Hardcore originated as corrective action against stifling social conditions and overly fussy guitar music. Generally speaking, this angry punk rock offshoot gives voice to broadly festering frustration, which makes it a very inclusive genre. The Bronx do hardcore in the tradition of early Black Flag – i.e. they sound ready to punch you in the face – but the Californian five-piece don’t come across as surly punks. This isn’t a criticism; the group’s never nominated themselves as the baddest motherfuckers out there. The bottom line is that, in a live setting, the LA punks’ primary emphasis is on having a damn good time.
As soon as frontman Matt Caughthran walked onstage, wearing a generous smile and holding three bottles of beer, it was clear that filthy fun was the order of the evening. As is his custom, the paunchy skinhead spent plenty of time getting acquainted with the common folk down in the messy pit and crowd surfing from front to back. No-one else on stage really stepped forward to occupy the spotlight, but there was plenty of noteworthy activity.
Drummer Jorma Vik almost deserves his own show. There’s no question about his advanced skin-bashing technique, but even more impressive was the childlike excitement with which he assumed his post. Twelve years of pulverising the kit for The Bronx and Vik’s enthusiasm was akin to repeatedly discovering the thrill of breaking stuff. The guitarists aren’t interested in being flaunty soloists; more importantly, Joby Ford and his allies displayed utter commitment to chugging through the band’s several whopping riffs.
One thing that distinguishes The Bronx from militant/balls-to-the-wall hardcore is that, rather than a straight kick in the guts, the power often resides in groove. They might be primed for bloodshed, but there’s some dazzling moves to show off first.
The setlist offered ample opportunity for heads and fists to shake until one or the other flew off. Also, while Caughthran largely broadcasted in a torn-up scream, his ear for anthemic melody promoted regular sing-along moments (a helpful distraction when the neck pains kicked in).
Notwithstanding lyrical calls for anarchy such as “There is no revolution” or “Here comes your shitty future”, there’s nothing particularly confronting about The Bronx. Instead of instigating revolt, these reflections on existential traps are used to fire up a celebration. Tonight, we all joined in to physically vanquish concerns about the wicked world.
BY AUGUSTUS WELBY
Photos by Ian Laidlaw
Loved: Support act High Tension.
Hated: The fuckin’ Eagles.
Drank: Stubbies.
