Can't I just tell you it's good and you'll believe me? Why not
consider me a good buddy and just take my word for it? I would never
lie to you — you know that. I'm like one of your best friends.
So this band The Fuse!? You heard 'em? What, you haven't?! Holy shit,
these guys fucking rock, you've got to get their new record like
immediately. They good, got it?
You're still here? My God, you're one of them finicky, skeptical-type
readers, aren't ya? You don't believe me, do you? God that hurts, it
really does, friend. You want the whole spiel, don't you? A little
history, a little description, a little color perhaps? Christ.
What? Yeah I know. It's my job. What? No, I didn't mean anything by
anything. She said, "Anybody touches my stuff and you fucking die"...
what? Oh, right. The Fuse! We must discuss The Fuse! And that's not
an exclamation. That's part of their name. But, thanks to your
goddamn demanding neediness, we must!
They fucking rock. I said that already, didn't I? They do, genuinely
so. Here's the deal: there's a hell of a lot of new records coming
out all the time; many of them show up at my apartment; most of them
suck. Only a small few help me keep the faith.
And beyond helping me shake my ass like George Michael, The Fuse!'s
ultra-distorted punk-rock disorder makes me feel proud and fortunate
— proud they've managed to make something fresh out of an
exhausted genre, fortunate I get to listen.
Now if they'd only play Portland. God, come on, it's not like you're
that far away, just eight or so hours down South. What? You've
already been here and my uncool self was too out of touch to notice?
What? No, I didn't mean anything by anything... But I bet you guys is
downright mind-blowing live. What with those blistering bass lines,
brittle, mutating riffs and shattering beats. My lord, I'd love to
have the propelling Richard Hell-like "All Across the World" hit me
in person like a Mack truck, in all its screaming fury and rallying
energy. You will get off your Southern Californian asses and head up
here soon, right? What? Oh yeah, right. I am so not cool.
But this album is. It rocks. Through and through, it pushes and
shoves with fuzz and distortion, raw, electrified strings and
thrashing, spastic melodies. Fashion isn't a factor. Neither are
names apparently — each of the three members are simply
identified by a single digit and letter: F1, F2, F3 (drums, guitar,
bass, respectively), all of whom contribute vocals.
"The Montgomery Rhythm" features a very Op Ivy-ish bass line behind
Rich Hell-like high-pitched pleads and minimal scratching riffs. "The
Whip" offers a severely infectious, wrap-you-up-in-love guitar line
and intermediate, close-up speak-singing, while "Modern Music" races
and thrusts as it urges you to dance to the music, but is really just
reminiscing about how they used to dance to the music, 'cause these
ain't no dance/punk bandwagon hoppers. The album — which rocks
by the way — closes with the gritty, bluesy "The Fallen
Samaritan," which features slide guitar, smoky, down-and-out wails,
and intricate pickings.
There, is that good enough for you, friend? Now will you go get
yourself a copy, find that it rocks, and trust me from now on?
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