With the likes of Gnarwolves and Moose Blood leading the UK into a new era of punk for 2014, Brooklyn based Big Ups are next up to bring a dose of distorted, angst-filled anthems to fresh ears.
‘Eighteen Hours of Static’ hits you like a punch in the face, with deep bass-lines and erratic guitar riffs that throw you completely off balance upon listen. There’s an entwining mess of influences flowing throughout, with the melancholic chimes of indie-rock to the ferocious, throat-curdling vocals that would be no stranger in a hardcore fans CD collection. From the politically influenced ‘Disposer’, to the slightly less aggressive ‘Wool’ and the scientific ideas that lay prominent in ‘TMI’, (which itself has the most confusing intro from the entire album), the record is a novel of experiences and thoughts that harbour themselves in the minds of Big Ups four members.
One thing is for sure; this record was made for live shows. It’s made for sweaty bodies in the dingiest of club venues. For fans to throw themselves around to the fast-paced, thrashing of instruments. They’ve brought the energy and passion of hardcore shows and squeezed it into 11 tracks, which will leave you gasping for breath by its closure. A strong percentage of the tracks on the album come in at under three minutes, with some struggling to see above two and there isn’t a whole lot to differentiate between songs. A little lazy? Perhaps, but this could be a whole new take on the structure of an album and eradication of the unnecessary middle-8 that provides a filler for songs. There isn’t much here to appeal to fans of big pop choruses, or an acoustic number to mix things up a bit. This is straight up, New York born punk set out to make a lot of noise and have fun while they do it.
‘Eighteen Hours of Static’ is a near-thirty minute mood swing that could soundtrack the angriest of drives, or the dull daily chores of life. When everything seems a little lifeless, this record will bring upon waves of fist pumping and daydreams of being a pro-skateboarder amongst the depths of Brooklyn.
TAMSYN WILCE