KEY POINTS:
Rating: * * * *
Armed with one of the most toxic and vicious sounds in music, courtesy of singer Matt Caughthran (think a man breathing on weatherboard and the paint shrivelling to a crisp), Los Angeles punk-hardcore quintet The Bronx have been rolling out self-titled albums since 2003.
And with the frenzied stabbing opener Knifeman they get straight to work on their third album, again managing to come up with a caustic and powerful noise while remaining catchy and polished. Only this time round, and especially compared to their last album, which admittedly had great songs like the bolshy and reactionary Shitty Future and History's Stranglers, The Bronx sound more grown up, more sonic, and with even more mongrel.
Inveich and Pleasure Seekers, with relentless and arcing melodic grooves (a nod to their passion for mariachi music), take the band to a whole new uncompromising level, and when Caughthran shrieks "I am an addict, an animal ... I am my father's son", on Spanish Handshake, you just can't help but scream along with him.
Previously they could have been accused of sounding a little samey, but here the demented discord of Ship High In Transit gives way to the flamboyant punk of Minutes In Night, and Six Days A Week is reminiscent of the raucous din on D4's Party.
This makes the third instalment of The Bronx a scorcher.
Scott Kara
