Everything Would Be Better If It Sounded Like Bronx III

Here at Antiquiet, we don’t mince words about our hot love for The Bronx. The LA-based hardcore punk unit is just a few weeks away from unveiling their third self-titled LP (aka Bronx III), and the scene is set quite a bit differently than for Bronx II (2006). In addition to lineup changes (departing bassist James Tweedy replaced by Brad Magers) and added official appendages (guitarist Ken Horne of The Dragons and Vincent Hidalgo of Los Villains and The Drips), they’ve toured relentlessly since their last release and have the near-telepathic chops to prove it.

Oh, by the way- they also thought it would be a good idea to make a mariachi record at the same time. That one’s called (what else?) El Bronx, and it’s another story for another day- but one point bears noting: you don’t record two albums at once, in two completely different styles, without a preternatural devotion to your craft and full-throttle-default stamina. Unless your goal is to put out two separate heaps of unlistenable garbage. 

We were lucky enough to get our greasy little paws on an advance copy of Bronx III, and there’s certainly no garbage here; it’s all listenable, and about as close to a flawless record as I’ve heard all year.

First single Knifeman opens the record, a searing appraisal of the warts and wounds of a spun out, spoiled and bored Americana. Singer Matt Caughthran mourns the death of passion and disaffection when he belts out We used to be gifted and persistent / Now we’re bored, reminiscent / We used to laugh at our misery, spoon-fed our desire / We’ve lost our fire!  His lyrics throughout the album seem to be more of a direct call to action this time around, using the microphone as a defibrillator for disaffected youth in the ocean of chaos our world exists in today: We’ll all be damned if this machine turns life into routine.

Speaking of Caughthran, the guy’s throat is a fucking jet engine. He’s got the kind of scream that legions of singers would kill for, and he’s spent the past two years fine-tuning what’s undoubtedly one of the best voices in punk. 

There is no meandering or long intros on Bronx III. Gone are the Dirty Leaves and Safe Passage distractions of old. They have their place, but not on this record. Start to finish, every song comes on strong and hard, and the breaks don’t always come when you think they will, which makes for a pretty relentless 35 minutes. 

Inveigh, for example, takes no half-steps in strapping you to a fucking rocket and launching you skyward- a thousand BPM trip through a soaring celebration of the band’s clearly intensified confidence and versatility: Look at us now! Up in the sky! We went and taught ourselves to fly!

The same thought has gone through my head at least five times throughout the song: This is only track two. Jesus.

Inveigh’s unique breakdown is a different downshift for the band, further evidence of the spectral dynamics added to their sound by their relentless recording schedule and accompanying musical acrobatics. New bassist Brad Magers does his job well, while Horne and Hidalgo give chief orchestrator Joby Ford plenty of room to stretch out on lead. He maximizes on the new flexibilities, relying less on power chops and more on textured groove assaults than any of their previous work. 

Imagine the intros to GNR’s Don’t Damn Me and Perfect Crime. The cross between those is where Pleasure Seekers starts out, like something right off Use Your Illusion I. The guitars are a double-shot of the top shelf, high-octane shit that makes a hell of a double point-counterpoint when Matt layers up the vocals. 

It’s time to live a little, it’s time to lighten it up. Limousines! Yes! Could you please wear a shorter dress! Compromise? No! It’s time to live a little! it’s time to let it all go! 

Drummer Jorma Vik’s kit-pulverizing assaults on Bronx III makes no rhythmic compromise for power or speed. His precision and backbeat strengths remain central to the Bronx sound, and never moreso than on Enemy Mind, a barking roar-a-thon with a crushing call-and-response chorus, which again reminds me of what Mötley Crüe might’ve sounded something like if they were born a decade or so later, didn’t fuck their heads with drugs (you think Cobain was a head case? Read Nikki Sixx’s diaries) and ride rock’s lowest lyrical common denominator (girls) into the abyss of self-karaoke. 

Six Days A Week is another barreling, uptempo jam that sounds like Josh Homme playing the world’s biggest party. I know he and Joby are friends, which makes me guess chief Queensman might get a nod in the liner notes, cause his prints are all over this one.

Ship High In Transit could be the cooler, angrier big brother to Heart Attack American. The first two verses are fantastic, Caughthran’s wailing over chopping surges that drop away to barking, choral anthem segues, but there’s no doubt in hell that there’s something bigger coming. Everything goes up when Caughthran barks Be free, be blessed / Get more, give less / I believe I am a target / I believe I’m a target market, and the rest of the song feels like trying to run across the 405 in LA- as in, you’re getting pounded to hamburger.

Minutes In Night starts on a run with a deep groove, then breaks into a sprint, while Matt continues his sermon: Live for the moment as fast as you can / Before that moment slips right through the palm of your hand… 

Past Lives has the accent of their 2006 release, but there’s a much sunnier… hell, I’ll say it-  glam streak than any earlier Bronx song has ever so much as flirted with. It’s a sizzling party rocker with an unmistakable Sunset swagger. 

The attitude, the familiar LA flare, the balls-out pure rock fury- that doesn’t happen by accident. It requires a special blend of players who know what the fuck they’re doing and where they’re from. And if the fissure-torn shithole that is Los Angeles had to exist for the Bronx to come together and rock the fuck out, so be it. I say fair trade.

The funny thing about this record is that I had every intention to discuss why I wasn’t a fan of two or three songs- but then I went back and listened a second time. And a third. And fourth. And I didn’t want to stop listening. Because that one missing something snapped into place for each one when I heard it again. That was the case with Minutes In Night- I got hung up on the kill my master line, but you’ve got to listen to the groove, the guitars, the 12-second breakdown at the two-minute mark where Matt goes fucking apeshit. It’s perfect.

This record is special, and not in a cheap, gimmicky way that signifies a “new direction” or particular selling-point theme. It simply belongs to the rare strain of smashing rock beast that leaves no room for pissing contests, no room for improvement. It simply fucking crushes, start to finish.

Skwerl summed it up pretty well: This is what music should sound like.

Bronx III
November 11, 2008
White Drugs

1. Knifeman
2. Inveigh
3. Past Lives
4. Enemy Mind
5. Pleasure Seekers
6. Six Days A Week
7. Young Bloods
8. Ship High In Transit
9. Minutes In Night
10. Spanish Handshake
11. Digital Leash

We’ve done two interviews with The Bronx, that’s how much we love them. Check them out: Insensitivity Training With Joby Ford Of The Bronx and The Bronx Doesn’t Need A Record Label To Conquer The World.