If Sonic Youth and Fugazi jammed with Refused and Dillinger escape plan,k the resultant, discordant mess would almost undoubtedly sound like the hellish racket of Kabul Golf Cloub. As subtle as a dirty bomb and twice as potent, their scarifying vocals, unhinged guitar playing, which initially appears to only just verge on the competent, and impulsive, jazzy drums are the work of genius – the dividing line between insanity and which, it appears, sits on precisely the point whether you can cement the latter into EP form and sell it or not.
This is unhinged, utterly un-commercial punk rock with a heart filled with rage and carnal desire and with the band dispensing five tracks in a scant fourteen minutes it’s a little like being trapped in a metallic blizzard taking place inside a kettle that’s recently been switched on and is now fast approaching boiling point. ‘Bits of freedom’, the whirling dervish of an opening track, sees the angular guitars of Fugazi and Refused at their most primal providing the backdrop for vocals that are delivered with the sort of frightening intensity that traditionally ends with pieces of the singer’s throat hanging in bloody shards from the microphone’s windshield. That the EP was recorded live comes as no surprise, although what is surprising is the clarity that has been achieved in the recording, each instrument coming through loud and clear with the drums, in particular, pile driving a hole into the floor. ‘Minus 45’ is blistering punk set to a syncopated drum beat and delivered with the gleeful hatred of Jello Biafra on steroids. ‘Fastmoving consumer goods’ is a marginally slower beast that still resonates metallic fury, but which recalls the mighty Mclusky in full flight, the fizzing verses giving way to hardcore-infused choruses that will leave you exhausted and battered into submission.
With only two tracks to go the cheekily titled ‘5 minutes to midnight’ is a bruising cacophony of steel-tinged guitars and clattering, stop/start percussion that is possibly the EP’s highlight and then the brilliantly arranged ‘Demon Days’ stumbles into view, sounding drunk, angry and very aggressive. It ends the EP in a storm of noise and fuzz, as if the band, exhausted by the recorded, have collapsed upon their equipment leaving it drenched in blood and sweat and broken strings. Fan of everything from Botch to Nirvana will be in heaven.
Kabul Golf Club are as vicious and unpleasant as getting set upon in the toilets of some dingy pub by a couple of drunks and a pit bull. It is the music of disenchantment, violence and nervous energy channelled into the act of creation rather than destruction and from the moment you press play till the point, some fourteen minutes later, when the disc spins to a halt you’ll be gripped in its metallic clutches and spiked with the sheer electricity flowing from every raging riff and percussive blast. This is real punk rock; not commercially-minded, beautifully produced, three chord shout fests that say nothing and mean even less; this is genuine blood and sawdust on the floor punk with its guts torn through with broken glass and teeth littering the floor. It’s not pretty, but for its brief duration you will feel more alive than after any half-assed Green Day track.
