EP: Still Bust – 77 For You (57 For Me)

Release Date: September 9th, 2014
Label: Lockjaw Records
Website: None available
Facebook: www.facebook.com/stillbust
Twitter: www.twitter.com/stillbust

Rating:

To anyone who thought the trend of putting lengthy bracketed sentences in your song titles died with mid-noughties emo bands, Still Bust have news for you. As much song title storytellers as acerbic hardcore enthusiasts, Still Bust want you to drink, dance and generally smash into each other to their fuzzed-up, rock out riff assault.

For anyone who picked up 2013’s debut, ‘A Few Things We Might Agree On (A Few Things We Might Not)’, you will know the kind of gnarled punk to expect on ’77 For You (57 For Me)’. Something of a diabetes concept record (the title referring to the life expectancy of someone with diabetes, which frontman Matthew Stanley suffers from), there’s a suitably dark air of fatalism running black behind the party hardcore mayhem. The beats are crushing, the chords twang like plucked nerves and each song clanks along an unpredictable track littered with about-turns and precipices.

Opener ‘It’s Your Fault And You’re Stupid (Kind Regards Barbaros Icoglu)’ and ‘TV On After Breakfast (Would You Like Your Hair Cut Today)’ bring the party vibes, achieving a contradiction of satisfying, blunt aggression and mind-melting technicality. So far, so Still Bust.

It takes until third track, ‘I’ve Never Been More Happy To Have A Hypo (However This Could Mean I Have Irreparable Knee Damage)’, for the band to take us deeper into their progression as a band towards a more serious sound. In a relentless 4-minute cacophony, we’re treated to the metallic shred of Every Time I Die, the weighty drama of post-hardcore, invigorated regularly with refrains of bass led groove.

This should be a mess but somehow Still Bust, who list “Drunk homemade wine while setting fire to each other’s pubic hair in a Croatian bungalow” and “Ate a deer” as some of their top achievements as a band, have somehow struck the balance perfectly. The feat is inexplicable, but somewhere in all those nights of sleeping in doggers’ car parks, headbutting the handles off of mugs and losing games of table football, these lads from Gloucester have created something kind of genius.

Written by Grant Bailey

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