Rough Justice
Faith In Vain
It’s kind of a hard name, that, isn’t it? Though, what more would you expect from another crew of bruisers deep in the Malevolence fold, where most of these songs were written and demoed in the DIY space built by Malevolence themselves? It’s kinda written in the stars when you hail from a city known for its steel production, something that Rough Justice take the liberty to alloy with some additional curbstomping, American hardcore-isms. Hey presto, you’ve got a fat slab of beef right out the box, in line with their malevolent brothers in arms but also fully poised to stand outside of the association. The ideal combo for a metallic hardcore album, some might say, especially when there’s only eight tracks and 20-odd minutes to show it off.
One thing to note, though, is that maybe Rough Justice are still in something of a teething process. The tentative descriptor of ‘semi-discography’ has been applied to Faith In Vain, and while it’s hard to find what that conclusively means, the inference is that Rough Justice are early on and in the process of finding what they’d best prefer. Thus, there’s a lot of veering across the hardcore landscape, notably through and around the differences of its current variants from both sides of the Atlantic. The US-leaning fare births songs like Boa Constrictor and Backwards Mask, more brusque and direct in how they’ll slam onto the concrete; closer to home, the title track is more attuned to metal’s grandeur that’s more deliberate in its soaring properties. Of the two, the former probably has a stronger bite, but neither are weak, by any means.
It’s the transferable skills that Rough Justice carry which ensure that, where the outcomes might differ but the fundamentals of a good aural contusion remain the same. Naturally it’s heavy, with little in the way of respite outside of the alluringly ominous interlude Rusting. But mostly, this is as clear-cut as a hardcore affair gets, but no bones made about the primary objectives that brings. And it’s not as though Rough Justice are simply mindless meatheads, either; there’s depth to be found when you peel it back. The title track especially finds that true, about guitarist Elliot’s resentment of his Christian upbringing which evidently presents a bit more to work with. It makes for an exceptionally solid entry point overall, as the higher standard that UK metallic hardcore is measured up to largely feels met across the board, and Rough Justice find their swings and dalliances around the map to pay off.
At the end of the day, it’s hard to really want or expect more from a hardcore debut. Clearly Rough Justice are still finding their feet as to the kind of band they are, but there’s not apprehension to try, or the self-imposed desire to limit themselves like much of the scene standard. If there’s a way to convey a band who are young and hungry to impress, Faith In Vain is that, all while remaining true to genre tenets that prove to be nowhere near as rigid as they may otherwise seem. This definitely feels like the start of something, no doubt about it. And with hardcore already having a bumper crop of upstarts ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, what’s one more on top of that, eh?
For fans of: Malevolence, Guilt Trip, Grove Street
‘Faith In Vain’ by Rough Justice is released on 12th January on MLVLTD Records.
The Darkest Moment
Love & Loss
Somewhere down the line, the implication of ‘Euro-metal’ seems to have diverged a bit. Hyper-cheesed-up bombast still exists—good lord, does it!—but it’s rubbing shoulders with (and maybe even being overtaken by) metalcore that’s as slick and blemish-free as anything, largely to the point where any semblance of a personality between acts is the sacrificial lamb in such a clean-up. The phenomenon isn’t new, but the fact it doesn’t seem to be dwindling implies that apparently the audience for it isn’t going anywhere either. The Darkest Moment, then, seem to be embodying a fake-it-till-you-make-it mentality in the field, as a comparatively smaller band decked out with the scale and fidelity of the big boys, as well as the same blanket anonymity. Guess how well it goes.
Alright, to be fair, Love & Loss isn’t too bad of an effort. Relatively speaking, anyway; it’s not exceptional but at least the instincts are pointing in a vaguely forward-facing direction. Attribute that most to singer Oliver Kusk, with the smooth, fluid delivery that’s frequently the best thing about this kind of post-hardcore. It’s a bit more pop, and therefore more focused, albeit in a way that merges with a very similar brand of it to so, so many others, in which The Darkest Moment’s lack of proper personhood is fuelled. They aren’t a band that scream out how they’re different or special, often because they simply aren’t. They represent the same composite of big, overblown ‘drama’ and a straight pop nous to tie it all together, plucked right off the shelf fully formed like countless others before and, no doubt, after.
And when there’s only four songs to rustle through in the hope of something sticking, the likelihood becomes pretty limited. Tragedy effectively lays down the groundwork right out of the gate—long, languid passages of guitar and production gloss, slunk back into a colder monochrome and sold with the conviction of yearning for a lost loved one, without colouring outside some strongly-etched lines. Repeat that over another three goes, and that’s what Love & Loss has to offer. Aches’ coda of shimmering cold might count as a test of over resolution, but calling it ‘adventurous’ to any degree would be giving far too much credit. The Darkest Moment are not an adventurous band, nor can they sell that there’s a creative breadth in here that’d constitute anything of the sort.
But on top of that, just…is there room for more of this? It’s already a crowded scene that The Darkest Moment are trying to fit in, and there’s little evidence that they could possibly be the ones to cause any kind of disturbance. What they bring is functionally fine, but also so cookie-cutter in execution and ideas, trying to feign or force a grandeur that just isn’t paying off. At least a four-song EP means that flatlining interest before the end isn’t as big an issue as it could be, though if you’re relying on that as a saving grace, your priorities are most definitely not in order. Maybe the top one for The Darkest Moment should be finding something to do that’s more compelling, instead of being entirely beholden to every other move the scene around them is making.
For fans of: Bad Omens, Dayseeker, Caskets
‘Love & Loss’ by The Darkest Moment is released on 12th January on Prime Collective.
Island Apes
Island Apes
Chances are you’ll be most receptive to the idea of Island Apes if you’re an existing noise-rock junkie, and exclusively that. Members of Bivouac or Fudge Tunnel are hardly getting tongues wagging as household names, but hey, there’s also Nirvana…’s backing dancer from their Reading headline show in 1992. Alright, it’s not exactly a new Dave Grohl punk project, or an exhumation of Kurt Cobain (at least it’s not an AI ‘recreation’ either), but a stratum of pedigree doesn’t go amiss either. Experimental proclivities and penchants for weirdness outside of the typical alternative hierarchies run in abundance, reflected in Island Apes’ simultaneous precision and utter disregard for conventionality in any form.
Though, in noise-rock or experimental rock, the confluence of the two is more a blessing than an unworkable paradigm. This is not nearly as daunting a prospect as it might appear on paper, as hard-headed grooves are easy to come across when they effectively take control of the whole thing. There’s a cool minimalism at play even inside that, as guitars and bass will chip themselves out of the sonic concrete of Stitt or KOB in ways that become ripe for the breaking apart. It’s freeform in ways akin to Krautrock or dub at times, where as they roll along, songs like Oceans Of Dub and Carrie Grambo reshape themselves, whether that’s on purpose or just through the attrition they’ll inevitably face.
‘Accessible’ probably isn’t the right word, but the systematic approach to creation on here finds Island Apes’ avoidance of throwing their barriers to entry right up as a rather refreshing spin. The stiff, dried-out production remains far out the way, and leaves plenty of space for all manner of sonic splatterworks to commandeer the negative space. Saxophone slides into RDEH4; squalling electronic corners will close in on the centre of Oceans Of Dub and Leah; hell, the vocals for the most part fill a similar role, trickling in sporadically and operating behind their own filters and obfuscating techniques as part of the whole block of sound. At the centre of it all, there’s a small, scatterbrained yet compelling nucleus of what Island Apes want to be—a band for whom ‘noise’ and ‘experimental’ prefixes are far more compelling to explore than simple ‘rock’, especially when they’re deconstructed down to their very sinews of being.
For a band like Island Apes, for whom its members always rested among rock’s fringes away from mainstream glitz, it’s what you’d expect from this kind of project. The walls are down and the very few restraints present are hugely slackened, for this weird, hypnotic, wildly personality-filled listen. And it’s always good that avenues like this still exist, even if they’ll never be raking in megabucks or occupying endless column inches; they aren’t supposed to. Island Apes sit in their own little spot of the musical map with the other non-conforming oddities working entirely on their own time, and the whole thing is richer for them being there.
For fans of: Can, Wire, The Fall
‘Island Apes’ by Island Apes is released on 12th January on God Unknown Records.
Words by Luke Nuttall
