Brainless God is the second full-length from Chicago/Milwaukee punks Direct Hit!, released today by Red Scare Industries.
There are moments on this record when frontman Nick Woods sounds like Fat Mike ("Getting What He Asked For" and "Back to the Tower," for, like, a second), but without the ivory skyscraper of preachy, punk rock presumption.
Sometimes I'd swear I'm listening to Tom DeLonge without the talon-deep hooks of Blink-182 (for, like, half a song on, like, half the songs). But almost as soon as any polished, "un-punk" sound crops up, Woods and the crew fly into beast mode - with the help of about a thousand pissed-off dudes on gang-vocals - and they shred it in half.
Speaking of guest spots, is that? Why, I'd know that guttural yell anywhere! Yes, that's Nick's brother, Peter, lead-monster of Galactic Cannibal, giving the inaugural yell - "fuck you! get pumped!" - on "On & On"! Don't mind if-a-do!
This record is rockin' and raucous, and it's just begging for a melee in the middle of a punkhouse living room.
Seriously, though - "Buried Alive" sounds like it took a wrong exit and ended up on the Blink-182 Emo-Pop-Punk Memorial Highway. This all seems eerily familiar... I remember that building... and that empty lot over there... and I know I've seen that monument to nostalgia and self-pity and shoeboxes of photos on the bedroom floor before... Oh, right! This is that weird stretch on the I-94 that looks like your life 13 years ago, brain drowning in hormones, ready to fight or weep or hump, given the excuse or the chance. But then the gang-vocals kick in, or the scream-over grabs you by your too-long bangs (seriously dude, just cut your hair) and whips you back into the pit.
For real! How is this not Blink-182 on "Heaven is a Black Hole"? Ahh, never mind - there's that growl! And lordy, lordy, it's divine!
Sorry, guys. I keep forgetting this is the band that played the basement of 99 Custer with Masked Intruder. (I missed it, and I'm still trying to live it down. Though I did see Off With Their Heads down there - that's at least a twofer on the punk rock scoreboard, right?)
Listening to Direct Hit! is like eating blueberry pancakes. The pancakes are fine, and there's syrup, and they're sugary and pillowy and we'd eat pancakes every day if someone would just make them for us. Thanks, mom! These pancakes are great! But take another bite, and it tastes like we've just crushed a fish eye full of sour goop. It's like a pocket of awful in the middle of our breakfast.
For whatever reason, though, we appreciate the contrast of the sweet, soft pancakes with the sour blue things in our flapjacks. And even though it's kind of weird (and, can we admit, kind of gross?), we'd take blueberry pancakes over plain ones any day. If you don't feel that way about blueberry pancakes, I don't want to know you. Please, leave.
I'll wait.
Come on, dude, the door's right th- ohhh, you can't see it through your emo haircut. Here, let me help.
All right, where - wait, what the fuck is this? Is this a fucking walnut? Isn't "We're Fucked" a Galactic Cannibal song? How'd that get in there? Jeez, I hope you like walnuts. They're not for everybody. Like the weak. The weak do not like walnuts. People with long bangs hate walnuts. I'm glad those people left. This record is not for them.
Brainless God reminds me that I'm almost 30, as much as it doesn't let me forget that I used to be 15. It's got that edge I need to enjoy a good pop-punk record. 13 years ago, though, I would have wanted more emo hooks and less yelling.
God - being 15 sucked. Well, it was kind of fun. A lot of my friends were dudes because I never learned to talk to girls. But there were fewer bills to pay. I guess it was sort of like a pancake with too much shit in it: it's sweet and soft and good, but it's hard to enjoy it with that many nuts and blue balls.
Grade: A-
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