by Dan Goldin (@post_trash_)
When Blacklisters (or BLKLSTRS if you prefer) released last year’s Leisure Centre EP it was billed as the first in a series of EP releases. While there was little to suggest that the next chapter was coming anytime soon, the Leeds based quartet (whose members are spread throughout the UK and EU), returned exactly one year to the day later with Auf Dem Tisch, a new surprise EP. Coinciding with the band’s sole live performance of the past few years, it’s a welcome reminder that no matter their level of activity, a new record from Blacklisters always feel like a seismic event. Presumably recorded in a whirlwind akin to the Leisure Centre sessions, they’ve once again hit upon noise rock magic, the perfect levels of sardonic humor and cultural disgust so interwoven it’s hard to tell exactly where one ends and the other begins. Sludge and bludgeoning density are paired with acidic noise and a stumbling resolve that feels like a reprieve from polite society or a scourge on meatheads worldwide, or maybe it’s just friends coming unglued and burning off some steam. Either way… we all win.
Auf Dem Tisch, which is German for “on the table,” has a reckless charm to it, splintered and lacerated one moment, yet hypnotic and primal the next. There’s a rawness in the writing, performance, and recording that can’t be ignored, the murk and mud an integral part of the songs. It’s aggressive and deranged, but Blacklisters never seem to take themselves too seriously. They poke and prod at “tough guys” and corporate shills in equal measure, withering between one blunt thud to the next, needling and skewering machismo and yuppy culture with heaps of piss and vinegar. Blacklisters guitarist Dan Beesley drags riffs with harsh progressions and scrapping distortion into claustrophobic spaces, rusty buzzsaw tonality that would be metal in another dimension, thrashes in tight corners with a blown out charm. There’s a lot to take in, but isolate the guitars on songs like “Melting John” and you get one incredibly jagged pathway. The intensity of the acerbic riffs is matched by the colossal dirge of the Steve Hodson’s bass and Alistair Stobbart’s frantically clattering drums, the push and pull between swarming guitars and impossibly thick low end creating the band’s signature brand of brilliantly chaotic grooves.
With feedback rumbling like an earthquake in progress (“Personal Training”), Blacklisters find melodies in atonal digging, the devolved carnage catchier than it has any business being. There aren’t exactly radio friendly melodies and there aren’t exactly hooks, but the band always find a way to create something memorable, the deep rhythmic hypnosis and slurred howls providing an unglued sort of beguilement. If Blacklisters music is designed for maximum impact with a volatile nature of contents under pressure, there’s a tongue-in-cheek smile perfectly cemented into their corrosive exterior, and it comes in the howled, mangled, and contorted vocals.
Billy Mason-Wood has our vote as one of the most compelling vocalists of this (or any) generation, his manic and garbled delivery a dynamic spark between curdled brilliance and the rants of a lunatic with a soap box. As his words are strung together with a stammering fury, his marble mouthed approach becomes music’s most unlikely melodic focus, and as a result, one of the most engaging. Without attempting to pick apart the lyrics in great detail, it would appear that Mason-Wood is entrenched in character throughout Auf Dem Tisch, playing the Muscle Milk drinking jock, the “company man” workforce lackey, and the overtly self-important. The portrayal of each is done without subtlety but there’s an irreverence to his writing - he’s witnessing bad behavior, devolved humanity, and vanity, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. That being said, it’s entirely possible that I’ve missed the point altogether, so interpret as you will.
In just under seventeen minutes, Blacklisters prove over and over again to be at the top of their game, regardless what popular opinion might suggest. With each member pulling in another direction, the catastrophic clamor leaves room for the band’s shifting grooves and elastic tempos to lock in against all odds. When the band slow the pace and dig their heels in like a cartoon attempting to keep themselves from falling off a cliff while running at full speed, the depravity and carnage simply sounds heavier, the affect more profound. The swarm and delightfully queasy essence of their music is peak discordance, the collective din ultimately a testament to the band’s collective charms. Influences be damned, Blacklisters remain in a league their own.