In light of yesterday’s Chicago show and the ensuing message board shenanigans, I bring you my review of the new Fucked Up LP, lovingly shortened to ChemCom. For all the fans of Fucked Up, there are equal numbers of haters lurking in the shadows, waiting to take their jabs when the moment is right. Is it the abstract artwork? Eight minute long songs? Non-traditional instrumentation? Outrageous ebay prices? Whatever the reason, Fucked Up polarizes the punks. I belong to the, “they’re fucking awesome” camp, but I know people that don’t, and with this blog, I intend to show just how wrong they are.
ChemCom opens with a flute intro and “Son the Father.” Fucked Up eschews traditional gang vocals in favor of an all-female bizarro chorus, and it works. “Magic Word” incorporates bongos. Apparently, “No Epiphany” has a million guitar tracks, though I can barely tell them all apart. As the album rages on to its climax, “Twice Born,” Fucked Up demands listeners to put their, “hands up.” After eight punk classics, how can you resist? The two instrumental tracks force the audience to adjust to Fucked Up's love for psychedelics and shoegazey goodness. Though it’s starting to become cliché to say, Fucked Up reminds us of just how unoriginal contemporary hardcore can be, and they challenge us to do some experimenting. ChemCom is great; haters be damned.
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