Sick of it All are the Real Deal when it comes to New York City Hardcore Punk. If only for their longevity. Formed in 1986 and dropped their debut album Blood, Sweat, No Tears in 1989.
They were well past the initial Big Bang of Punk which ignited in 1976 in the two major centres of Pop Culture, New York and London. The Ramones and the Sex Pistols respectively.
The evolution of Punk into Hardcore meant harder exoskeletons and honed musical chops.
The hoary old legend and put-down that the initial bands couldn’t play their instruments was always a crock of shite spread by disgruntled Prog fans who loved noodling and why play 3 chords when 3 thousand will do?
I am from the time of the Bang, in the last two years of high school. Listening to classic Rock, with Bowie and the emerging Reggae.
What the fuck is this? Angry pile of crap and guys who just want to revel in nastiness and violence. Teenage girls morphing into Boot Girls which was sort of sexy and liberated whilst simultaneously violent.
Testosterone energy was confused and then fuelled into a raging firestorm. Mixed in with the three arms of politics. Societal, sexual, and governmental.
Possibly the greatest Punk group, which was in reality one the greatest Rock’n’roll groups of all time, did not believe it could hold together before imploding like a collapsed star.
This is Joe Public speaking/ I’m controlled in the body/ I’m controlled in the mind/ Total control/ Even on this song.
That is Complete Control by the Clash. Mixed by the great Reggae (and much more) producer Lee Scratch Perry.
Arch music critic Robert Christgau’s pick as the greatest Rock’n’roll single ever.
People were trying to bury Punk as quickly as it formed. Driven by a sense of fear and danger. Christgau loved the initial explosion, but he also felt this anarchic undertow, and he was worried. It did remind him of his beloved New York Dolls.
All of which these guys, Sick of it All, would probably appreciate, coming from the Queens borough in New York City. Same as the Ramones.
Two brothers Lou Koller vocals, and Pete Koller guitar and silver mohawk. Craig Setari bass and Armand Majidi drums.
I had never heard of them, but a good friend’s son had. Him and his mates played in hardcore Punk thrash bands locally and were well acquainted with them. We have indoctrinated our offspring well.
The crowd were intriguing. Average age early-thirties and mostly male. There were beards and tatts. A scattering of brave females, probably half comprising the small squad of photographers (Red Raven included).
There weren’t many of the 60 plus crowd like me, who turn up in droves for the remnants of the old classic bands, like the Damned.
There is a truly warm welcome as they appear on stage.
Then we are off with high-powered leather-lunged vocals as the singer unleashes. He has the power of a Brian Johnson fronted AC-DC. And he keeps up the energy all night, even though halfway through he feels his voice is close to shot. It is not.
Injustice System is the first. We must fight the injustice system. The songs are melded into braces of three or four before they break.
Drums are a fast barrage and technically monumental. With the bass they form the solid engine attack force of marines and grunts levelling the path ahead.
Which lets the guitarist spray metal sparks and lacerating screeches all night.
There is nothing chaotic or messy here. It does have an atonal quality. It is also tight and disciplined like a machine that can chew through mountains.
Think of Hendrix extending out on Voodoo Chile. Removing any superfluous bits with a grinder until it shines metallic. Well, I stand up next to a mountain/ Chop it down with the edge of my hand/ I pick up all the pieces and make an island.
The music you hear inside a Large Hadron Collider particle accelerator. Discrete units of music form and annihilate simultaneously. When matter lies next to anti-matter, vast amounts of energy is liberated.
The front of stage moshing is reaching peak activity as the Sicks’ take the reins of control.
It is a type of stylised dance fighting and looks like Mixed Martial Arts. One lone slim female right in the thick of it takes up the MMA fighters’ stance and looks right at home.
There is the weird flail dance with the arms windmilling. Males and some females repeatedly stage dive, head down.
It is thrilling to be in the house to experience this. Full of endorphins, danger, wild hormones, bacchanalian spirits, and demons.
The meshed hardcore metal punk attack feeds this without cessation and helps raise the atmospheric temperature. More than carbon ever would.
It is a fan’s birthday tonight. Happy Birthday Chuck. Then the singer wants to do the first song they recorded. It ain’t fucking Bohemian Rhapsody!
All my life people tell me what to say. The crowd explodes again. C’mon, Rise Up!
Hardcore Punk rages against many social issues. It likely started with the overtly political activist band Crass from the UK. They were dour and any humour was unintentional.
The Hardcore Punks are liberating and there is a huge sense of fun. It is cathartic violence they bring. I can see that it can get to a knife-edge at times.
The one bum note was Disco Sucks! Unnecessary and beneath them.
They play a brace of mouldy oldies.
Some of it resembles the Beastie Boys Fight for Your Right.
Step Down throws up the line in the underground/ Image doesn’t mean a thing/ Makes no sense/ Makes no sense at all.
They connect to Husker Du classic songs Hate Paper Doll and Makes No Sense at All from the great Flip Your Wig album (1985).
Local Hardcore band Drop Off Point played just before the headliners.
The guitar starts like a V8 engine and they’re off into the maelstrom of industrial Metal Machine Music. Post-Bo Diddley. He always claimed to have started Punk and he is at least half right.
Amanaki are also a local four-piece, and they have a more melodic take on Hardcore.
Both bands I am keen to see again to do them full justice. That’s a hint.
Sick of it All come up against a high tone squeal of feedback which momentarily stops them. The tone that only dogs can hear. It’s probably calling to the ferals in the room.
The last brace of songs is called Old Skool Two Step. I come to the realisation that the crowd are convulsing in ecstasy. Convulsing and writhing in tongues, as opposed to speaking.
The essence of pure rage and catharsis harnessed, and any boundaries between performers and audience are broken. It’s better than bottling it up!
Rev. Orange Peel
Photography by Leonie Moreland
Sick Of It All
Drop Off Point
Amanaki
Hey thank you for this amazing review. We are humbled by your kind words. I just want to clear up the Disco Sucks thing. The song is about frustration, getting overlooked and being pissed off (surprise bet you didn’t see that coming) the title came from something a friend of ours wrote on his bedroom wall when we were all around 12 or 13. He wrote Disco Sucks! Fuck Everything! It always stuck with me as the most pissed off thing I had seen at the time. And after writing the song I figured it would be a good title with a bit of humor in it. Hope that clears up things. Again thank you for this amazing review. We hope to be back sooner than later!