Why does nobody talk about the huge volte face in the history of punk?
How come no one comments on the fact that punks seem to spend most of their time in the company of hippies nowadays? We know that not all punks bought into the swastika-badged, vomit-flecked attempt to bring down civilisation by slightly scaring old ladies, but surely all original punks saw their movement as a tabula rasa for music and culture: no more hippies, no more well-heeled prog indulgences. And yet, sometime around 1985, when the rest of the punks had given themselves up to electronics, black eyeliner or proper jobs, the hard core of believers found themselves in the company of their old enemies, fraternising with hippies, playing free festivals, supporting left wing causes. Of course, by the time the 90s rolled round, with the advent of crusty folk rock and Megadog trance, punks and hippies had lived together for a few years, and already it was impossible to say which was which.
And so it is with Junkie Brush. Despite sounding a lot like the clinical autopsy hardcore of Black Flag at times, you’re more likely to find them playing for genial dopeheads Klub Kakofanney than anyone else, and you’ve a greater chance of finding them on a bill with acoustic strummers and Gong-a-likes at some oddball West Oxfordshire all-dayer than playing to moshing revolutionary youths in some Friday night sweatbox. None of which detracts one iota form the high quality of this new EP, which balances brutality with beery japing perfectly, and may well be the best set of tracks Junkie Brush has put on record, but the company they keep is intriguing nonetheless.
There is a picture of a protester winding up to hurl a projectile at a wall of riot police on the cover of the record, but in reality, the politics have no more depth than the inlay card. The title ‘Problem-Reaction-Solution’ seems to hint at revolutionary activity, but doesn’t go so far as to specify anything in particular that’s good or bad about society, and elsewhere phrases like “Don’t you want to destroy the other?” and “You are the enemy” are vague enough to be essentially meaningless. Also, throwing such dumb-ass yelpalongs like “F***ed In The Mind” and “Monkey Boy” onto the EP could be said to detract from any cogent political message that might be lurking somewhere.
The music, on the other hand, is simple, direct and uncontentiously excellent. Marxist – and, like Big Tim from Junkie Brush, Zappa fanatic – critic Ben Watson once postulated that all great rock bands were essentially drum circles, and that all rock instruments should be counted as percussion. If that’s the case, then in ‘Problem-Reaction-Solution’, Junkie Brush have gone one better, turning a three piece band into one giant bass drum, bashing steadily away as if haranguing some Phoenician slaves into rowing a Roman galley. Nowhere on the record does the musical construction get far beyond the rule of “riff, refrain, and slight dynamics”, and is all the better for it. ‘Sickening’ has a sprightly bounce that carries tiny hints of Rage Against The Machine, ‘F***ed In The Mind’ is scuzzier and more leaden footed, and ‘Monkey Boy’ might be paying homage to local punk daddies Headcount, but whatever slight alterations the band makes to their recipe, they don’t diverge too far from insistent, declamatory, hugely enjoyable chants (although ‘You Are A Target’’s nods towards The Prodigy’s ‘Poison’ are unexpected).
But none of this musical dissection can actually capture the sense of barely controlled rage that Junkie Brush embody. The vocals have a reedy, Dead Kennedys intensity, which is offset by the roiling sea of guitar noise, and drums that sound like deep-fried cannonballs being dropped onto your ears from an Olympic diving board; Jim, formerly of mildly convincing artrockers City Lights Just Burn seems to have found his spiritual home hitting things in Junkie Brush. Come to think of it, there’s another difficult truth about punk that doesn’t get aired often enough – when it’s done as well as it is here, it still sounds miles better than most of the turgid guff that passes for rock and roll.