Though the label is known far and wide as chroniclers of Cleveland punk history with a 1970’s vintage, this slab of late 1980’s hardcore proves they can stretch boundaries without watering down the output. Cleveland hardcore is its own kind of territory, a slab of forgotten inner city turmoil and atavism, concealed perhaps by the huge state’s geographic hole smack dab in the middle of America, leaning east. This band may have the hallmark sounds of NYC and Connecticut hardcore, mixed with home turf toughness and tirades, but they also revel in un-lame metallic overlays and total speed-frenzy too, all linked to a singer unearthing a bomb blast voice (jokingly labeled ‘Roger Daltry on crank’). Yet, what sneaks in under the genre is what is most interesting, like the sudden prog-rock skill fest on “The Price of Maturity,” as if they were Rush finding themselves competing in a posicore band riot. This is followed immediately by the dizzying, fueled-by-nitro “Up to Us,” which breaks downs the walls as fast and clean as any Youth of Today stab. Then they kick out the metallic breaks and chomp chomp chomp slo-grind of “Open Wound,” which again finds milliseconds for riffage straight out of Van Halen/Iron Maiden. No wonder they appealed to such a diverse base — they wield armfuls of nimble talent, making lesser bands wallow in staid clichés as these boys stretch out songs, dabble in guitar noodling (never too masturbatory or cock-rock), and still throw the singer to the hoodie-wearing wolves. Hell, “Outside Looking In” even has an atmospheric intro that leads to a series of body-twisting tempo changes that feels like a manic-gymnastic version of Snapcase. Overall, the well-mixed tunes offer heavy, nimble, tight torque along with their convergence-prone, genre-blurring vision of hardcore, wielding worthy results. Plus, you get a DVD as well. Too band the CD packaging isn’t quite as forceful and compelling.

Photo by Joshua Black

Justin Townes Earle has quickly become one of the most rigorous, road-wise touring artists around, a congenial tramp-meets-classy powerhouse of old-timey roots music that has one foot in dusty Grange hall, greasy spoon America (think Robert Frank photos) while addressing the post-Wilco nation with ease. Intrepid and smart, not to mention skinny as a knife blade, he continues to push down the highway, seeking like-minds: opening for the raucous, woozy Pogues; impressing the stalwarts at GQ with his ’sharp-dressed man’ style; spending a night alongside Levon Helm from The Band; and even becoming the must-have soundtrack for Texas fly-fishing hordes and Amazon.com devotees. All in a day’s work, I suppose. Luckily, he’s not distracted but plying his trade in earnest, evoking the pre-digital frontier music era. He easily evokes licorice lined taste buds and Beeman’s gum, door-to-door salesmen in tilted hats and trolley car sparks beneath Sullivan skyscraper peaks. This world may be submerged in his work, but nonetheless it percolates beneath his contemporary musical whims. Like a backwards-winking, kitchen sink poet and jalopy music aficionado, he’s become a beacon for crowds soured on new Nashville. Longing something authentic, they know he’s the real deal.