"Set Fire to the Face on Fire" opens the Blood Brothers' Young Machetes in an auspiciously maniacal fashion, boasting a throttling convergence of rapid percussion and heavy-handed guitar strikes. With crazed abandon, co-vocalist Jordan Blilie screeches out his abstract and belligerent lyrics — "I'd rather shoot up a syringe filled with fire, fire, fire"– and sets a mood that aims to menace and enliven all in its path.
This crushing energy has come to typify the group, which may be the finest and most strangely melodic punk-metal band in America today. With its industrial grind and wild-eyed cackling, the band's motif unfailingly induces cringes and bedeviled astonishment with the unacquainted. Often, I might add, with reasonable cause. But initial listens can produce a false sense of their sound, which is peppered with intricate, pop-like rhythms. Their 2004 release Crimes intermingled raucous chargers with these experimentally melodic structures to great success.
Young Machetes hearkens back to the brooding pound of their earlier material while still retaining a striking ear for quieter, more tuneful moments. Its thrillingly alive music hammers on at a breakneck pace before collapsing in on itself and re-emerging in different sonic forms. For all of their grating excess, the Blood Brothers demand notice for the high originality of the work and their obstinate refusal to settle for pleasing sounds.
"Camouflage, Camouflage" represents one instance of the Blood Brothers' sheer innovation. It's brazenly lacking structure and seems to revel in the liberated flow that this permits. Opening with an atonal skip of offbeat percussion and NES dial sounds, Blilie delivers his clipped vocals hurriedly and then switches to a more tuneful pitch for the repeated refrain. It is cut short, however, by a gorgeously subdued piano interlude where fellow vocalist Johnny Whitney croons, "Love bit you in the throat while you were staring at the sea" in a soulful falsetto. This segues into a conventional rock outro that cautiously accelerates to the song's conclusion. In theory, "Camouflage, Camouflage" should come off as a jumbled splatter. But its crisp melodies somehow succeed as an organic middle ground for its lively bookends.
"Spit Shine Your Black Clouds" is similarly gifted with melodic undertones but advances with less tangential progression. Lush pianos alternate with an up-and-down stomp of synths and slicing guitars. It's a more obviously unified number but no less rich with dynamism than "Camouflage, Camouflage."
Their merging of abrasive textures with dashes of soothing pop is partly mimicked and reflected in the work of the dual vocalists, Jordan Blilie and Johnny Whitney. Blilie is the Cain of the pair — vengeful, frenetic and driven by scalding screams. To be sure, he can be decidedly off-putting when his wanton screeches overextend their utility. His counterpart, Whitney, possesses a fascinating voice that is fully androgynous at the peak of his range, and that he consistently asserts for a lasting impact. He simultaneously channels the vibrant moodiness of Joe Strummer and the swaggering melodies of Damon Albarn. This vocal balance complements the oscillating rhythm scheme of the music but also blunts the burden of its fiercest moments.
If the lyricism were more intelligible, a further layer of grit would be added to the already dark and inscrutable contours of Young Machetes. Distinct themes are difficult to pinpoint due to the lyrics' rambling, stream-of-consciousness nature. But the imagery is uniformly violent and macabre, sounding like meticulous recreations of drug-addled dreams. The opening lines of "Nausea Shreds Yr Head" state, "We live in a glamorous mansion/ with napalm in the walls." Similarly, the jolting "We Ride Skeletal Lightning" (the name alone carries an edge), speaks of a "kingdom of heaven" that "reeks of burning witches and dust." The best example comes from the superb and curiously titled "Lift the Veil, Kiss the Tank," which closes with "But death's just death no matter how you dress it up." Their disconnect from any apparent reality mildly tempers the vicious bite, but they do come off as more than cracked ravings.
Late in Young Machetes, a number of the frantic burners like "Rat Rider" and "Johnny Ripper" roar loudly but fizzle out. Such misfires might be expected from a slightly bloated track listing of 15 songs. But the duo of closers "Street Wars/Exotic Foxholes" and "Giant Swan" erase any sour aftereffect from the stale stampedes of the previous numbers. The former wraps itself in spare surroundings and uses a twilight brass line to meditate on a rare moment of emptiness. It is totally hushed and unassuming, a rarity for the Blood Brothers. "Giant Swan" is a death-obsessed eruption that builds and progresses but ends plaintively, reflecting its solemn subject matter.
Both reveal a willingness to use musicianship for more measured ends. The Blood Brothers are adequately cocksure and skilled to know they can leave impressions with both grating charges of rock mayhem and melodic interludes. With patience, listeners can discover this as well.
Grade: 3.5 out of 5
