Ever fancied being violated and aroused at the same time then the debut album from Night Goat offers a glorious opportunity. Milk is a ferocious ten track trespass of noise and intent delivered with a feral energy and dexterity which gets straight under the skin and has spirit and instincts dancing to its infernal dance.
Ohio hailing, Night Goat has earned a potent reputation and fan base across their home state with shows alongside the likes of Whores, Low Dose, False Gods, and Backwoods Payback giving further reason to steer attention upon their senses devouring, imagination peeling noise rock. With inspirations from the likes of Melvins, Sonic Youth, Neurosis, The Jesus Lizard, Unsane, Whores and many more sparking their own unashamed uniqueness, the quartet grip ears and appetite with so many aspects though it is the sanity rasping vocals of Julia Bentley which first demanded subservience. As untamed and corrupt as they are skilfully manipulative in touch and word, her tones are a twisted seduction more than matched by the backing deviancy in voice and the sonic irreverence of husband guitarist Chris and the inexorable rhythmic invasion of bassist Dalin Jones and drummer Donnie Casey. It is a cacophonous deed in sound, enterprise, and scuzzy discontent which had us, from pretty much the first breath of Milk, lustfully dangling from every hook, gleefully bruised from every rhythmic bitch slap, and lapping up its toxic nourishment.
As album opener Smearcase on Shorb quickly and eagerly showed, the Night Goat sound is a thickly flavoured noise rock bred proposition; grunge and doom essences as hungry as the punk and post punk toxins which as boldly enrich the band’s unique scuzz enveloped violation. The track gathers itself sonically initially before riffs devilishly spring forth closely followed by equally rapacious rhythms. Julia’s presence erupts at the same time, her vocals as fearsome as they are captivating; a fusion which describes the band’s presence as a whole throughout Milk. The song continues to batter and bite, Dalin and Donny an inescapable incitement as they steer the invasive pleasure.
Dirty Candy follows, luring ears with a lone calm chord into the waiting turbulence of sound and voice. Every second is as infectious as it is unbroken, a breach of mental security veined with appetite inflaming grooves and fuelled by rapacious rhythmic agility while the demonic Malachai immediately after provides its own individual scourge as it stalks the listener; a prowling threat which hollers with venomous celebration across a predacious gait and intent.
To be honest if the album had gone straight downhill from this point on we would still be urging your attention its way such its mighty beginning but no, Milk just grows and goes from strength to strength unleashing another new striking moment with Chubby Leech. The grumbling but inviting tease of Dalin’s bass insisted on ears first, its controlled inherent swing irresistible as it is joined by subdued yet still concussively threatening beats and the dual vocal ruin of Julia and Chris. The dour swing of the bass infests the whole song as it strolls across the psyche, the track erupting in scalding furies with each more intense and rousing than the last.
Jerusalem’s Lot harasses as it incites, nagging thoughts as it stirs up body and spirit, the track a savage slice of noise punk hitting the spot as hungrily as those before it with Gnarltooth Grim initially contrasting its voracity with a composed entrance equipped with Dalin’s ever persuasive grim bass tempting and Donnie’s persistently fertile rhythms wrapped in the citric toxicant of Chris’ strings. The song’s ensuing stroll is harassment and temptation combined, a two faced incitement echoed in the twin vocal molesting shared within the psyche menacing clamour which had us drooling in quick time as too did the unscrupulous rock ‘n’ roll of My Axe (Your Ribcage) which eagerly leapt on our weakened state right away after. A seductive bully never allowing a breath to be taken until it decided to spin its desire in a momentary spell of matching fever and treachery, the song sets another pinnacle in the album’s increasing collection.
The pair of Head Lice and Bonemeal keeps that trend going with thick individuality; the first emerging from an otherworldly state to seduce and haunt ear and emotions alike. Unstable and increasingly unhinged by each passing breath, the track rose to thrust a hand on favourite track honours, its every disturbed second a feast of and cause of paranoia. Even so its successor matches its glory and more with its cauldron of punk bred persecution, the infestation of sound and provocation evolving into a web of sonic incivility and magnetic craft.
The album concludes with The Greys, a slab of sonic evil that winds around and accosts the senses in a mix of uncompromising disquiet and brutality, one becoming darker and more sinister by each occultist sigh it subsequently unveils. It is a fascinating and riveting end to the release and a last unleashing of ferocity which alone commanded a swift return to the pernicious but invigorating alchemy, or should that be sonic mercury, within Milk an encounter which declared Night Goat as one of the most exciting new encounters of recent years.
Milk is out now and available @ https://nightgoat13.bandcamp.com/album/milk
https://www.facebook.com/nightgoat13
Pete RingMaster
Copyright RingMasterReview: MyFreeCopyright
Featuring American rapper Mr J. Medeiros (The Procussions, Alltta, The Knives), the album’s title track is next up. It steps from an industrial lined electronic welcome into a prowling slice of Senser-esque rap rock where every second brings stringent observation amidst a consuming galvanic stride of sound. Though unleashed with a certain hand of control it is a ravenous encounter, electronic and punk ‘n’ roll dexterity amassing on a dance-floor bred rapacity.
Venom ensures it continues as its swinging gait and savagery is immediately infectious, guitar and bass driving a boisterously truculent and catchy attack with the latter laying down a wicked groove as again vocals collude in a magnetic squall. Three minutes of noisy punk manipulation leads to two minutes of noise twisting ferity as Dance In The Fire springs its own cauldron of vocal and sonic dispute around manipulative hooks and grooves which invade and incite body and instinctive pleasure. The track is pure rock ‘n’ roll at its most wild yet deviously sculpted.
It is an outstanding introduction to Drøm yet quickly and continually eclipsed or certainly matched across the release with next up Dø Igen raising the ante in craft and temptation. Richter’s beats again make for an animated and compelling coaxing and more than equalled in enticement by the visceral growl of Johnsen’s bass. If the first song teased with a whiff of post punk amidst darker sonic deeds, the second track exploits their tenebrific coercion to ravish and inflame the senses. From within its voracious noise clad insurgency, essences of bands like Faith No More, Sex Gang Children, and The Three Johns tease which only adds to its inescapable seduction of ears.
With barely a breath drawn, Future Duke burst upon the senses next, its barbarous trespass as infectious as it is fearsome as it descends on beleaguered senses. As with the first track, there is a noise punk ferocity and predation to the assault which instantly grabbed approval and only enhanced its grip as melodic and progressive hues blossomed within the, at times, carnal maelstrom of sound and innovation. Glorious and devastating, the outstanding track is only echoed in temptation and striking prowess by Presto Change-O, its challenge immediate, visceral and inescapably stirring as the guitar feverishly burrowed under skin already battered and bruised by contorted rhythms. From that sonic insurgence a delicious melodic teasing adds its own bait, a riveting concoction which only intensifies as the track bares its unmethodical but skilfully woven drama. Even clutch of seconds brings fresh enterprise and incitement, keys and vocal variety adding to the genius outpouring.
As the song outdid its predecessor, so Dumb left it in the shade a touch with its communicable dance and discord. Again drone and incessant nagging makes up the irresistible character and insistence of a Deathcrush song, its repetitive but adventurous persistence a voraciously crawling incitement proving so easy to devour before Filthy Street casts its own magnetic sonic austerity; it too something which stalks as it seduces while throbbing resonance springs from Bamle’s bass infestation. Unsurprisingly the song’s sound and breath echoes the landscape of its title, getting into every pore and corner of the psyche like aural pestilence and igniting both for richer pleasure.