In the wonderful world of music, there’re a million and one ways to produce your craft. There are those that spend thousands upon thousands of dollars (not to mention months) on a ‘world-class’ studio to produce a polished piece of unoriginal crap that their producer thought up in order to make all that useless cash back. Then, there’s some who sit in a buddy’s cottage studio for a weekend, getting fucked up, playing through six songs with a full band, and nailing it in one shot (only to return home to their loving counterparts). Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you my listen of Montreal’s Southern, Post-Hardcore (or Aggressive Rock whatever you wanna call it) extravaganza: Fashion Police and their debut EP, Winter.
Starting off, let us clarify something: these dudes recorded this little six-song demon at a buddy’s place, over the course of a weekend, and at the same time. What do I mean ‘at the same time?’ I mean the band all plugged in, mic’d up, and played the song like a jam session. Only with results. Yeah. To give you a little bit of a background, this project is a small-scale supergroup of sorts to us in the Montreal music scene. It even includes members of the lost, but not forgotten, Trigger Effect (which I will try not to mention so I can avoid crying profusely for the next month whilst making a necklace out of my teeth). This recording style was used on a variety of Trigger Effect’s EP’s, an even their first fucking full-length record, Dare To Ride The Heliocraft. This band’s “Play-it-and-fuck-off” style is obviously impressive beyond comprehension, but, of course, can have it’s downsides.
My first listen of this piece was what most of you would categorize as that classic movie scene where someone partakes in sexual intercourse for the first time. When I first sat down to listen to this (month’s ago because I’m a terrible procrastinator, and Bucketliz hates me for it <3), I was rather overcome by nerves, especially considering my adoration for the band’s predecessor. “Coach Vs Gramps” hit my ears and I kinda sorta arrived in a fashion I can describe as most inconvenient considering I was riding the metro, but like a true man, I stiffened my upper lip (as the rest of me had gone limp from over satisfaction), and paid due diligence to the rest of the record with the utmost chafe of my loins. The ordeal is quite abrasive in every meaning of the word, and I can promise you it’s all well worth it, much like that first snatch. By the time you roll down to pelvic thruster ballad, “Don’t Sweat It,” you’ve already got a kink in your neck like a stuck Viagra (yes, I just poorly ripped off Austin Powers), but you’re not even close to done. Eventually, the pummel of “Flaws” kicks you in the face, and leaves with your empty wallet while you’re still chained to the bed asking for seconds. All this to say that structurally, this EP kicks your shit in pretty hard.
Now that I’m done reading you over how good the band actually sounds, I’ll tell you a little bit about how “Winter’ itself sounds. The fact that these cats sat in a room together, and played these six songs over and over and over until a dude at a computer said: “that one sounds pretty good. Let’s keep it,” is astounding. Forget the fact that it was all taken care of inside of a weekend. Expectations for quality in these situations can never be high, but I am a man of reality, and my job is to tell you the reader what to expect when you listen to a record. Don’t expect pristine guitars or coherent drums; both ’em motherfuckers are dirty, and that’s the way I like it. Don’t expect any kind of noticeable production on the vocals either; that shit’s angsty, and that’s the way I like it. Don’t expect this to be something you’d get out of universal studios; it sounds like it’s being sold out of some dude’s trunk in the parking lot of a belle pro, AND THAT’S THE WAY I FUCKING LIKE IT.
The guitars and bass sound like they were recorded in the 1960s, and Doc Emit just decided now was the time. The Drums sound like Oscar the Grouch beating his dick like it owes him money. And the vocals sounded angry, and layered, and sad, but angry, Sandgry? Yeah. As it stands currently, I’d easily give this piece an 8/10 strictly based on the fact that it’s everything I just said, and still kicks you in the fucking dick. You just wait, boys and girls, there’s more to come, and I’m not talking about me on the metro… again.
Written by Jason Greenberg *edited by Danielle Kenedy
On the first day, the Lord said "Let there be Bucketlist," and all of human kind then became aware of the incredulity or abysmally flaccid result on their attempt at Art. On the second day, the Lord said "Jason, go review that show you're going to on Friday," and begrudgingly, a review was made. What the world was for Jason Greenberg before that point is either completely unimportant or mildly pornographic, but the world of today after many years of serving his Queen has brought him opportunity, hardship, and a whole lot of Bucketlist patches on indiscriminate pieces of clothing. You may see him lugging your band's equipment and yelling at you aimlessly about the useless construct of time. You may see him expelling a noise not fully understood by humankind at the end of a microphone. You may even see him swimming in an ocean of poutine, but you will always see him as his true self, a sentient and obnoxious Bucketlist Music Reviews Billboard.
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