everyone-sampling/Flo Rida-smashing "Mrs Right," available for free download along with a handful of other songs at the link below.  The speed of her delivery is dizzying, but not overwhelming.  For a dose of conscious anger also check out "Contrabanned."

As he has before each act, promoter Michael Patrick Couling gives a brief introduction for Paco Escobar.   It's a nice touch that links the artists of the night together, and further helps to foster the community, underground feeling made possible at a warehouse venue like The Fuzz Factory.  Last-minute fill in Escobar, coming from Orlando, apparently does anime-themed hip hop.  Knowing next to nothing about anime I can't comment on how fun the content is, but it's something a bit different, and this dude's voice reminds me of Del the Funky Homosapien, which is no terrible thing.  I didn't know how to interpret his ode to the Razr and its association with 2006 as I fumbled with the flip phone in my pocket, but it seems like there was quite a lot I wasn't qualified to analyse during this set.  Are more people outside than inside merely to smoke, or are they not feeling this guy?  Personally put off by more than a few uses of the b-word, I wondered (once again) whether the closing track about being his "waifu" was pro-women or not.  Apparently it's an affectionate term for a fictional love interest.  Someone else can unpack that one.  

Cansouled also hails from Orlando.  He is the kind of admirably ego-fearing person whose music more than does the talking for him (see the beautifully downbeat "Midnight Dives").  He politely asks for patience while he takes breathers and drinks, such as sips of Newcastle Brown Ale, which is apparently "delicious piss".  On two occasions, Cansouled kills a track partway through ("fuck this track") because he believes he is not doing a decent job.  Even those partial songs sounded good to me, with their occasional rapid fire rapping and trance beats.  He blames his lack of preparation on having a child, in a non-malicious manner, of course.  In a victory for the bad in people over their nice instincts, Cansouled has his phone stolen at some time during the evening.  Maybe he can borrow an old Razr from Paco Escobar?  With a comforting musical style akin to some of the best conscious rappers of the past 15 years (Sage Francis, Yasiin Bey), it will be worth your time to listen to and download some of this material.

It's been a great night so far, but it needs some more weirdness, so when Abstract Machine steps forward in his suit, I wonder hopefully if there's going to be some Juice Rap News stylings.  Not exactly, as the suit is removed to reveal a shirt a la David Byrne, with synth and pop music to match, and a tad of RnB.  Mr. Machine is joined by his new brother partner Bay Sir on about 3 songs, adding rap to the mix.  If there's been a theme of being pro-high-tech tonight (almost everyone has had their own smartphone or laptop setup), and another theme of me being cynically 'phobic about it all, it reaches a height here with a series of acute pro-tools misplays.  The last act was abruptly ending his beats even when he wasn't cutting them short, but Abstract Machine fighting with his computer in between comically threatening any audience member who doesn't come to watch him takes the cake.  Still very enjoyable though.  

Compere Michael finally takes the microphone rather than just shouting introductions, but don't think he's without his own welcoming.  A line-up of incense and skulls, some of them sporting cigars and aviation goggles, are there at the front of the stage to set the tone.  Humour melded with a dead serious side is the order for Michael and DJ Hollow Life, collectively known as Direwood.  This is their 43rd gig and it shows.  If there's a nerdcore leaning here, it just means there's an abundance of influences from various mediums, hot beats chiptune and otherwise, and a self-awareness and awareness of hip hop that utterly keeps it real.  An audience request for "Wonderwall" gets denied because the Gallagher brothers are apparently dicks.  Lyrics "Get up stand up" become my 5th Bob Marley reference of the day, while the repeated line "EBT, yeah you know me" points out that the food stamp system is nothing if not naughty, nasty and crappy by nature.  

"Like the Black Eyed Peas if they didn't suck" are Michael's final words as we await gig closers The Real Clash.  While their singer Eliana "Voxx" Blanchard is unavailable for this performance, The Real Clash are just as good, experienced in adapting to their situation (though we might hope they stop short of adapting in the way the Peas did about 10 years ago).  They sound loud and brilliant in the confined space here, with funk, rock and rap all complementing one another.  Eat your heart out Body Count.  The funk is sent higher when Isaac "I-Sick" Reidt's bass strap breaks, sending him into a physically wild solo fury.  Uniting the people and fellow artists in the room who have stayed up this late vocalists Jay Acolyte and Shadcore step off the wood pallet stage during the last song and fuse their cacophony into the crowd.  Long having shed any status as a mere college band, TRC put the finishing touch on a satisfying evening.  The debut album Clash Wednesdays will be out March 3rd.  

Shadcore

Oh My Shad!

Self-released, 2015

Originally published at Suburban Apologist 

“What is a rapper without no beef?” -- Shadcore, ‘What!?!’

Rashad Harrell AKA Shadcore seems to have more interest in seafood than in beef.  ‘What!?!,’ the track the above lyric is taken from, finalises it's pure fun colours by heading into a bizarre passage about fish grease in the third act.  It’s enough sealife love to make Mr Scruff politely clap or give Leftfield a natural follow-up club banger to ‘Little Fish’.

Regardless, I have to disagree with the artist here.  Shadcore -- born and bred in St. Pete -- is very much a real rapper, but who could possibly have beef with him?  His warmth and friendliness is undeniable, from his stint as the bubble-bath romance master at Myra Radio (“this is Russel Stover, your late night chauffeur”), to his refusal to use profanity in his music and just generally have a positive outlook on life.  As one fraction of The Real Clash Harrell has fought for unarguably noble causes ranging from typhoon victims long since forgotten in the public eye, to speaking out against domestic violence.

On Oh My Shad! Shadcore takes the diversity of musical influences that we’ve heard from TRC in the last four years and crystalises them.  Beginning with 14 tracks, they were refined into 10 and split into pretty rigid categories. There are three slow songs, three that are mid-tempo and three scorchers (plus an instrumental ‘Segue’).  Shad delves into hip hop soul, hard rock and Fleshtone house without ever sounding like parody or lazy experimentation.  I would have liked hearing more (even the intermission could have been expanded), but there’s no denying the care that’s gone into making this a quality, tight release.

Despite this mixture of styles the album has a great flow to it that compliments the man's smooth delivery.  One binding element is an emphasis on original beats and collaboration (largely with fellow veterans of the MIRA program at SPC).  Beautifully sung choruses hover over firmly planted guitars, drums, keyboards and saxophones. The power-of-music themed ‘One Song’ has a fantastic guest verse from TRC co-conspirator Jay Acolyte.  Shadcore knows he can get your attention right back whenever necessary, so he’s not afraid to let the album breathe. On the specifically breathy and New Amerykah Part Two style ‘Magnets’ (with Cynthia Sao), it’s three minutes before he even makes his entrance.

If this all showcases his love for musical family, his commitment to immediate blood is shown in the lyrics and artwork.  It’s clear that Shadcore is comfortable in the role of a hip hop family-man. Compassion and hope for the next generation is everywhere from the subtle and understanding uplift of ‘PSTA to Escalades,’ to praise for Christina Aguilera’s ‘Beautiful’.  The cover image of Shad as a kid and the opening track ‘Peggy Sue’ both communicate a modesty and rare honesty about the archetypal braggadocio rapper who was once a child himself. At the same time, Rashad’s late dad, who took the cover photo, is dedicated on the label and featured in the family tree collage on the back.  Life has challenges at any age. “Everything comes full circle,” as our protagonist says.

Don’t let any of this fool you into thinking this is a purely mild listening experience though.  While Harrell is shown as a child on the cover he also happens to be holding a toy uzi in New York, à la By All Means Necessary.  His delivery speed and tone fall somewhere between Charlie 2na (fish?) and Killer Mike (a comparison courtesy of Mr. Chuck D).  The trio of apocalypse-sized huge hitters, made up of the title track, ‘Shadzilla’ and ‘What!?!’ will shake you out of any slumber.  Shadcore keeps it on the local street corner with references to the Skyway bridge and the embattled bus system (PSTA), and as I’ve said before, I just love bus references.  And there’s little nods to Dr. Dre, Cypress Hill, A Tribe Called Quest, and uh, George Michael.

I haven’t heard a lot of Shadcore’s older material, but purely going by gut Oh My Shad! has the feel of a magnum opus.  The effort and time that went into it is evident, the scope large, and it’s much preferable to the kind of over bloated rap LP that goes on for way too long.  It’s one of those albums where a different track grabs your attention on each listen, until you get the picture: this is really good. Oh My Shad! won’t make you think of Shadcore as a deity -- but he would probably laugh the idea off if you suggested that it did. 

You can purchase Oh My Shad! here.  Shadcore’s band The Real Clash released their debut album Clash Wednesdays in January.

2018 note: the new album Aux Tales was released in April 2018. Review coming soon!

Four Fists

6666

Doomtree, 2018

Published at Apathy & Exhaustion

During the 2000s, Apathy & Exhaustion’s tireless editor Tony was the co-owner of Roadkill Records, a punk shop haven located in a part of Manchester with a minimal amount of road traffic.  The counter there was a place to find a deep well of satisfying music talk and cynical humour, much like the website you’re reading this on. I remember a lot of conversations that I had at Roadkill, partially because my memory is weird and partly because I used to spend hours hanging around there, shaping my young mind into the knowledgeable quip organ that you’re today familiar with.  On one occasion a group of us were talking about things we liked that were outside the punk sphere, and I redirected the question towards our man Nurgle. “I don’t really like… anything.” Laughter, as Tony considers the potato lunch that we were previously discussing. “I like chips.”

Tony will probably tell you that he can respect anything that keeps it real, but as the above story suggests, his interest has always struck as more about staggering depth than unwieldy breadth.  So where did this assignment come from, a hip hop album put out by independent backpacker collective Doomtree? It quickly became clear upon first listening to 6666, or at least explainable.  The two artists that make up Four Fists, Astronautalis and P.O.S., have organic roots in the punk scene, and it shows on this album.   P.O.S. has been in hardcore bands such as Building Better Bombs, and Wharf Rats with members of Anti-Flag and Gallows (thankfully for Tony’s blood pressure, not his go-to journalistic punching bag Frank Turner).  Astronautalis had his last solo album out on SideOneDummy Records, and drops most of the mohawked easter eggs here, with references to Minor Threat, Suicidal Tendencies, Superchunk, skateboarding and Sid Vishis (but sadly, considering he’s a Florida boy in his thirties, no Hot Water Music or Against Me!).  So it’s a rap album simmering in punk seasoning: a crossover of genres that I’m considering trying to write a book on.

Then there’s Joe Strummer, to whom we find significant dedication nuggets on at least three tracks.  Strummer hasn’t featured this heavily in hip hop since St. Pete’s conscious fusion ensemble The Real Clash were innocently touring the area, back before their name was TRC but after it was The Real Clash of The Titans (I’m fairly sure they’ll be represented by a symbol by this time next year).  The amount of revolutionary dissatisfaction present on 6666 certainly evokes something like Sandinista! and the early steps that 1980 album took in making hip hop a global phenomenon.  There’s the once again despicably relevant Ivan Meets G.I. Joe, where the Cold War superpowers forgo killing us all in favour of a dance contest, or The Magnificent Seven, where Joe raps over a funky beat against the shitty grind of employment and shopping and the violence that underpins the whole rotten thing.

The thematic centrality of Strummer this long after his 2002 death, not to mention his heyday as a musician, suggests that the concern for Four Fists is not that there is No Future For You, but that the future ain’t what it used to be, like an album by London producer Burial.  “Joe Strummer's been dead for too damn long/And now we’re all just numb to what's gone wrong.” Optimism and forward momentum are like fossil fuels, mined from the dumps of the past because the fields today are giving out diminishing returns. Jeff Rosenstock did a similar thing on his POST- record earlier this year, longing for the old master to come back and help us.  Well he isn’t going to, okay! (A review of Rosenstock’s forthcoming Antarctigo Vespucci album is coming soon.)  The work of the various producers here reflects a kind of mourning for optimistic sounds too yet manages to be exciting.  It’s often electronically futuristic but covered in dust and grit and sulphur. The combination of darkness and vitality found in the name Doomtree is present.  Occasionally I want the tracks to amp up just one more notch and am left wanting, but I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing.

Another way that this view of slipping time shows up is in the album’s sense of urgency.  As far as the luxury of making gradual changes to the economic beast that enslaves us goes, those days might fast be coming to an end.  Images of fire and insurrection run all the way through 6666.  Opener Nobody’s Biz is about being in favour of guns for defense against cops, shocking your liberal friends being a worthy pastime.  (Chorus: “I want a riot white riot white riot of my own” -- Four Fists are a black/white duo, for the record.) My own thinking has evolved on this over the years, in a way that's not just romanticising the notion of “strictly self-defense or for revolution” (as my man Rakaa Iriscience once said), even though that essentially covers it.  There’s a difference between believing that a society would be better off were it not filled with murderous weaponry, and seeing, first-hand, the towering heights of structural violence directed at regular people, and how those people might protect themselves. This insane country will radicalise anyone, even if, as in my case, it's from a fairly radical baseline.   I expect I’ll be labelled a mad wannabe yank by people back home, but if I understand correctly it will be my right as a wannabe yank to stand my ground and shoot you for invading the space around my fragile sense of self.

On the chorus of Joe Strummer Astronautalis laments that “We don’t fight, we don’t riot/Even when the war’s outside our door.”  There’s a feeling among the militant Ted Rall’s of the world that at some point the cultural divide over the gun issue is going to leave us fucked, and it’s bedtime for democracy (whatever that muppet stuffed with cash is worth at this point) and hello Handmaid's Tale.  Still, I don't actually learn how to fire a gun because that still seems fucking absurd to a boy raised in Timperley, and it's not like my own two skinny fists and freegan diet are going to help much when the shit hits the fan.  But then maybe my reasoning that I will simply escape to the motherland when events so far haven't inspired me to is getting equally absurd. Jesus, this got dark... Over the pumping dark electro beat of Annihilation (from producer ICETEP), the Fists are joined in the album’s only feature by Sims.  The track rails against the idiotic priorities of the corporate gentrification state, that we may as well burn down “like a strike anywhere match” before it inevitably burns itself down with us inside (“Water startin just to look like luxury/Oil starting just to taste like food/God really just must love ugly?/Or he never just listened to you”).

Several cuts have themes that are slightly less hopeless and warrant some thoughts.  On the echoey, dubsteppish battle track Bobby Hill (“that boy ain’t right but he’s all I got” being perhaps how many Americans feel about their nation) someone is accused of being “old and irrelevant like KRS-One.”  I’m glad to hear a critique of the once great KRS as he goes down the Dale Gribble rabbit hole of insane conspiracy theory bullshit, and the drawing of a dividing line between that world and the dissident left.  Coriolanus is about trying and failing to deal with your demons.  P.O.S: “That out of step with the world’s/A common refrain/To every stretched out T-shirt teen/Who thinks the world is mean/And every girl who finds her chest obscene/Cuz her friends have dads/And men are fuckin trash.”  Sid Vishis cracks and crunches under colourful keyboard ruffles, an anti-materialistic sequel to P.O.S.’s Fuck Your Stuff that’s sure to be a cranked up live favourite (“I got lotsa nothing/Steady clogging up my living space/I can’t give away enough to salvage what is truly great”).

The classic cartoon imagery continues on Dork Court, part digital media dismissal and part amusingly harsh out-of-nowhere disses (“Don’t try to tell me J. Cole’s worth a listen/He just writes the same shit over/Like Bart in detention!”).  There’s a strange -- but many would say always welcome -- bash of Noel Gallagher, although in “the nice one’s” defence he did have one of the best opinions on the Brexit trainwreck that I’ve read throughout all these years of uncertainty, as the March deadline looms ever closer to stripping us of a layer of citizenship.  Ah, to hear Strummer’s nuanced opinion on that juxtaposed with Johnny Rotten’s! On the album closer Unjinxed, the attitude seems to be that if you can’t go home anymore, go big.  Under a gorgeous and wild beat of swirling, machine gun electronics and housey pianos with an Avalanches texture, we are given one more cup of Joe to enjoy, in which he rambles about love and positivity and chaos in a chaotic and comforting way.  

If you’re a fan of Run The Jewels there’s a good chance you’ll get a lot out of this long-awaited debut Four Fists album.  The menacing bass vibrations, colourful sprinkle blinks and angry messaging remind of Run The Jewels 2 in particular, and unlike Killer Mike’s pro-gun messaging, I don’t think P.O.S. and Astronautalis are going to be played like fiddles by the NRA.  With a similar South-North contrast in their accents, P.O.S delivers much faster than his counterpart, coming in like a reminder that movement and action must accompany contemplation.  I once saw Astronautalis perform in Tampa, and got to meet him, but I’ve never really noticed P.O.S, which I now see has been a huge mistake on a par with not really delving into Propagandhi until I was 21.  This music, despite the title, is not by the numbers.

The Four Fists is an F. Scott Fitzgerald short about a man who learns lessons from the punches he takes to his mug; a sentiment captured in the humble strength of the 6666 title track with its self-doubts and closing refrain of “I ain’t dead.”  That's the sort of attitude we’ll have to have to our licks if we are ever to see the day when we emerge from under our literal shitstorm (see the recently hurricane hammered hog waste mega farms of North Carolina).  And I suspect, when those days come, that rather than the Clash of fast guitars blasting through speakers to keep revellers moving, it will more often sound something like this.

6666 will be releasing on October 12th, and you can see the approximately six thousand different pre-order bonus items at Doomtree. You can also hear the three preview tracks at that link. Immediately following the release Four Fists are doing several months of touring through the U.S. and Europe (Manchester, but not Florida, go figure).