It took quite a while for me to figure out whether The Bronx were actually a hardcore band or a punk band, but by the time that happened I didn’t really care anymore. The simply fact is that this group, who have been recommended to me so many times that ignoring them seems like a felony, kick arse. they happen to kick said arse in a way that is short, fast and loud, reminiscent of bands from the ’70s and ’80s – like Black Flag – who could achieve transcendent levels of intensity without the use of studio trickery or electronics. This is important. My coming of age was in the era post-Nirvana and Pearl Jam, where the biggest bands in the world had Rick Rubin, drum pads and an army of synthesisers and post-production at their disposal. It was impossible for any regular rock band to sound like Linkin Park or Korn or Limp Bizkit, because they had tricks up their sleeve that were exceedingly difficult to replicate without, you know, money. Also, not every band wanted to. But it meant that when I went back to look for bands who could give me the thrills without the gloss later in life, my ears came at them with a certain prejudice. Used to samples and layers and multi-tracking, the regular stuff just didn’t work for me. I needed something on the edge. I needed something like At The Drive-In, but that I could listen to every time I wanted to run over a pile of kittens. What I needed, retrospectively, was The Bronx.
The Los Angeles-bred quintet don’t make life easy for casual fans trying to ease themselves into their work. For a start, all of their albums are eponymous. That’s four records that are called The Bronx with only artwork and track listing to tell them apart. The first one, which came out exactly a decade ago, is where today’s song comes from. It open with the kind of snare drum roll that only punk drummers can actually pull off properly. I know this primarily because every time I try to do single stroke rolls this fast, I end up faking it. In fact, everything about this rhythm is interesting. The drum beat seems to be built in opposition to the groove, so the bass drums and crash cymbals are where the snares are supposed to be, and vice versa. It’s tight as all hell, and the guitars particularly are razor sharp. And just when you think you’ve got the adrenalin going, it tunes down and drops into this monster of a verse riff, flanked by floor toms and the unmistakeable throaty howl of Matt Caughthran. If you like super-loud music, you’re going to know this guy’s voice. He’s guested on tracks for Biffy Clyro and the recently incarcerated Every Time I Die, and has perhaps one of the most consistently excellent and limber roars in an industry full of them. I don’t know how much green tea he drinks but I’m guessing it’s a lot. He pogoes off the floor toms here, shouting onto offbeats and generally keeps the thrust below the belt and facing forward.
What I like about The Bronx is that despite their gory sleeve art and hilariously schlock song titles, they don’t actually take themselves too seriously. They remind me of Fucked Up, a Canadian hardcore band that just so happen to incorporate flutes and orchestral passages into their music. The Bronx created an entire alter-ego for themselves (Mariachi El Bronx) just so they could do their music in Mexican acoustic theme. And despite the pummeling, fierce aggression in their music, there’s a sense of fun that is palpable. Because it is fun to jump around and hit things, and you don’t always need excessively angry, wounding music to do it. From all reports, The Bronx shows are perhaps the most uplifting, cleansing services this side of the Harlem. Hopefully I’ll get to catch them some time. It’d be a waste to save them just for the gym.
The Bronx – ‘False Alarm’
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