Monday, December 21, 2009

Karp - Self Titled LP

Genre : Noise Rock \ Post Hardcore \ Heavy Metal \ Hardcore Punk \ Sludge Metal

Year : 1997

Do you like the Melvins ? Do you worship Black Sabbath ? The in your face attitude of punk ? Follower of High On Fire ? And yet love your metal to be fun and enjoyable ? Them come, grab a chair, sit down and let's have a little chat.

This band, Karp (short for Kill All Redneck Pricks) is one of those indie, never heard of bands that is in fact a sonic sludge assault of sonic brutality , whose only aim was being serious of not being serious. They are nerds, geeks and wear it on their sleeve proudly (the album prior to this was called 'Suplex'). Above all they want to have fun (the lyrics of the 3rd track are AHHHHHHH I'M FUCKING WITH YA HEAD, I'M FUCKING WITH YA HEAD, I'M FUCKING WITH YA HEAD"), and it it is this characteristic of their music that makes them infectious. With the name of the album being "Self Titled LP", the band merged and innovated all of their eclectic influences and spawned this really enjoyable release, which in the core of the all the fun and frolic and nerdiness is actually a really good slab of well constructed metal. It ironic enough to be hip, dedicated enough to be brilliant.

The old Melvins' formula [if a riff is good enough to repeat once, it's good enough to repeat one hundred times] is adhered to, albeit in a punkish form, which in KARP's hands works pure wonders. With the record's economical thirty minute length, everything is condensed, tight and vividly succinct, and all the better for it. Eight sandpaper-raw, bulldozer-heavy and raucous tracks smash, bash, crash and burn through your right ear, and exite through your other one, but it is the impact on the pink squishy mush between those ears that is worth mentioning, leaving a permanent mark. Each piece is centered around one main riff or a riff sequence, which is then tinkered and played around with throughout the track's duration. And boy, do these fellas know their way around their riffs! They turn and twist, change tempos, build up tension, squeezing just about all they can from these chords in the time allotted, while descending into the gluey, sludgy pits of hell and then rising above to gallop through a vast, wide-open faraway.

What a friggin' ride! Get on it!