. issue XXI : vi .
. artist : the Ha-RAng!#’s .
. album : she wants pretty ep .
. year : 2013 .
. label : self-released .
. grade : demographics .
I always considered Punk to be in soul ate the communion supper table of Dadaism: negation feasting to the point of erasure, appetite strung along a zeno arrowing caloric countdown to nothingness and therefore enlightenment, a silence cycle cutting occam. This stoicism s’roided equilibrium an eternal battle of overpowering balance only found in some constant equations relating; consider the gravity caused by the rotation of Ouroboros and the small orbiting object right above it. The negation of emotion through ultra heightened awareness and expression of said emotion is easier said than suffering seeing all of earth stuck sprouting out, in that perspective of the google globe view (glass ceiling tm’d, and paid for by the Brin Page & by the foundation of a new era of announcer WATCH YER TURNAROUND GREENSLADE). Virtue’s balance is in the present moment and nearly none other, the sage of any nostalgia or pain of taking to heart hearth, masonry marathons back to Saturn (Rainbow Moonbeams and Orange Snow).
The safety pinned difficulty killed my ability to look for xerox handbilling, so I almost didn’t find a Christian Moniker for the gang of four I followed onstage. I did follow a supreme salmon slacks who brushed me off, and her train-hopping companion of some PizzaGrease nomenclature (or was it PizzaBox, the name of that puppy leashed by a lot of dreadlocks). Later researched has revealed The Harangue as a Toronto metal band. The Ha-Rang!#’s history repeats malcolm middling sadomasochistic conceits, with a tight band and clothes: the Who patch perhaps the most fitting sight at pacing stalk turn. Whereas punk ethos trails towards noise rock of limited challenge and sound bites in full format rather than sampled beat, the fretwork and trill soar canopy that accompanied the sound and fury of this Charlottesville (CONNOR SEZS: Dude said “Kinda” as the preposition to that one) quartet was tight jockey inside lines, elasticity of action figure movements and a full sampling of tribe called quest(o-wee-o, loveloveglove) audiospiritguidebook (a bit from michael j and lloyd, I prefer thompson and glover but who’s counting).
[CONNOR SEZS: Editors note. No one remembers Square One. I can barely find youtube evidence of Mathnet. When reference choices lose the bookcase binding and get shelved, bound hard up, it’s over. You’ve won a prize, get off the show. I can only keep up reading this because you footnote my questions and I ask after you berate audience. This is flarffy undigested swallowed air; flatulence to majority of consumers and I wish you could simplify to insulate inundation of population. Remember? Pulling hair from homemade leftovers is still pulling that jello experiment microbe carnival like in home economics, and you’d eat a lot of things, prepositions eve, which flags and ends this broadcast day, dudesicle. Gawrdamn legumes of potential exponential supernatural you’ve got me doing it as you make me speak through–NOW DON’T START THAT AGAIN.]
Hi there. Face here. IN THE MORNING (CS: no, no, no. reference materials are not allowed outside the library.) The lead vocals, matched by a female synth player (yeah what was that jam cs: ([author’s] editor’s notation: I cannot ascertain the proper etymology of the sound that was made here. Although an approximation of it would be “Ah!” or “Eh!” and would require an elaborate spelling or at least a stage direction in order to be pronounced in phonetic alphabet absolution, I can tell you it is the exact noise one makes to stop some household pet in their tracks when they are being reprimanded for an error of judgment. Say you found your cat seeking bones in the upended trash can, or a dog with his wiping carpet stroll stroke.) blended. Unless that’s not a synth.
cs: (Sound “!” again)
Because the vocalist duties never assumed a lead, or even settled on one as the voice and breath allowed each character a drinking song chatter, chattel sated between songs so the set was, you know whatever, traditional. Listening again on interwebs I can almost picture the direction of the staged compass that held sway. Delorean South, Murderous North, Pretty West and Harpo East. Guitar sold south, and a northern drummer, bassist east, and lady in the west with that synth (cs: “!” “!” “!” [three of those sounds in a row] WAS IT A HAMMOND, I MEAN GET IT TOGETHER, C’MON LANK GOLD CART!).
Delorean Girls is phenobarbital cut with pheromones, pellets of time release Adderall, palettes, crushed murex marble pebbles.
While art is subjective to the individual perspective, it is always a pleasure to be able to engage and engorge with enjoyment. My experience with the Ha-RAng!#’s is of a collective with a nice collection, trophy cases shining some shindig sound I’m sold on. If you want to have a good time and encourage personal authority, I highly suggest giving them a listen. (CONNOR SEZS: Fine. I’m eating dinner. Stop Smiling is a magazine, not Stop Making Sense.)
by Perkus Tooth