Municipal Waste – The Last Rager


Hardcore, the peanut butter of the music world. Cross over, the peanut butter cup of the heavy music world. Municipal Waste, The Reese’s of peanut butter cups. This ridiculous comparison has been brought to you by The Last Rager, a sopping wet ten minute and twelve second cross over wank whom’s sole purpose is to remind you of the importance of resilience in the almighty party.

Municipal Waste out of Richmond, VA is essentially a synonym to the great fuck party that is cross over, where ridiculousness, breakneck tunes, and more noodles than your Nonna’s kitchen are a way of life. Every minute of this band’s career has been in homage to a nonsensical good time where Thrash and Hardcore meet on the battlefield to embrace their love like the true kissing cousins they are. Here we see their latest release, The Last Rager, is no exception to the laws of the jungle. Fast, moronic, pure musical trash in a fashion that is impossible not to fall in love with. Each track unique to its own outrageous ideas both in content and in construct, yet still enthralling in the way we party animals never truly drop our poison of choice.

This “record” is simple. “Wave of Death” basically tells you to get in the car bitch we’re going raging.  You then float through the chug fest nightmares that are “Car-Nivore” and “Rum For Your Life” in a perpetual state of mean mugged head bobbing, and thus finally arrive at the epic mess that is “The Last Rager” in all its groovy glory. What’s both special and somehow a pitfall is that the recording quality of this effort is at certified trash can levels. Guitar tones are dry, drums are dry, vocals are faded, and bass is nonexistent. That being said, this is stinks of old school crossover like no one’s fucking business. It feels ancient and that somehow plays into the golden garbage of it all. These are tunes you wanna defile a playground to in the middle of the night while you hug your best friends and then realize that’s actually a bottle of whiskey you’re trying to make out with. Nothing about these four barely songs screams anything new, innovative, or even remotely clean, but they do rage for your right to rage, and that’s the way we mother fucking like it.

Written by Jason Greenberg
*edited by Danielle Kenedy

About Jason Greenberg 166 Articles
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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