by Dan Goldin (@post_trash_)
Poison Ruïn are ready for the uprising. In the three years since Mac Kennedy recorded the project’s self-titled EP, the band grew into a quartet, released both Poison Ruïn II (later combined with the debut to make a triumphant full length of sorts) and Not Today, Not Tomorrow, and played countless shows. Their live sets are amazing, punk riffs so thick the audience seems mesmerized in head-banging unison. They’ve been working non-stop since their formation, working together with RoachLeg Records and Drunken Sailor on previous releases, catching the attention of Relapse Records in the process. Härvest, their second album overall (depending how you look at it) and first record together with their new label, retains the band’s flair for the medieval, distilled in the toil and struggle of the era’s poor and working class, a sentiment that hasn’t changed all that much in modern times.
Their chainmail adorned art and battle scarred sensibilities are far from the world of fantasy. There’s no dragons to be found, no wizards, and little proof of the existence of magic. The sound of Härvest is bleak, it’s an anthem for those left to dwell in the mud and the shit. The rallying cry for the hoards of peasants. They’re not out for blood and dismemberment, they just want their piece of the pie. The recording itself could be said to follow suit. There’s nothing flashy here, the band aren’t using the studio to create the impossible. Instead Poison Ruïn - Kennedy (vocals, guitar), Allen Chapman (drums), Nao Demand (guitars), and Will McAndrew (bass) - retain the lo-fi hiss of their roots, their brand of decidedly glamor-less punk self-recorded, awash in the din of the room. It’s a choice that keeps things raw, keeps the band entrenched among the common people. Even with mastering from Arthur Rizk, the cloud of dungeon smoke and basement grime refuses removal. It’s an aesthetic choice, and it’s one that fits Poison Ruïn to perfection. The songs feel tortured and anguished even before you dig into the lyrics. It’s also a lot of goddamn fun.
The music, while claustrophobic and primal, is generally up-beat, metaphorically chopping heads with rusty tonality and gargantuan forward momentum. The guitars are all tightly coiled around the rhythms, pounding out unlikely hooks and sustained dissonance, ringing and clawing their way toward subtle grooves. The constant onslaught of revolt is only broken by the occasional dungeon synth segue, haunting but meditative, it’s a call to arms. The calm before the storm. The Philadelphia quartet is rallying the people, swinging the axe and scythe in resistance to our money-hungry politicians and the grip of upper class control. With a sound that recalls elements of Hüsker Dü, Wipers, and Crass, Poison Ruïn let their riffs buzz and sustain, the feedback whipping into a swarm. Their tone is locked in, it’s a beacon that cuts through mud. It’s time to rise.
Härvest tends to double-down on the band’s subtle but inescapable hooks. They find themselves buried under destructive scuzz and crusty overdrive, but they’re always lurking. Take the dystopian tone of the album’s title track, begun with cinematic synth dread and augmented with fury, Poison Ruïn come barreling in with a hook that sticks like glue. It’s a shout-a-long anthem delivered in earnest, the fresh air has turned rotten, and the workers are ready for retaliation. The rest of the album isn’t quite as catchy, but the earworms abound when you least expect them, there’s the proto-punk sway of “Frozen Blood,” the mutilated boogie of “Resurrection II,” and the hardcore stampede of “Augur Die,” songs where the guitars and drums do much of the heavy lifting, the melodies seeping in their way in. There isn’t a moment wasted, the band always aim for the throat, pushing their way to a better day, with the force of the people behind them.