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Tuesday, April 20, 2010

The ghost of hardcore-post

"Jogging is very beneficial. It's good for your legs and your feet. It's also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed."*

The level of influence music has is relative to its situe**; in this respect, it could be argued that the Richter Collective is shaping up to be Dublin's closest corally to the olympian opuses from Athens that were the Elephant Six. Except thrashier. And sans Jeff Mangum. Sitting comfortably alongside such labelmates as robot rock outfit Adebisi Shank and the delectably jerky BATS, Jogging are poised to release their debut album on the 2nd May, and are currently streaming it on their website, which can be found here

Imbued in Minutes is an inescapable freneticism that perpetually underpins a happy marriage of discordance and melody. Mastered by T.J. Lipple, who has a penchant for producing Dischord Records acts and Washington indie rock, glimmers of the D.C. post-hardcore scene that thrived in the late '80s and early '90s are ingrained in the tracks. "Shattered Knees" invokes nuances of Les Savy Fav, blending pieces of punk with pop sensibilities, whilst the infectious dance punk of Q and Not U emanates from "Shape up Shakedown". Yet on a foundation of Jawbox noise rock, Jogging culture a sound that is distinctly their own.

One of the most striking features of the album is the vocal diversity, the subtle changes in tone that can revert from an agitated Fearghal McKee on "Not Simple" to the juddering grit of Joe Strummer on "Threadbare". Forceful and emotive, flanked by gang shouts, maniacal yells and guttural quirks, it is the vocals that are constantly driving, the backlight of an enlivened percussion which sounds like every part of the drum kit is being beaten to death.

Every single song is dynamic and multi-faceted; each melodic peak and trough explicit, gifted with malleability. "Bruises like Bow Ties"- starts with an accessible, poppy guitar riff that could have been lifted from a Kings of Leon song. Yet suddenly it's layered with a gravelly bass line, dance-infused drums and mono-tone rasping, before being subjected to countless tempo, tone, and mood changes which wholly unarm the listener; five songs are rolled into one, and yet each one is equally as compelling as the last. "Cleft Chin...", meanwhile, is an unadulterated aural clobber. The shortest song on Minutes, it's arguably one of the best, as bass and guitar lines compete to punch their way through crashing cymbals and anguished, husky wails of 'I've got blood on my hands'. Concise and, like the album in its entirety, crushingly effective. It's indisputable that Minutes is a hardcore coup

* Charles Schulz, Peanuts

** This is presumably why nobody outside of Ireland has ever fucking heard of the Blizzards

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