Labels: Old Glory
Review by: Andy Malcolm
Now ain’t that a thing! I never did suspect that come the summer of the Zero-Zero I’d be reviewing an Assfactor 4 record on these pages. Should you be un-knowing, A4 were around in the mid 90’s, recorded a couple of 7″ singles, a bunch of comp tracks, an album, and disappeared. And despite the assertation that they would never split up, it appeared they had. But now! Seeing the light of day 3 years after it was recorded, we have Sports. NINETEEN songs. Vinyl only. All fast. You die.
And it’s like they never went away. Merely 1/2 a second into opening track “Forty’d Out And Feeling Gay” you know that it’s all over. Splattered vocals, the best hardcore punk drumming around, melodies played at the speed of light… it’s everything you ever dreamed it could be. The kind of music that makes you want to run around the room tearing your hair out, yelling, pointing your finger and dancing like a maniac. And once again they’ve bestowed us with a couple of great song titles (“The White House Is Alright If You Like Saxophones”) and more good lyrics than one record can handle … stuff on the ‘scene’: “with so many records and so little rock, don’t cry for me when i die just put out a comp” … “enjoy it while you can, real life will beat your ass” … “as punk rock gets big again with catchy riffs, butt piercing, and blue haired businessmen” … and plenty of dead on cynical political stuff thrown in for good measure …
Ok, so you never heard A4? I can’t really provide an adequate description. Erm, occasionally they sound like Dillinger 4’s most rugged songs from their debut LP, but speeded up two notches, and dumped in the blender. Check “Top Ten Wonders” for the most accurately rendered song meeting this description. The rest of the time they sound like the Florida emo violence meisters, such as End of the Century Party and Palatka. But with more melody. That’s where A4 always score, despite the massacre that appears to be being committed on your turntable, you can not deny that every song is jam packed with more melody than your average pop punk band could ever dream of coping with. Yeah yeah, so the melodies are all at 242343252mph, but they are in there. Put the headphones on, hear them fly into your lugs. And burst your ear drums trying to keep up, expire from exhertion by jumping to the beat and running so fast. Break your hand from punching the wall to the rhythm. Assault assault assault. Spazz out. Don’t hold back.
Play it loud. Scream. Tear it down. Go fucking nuts. Hardcore punk will not sound so good for another ten thousand irrelevant albums. Af44ever!