Give Up The Roast is a column that collides delicious caffeine with wild thrashing a la a bi-monthly coffee and punk album pairing—the perfect combination for perking you up during that midday slump. Here, columnist Shannon Shreibak investigates all of the notes, from fruit rinds and spices to perfect fifths smothered in grinding distortion. So come on all you coffee shop novelists, DIY freaks, and connoisseurs of fine taste—keep your mind here in the GUTR and catch a buzz with us.
My knee-jerk gravitation toward hardcore can be attributed (or “blamed,” depending on who you ask) on a glut of factors: A musically docile childhood, a yearning for a sense of belonging within some artistic community, a reverence for all things DIY. What really got me swirling into circle pits, though, was the unapologetic anger. A stoic and shy child growing up, I often found myself circumventing any notion of catharsis. Hardcore taught me how to drive a fist through that wall.
While Self Defense Family settles in the trenches of vexation, the proto-punk outfit stakes a hefty claim across sonic and emotional spectrums. Formerly dubbed End of a Year, lead vocalist and founder Patrick Kindlon’s collective of ramble mouthed punks bypass the volume and brawn of their predecessors, instead opting for whiplash witticisms and jarring idioms. Anchored in Kindlon’s unfuckwithable narrative voice, SDF combines arty musicality with tragic slices of life to create a chronicle that bleeds as much as it bludgeons. Try Me—the band’s fourth studio LP and first under the SDF moniker—placed Kindlon’s noble artistic intentions within the scope of a life outside of the liner notes, the tumultuous existence of porn star Jeanna Fine.
BEHIND THE CURTAIN (BACKGROUND)
I don’t remember when or where or how I first stumbled upon SDF’s catalog; it was a discovery more dependent on the feeling between heartbeats than what laid beneath my feet. Acquainting myself with the effortless syncopation of “Indoor Wind Chimes” and the freneticism of “Circa 95” (a split with West Coast melodic hardcore honchos Touché Amoré), I was stunned by the balance of narrative structure and raggedness encapsulated in each song. In every iteration of the group, SDF channels the primality of mid-80s Dischord roster roarers like Rites of Spring, Fugazi and Embrace without resorting to ‘core kid tropes.
BRASS TACKS (THE COFFEE)
Milwaukee-based roaster Colectivo Coffee Roasters (who has also undergone a name change; it is formerly known as Alterra Coffee) continues to hone in on their pursuit for the perfect brew while maintaining quirk (their packaging really says it all). Offering up an overwhelming expansive selection of roasts and blends, Colectivo is one of few coffee houses that has been able to kick up quantity without faltering in its commitment to craft.
Much like SDF, Colectivo’s Blue Heeler Signature Blend balances a wide breadth of complexities and contradictions to create an inimitable final product. The roast falls in the dead center between feathery blonde roasts and boggy dark brews, laying an ideal foundation for the Blue Heeler’s heavy body and silky texture. The most impressive quality of the blend is its juxtaposition of flora and spice. Each sip surfaces with an earthy aroma, perking up taste buds with unexpected zest. A bold and unapologetic blend, Blue Heeler pairs perfectly with the defiant manifestos and guiltless verbosity of SDF.
WHITE NOISE (THE MUSIC)
As much a memoir of the glamour and depravity of pornography siren Angelique Bernstein (better known by her stage name Jeanne Fine) as it is a toil in artistic licensure, Try Me is SDF’s most adventurous and experimental album to date. Cutting through the purposeful maelstrom of Kindlon’s sonic palettes is Bernstein’s recounting of a sexually charged and fatherless childhood, abusive relationships and the forfeiting of ownership over her own body, all sourced from her one-shot three-hour interview with conducted in a roadside motel by Kindlon and guitarist/engineer Andrew Duggan. Spliced by two tracks aptly named “Angelique One” and “Angelique Two,” the LP serves as both a voyeuristic documentation of one woman’s foray into red tape fame and a musical complement captured in Kindlon’s personal panorama. The two tracks—accounting for nearly 40 minutes of the album—jar the listener into an inescapable discomfort, one that is synonymous with the grittiness of SDF.
While heavily informed by Bernstein’s compelling chronicle, Try Me remains a distinct Kindlon work, a corrosive and clever piece of post-punk fanfare. Album opener “Tithe Pig” is sung with the same breathless entrapment of Bernstein’s toxic personal and professional relationships, while “Turn The Fan On” channels Kindlon’s symbiotic relationship with his listeners, draining the blood from every open wound. Kindlon doesn’t dwell in darkness for too long, though; “Mistress Appears at Funeral” is reminiscent of 2014’s Duets, employing a silver-throated female vocalist to tinge the track with an unexpected sunniness. “Dingo Fence” stumbles through Kindlon’s feral studio ramblings and digresses into a refrain covering cocks and cunts and cops in the same breath, a cut only to be rivaled by the masochistic chatter of “Weird Fingering.”
The album caps with the final installment of Bernstein’s personal annal. Wading through non sequiturs and coke caked recollections of excess, Bernstein’s croaky drone never settles into the grand epiphany that Kindlon seemed to be poising. Try Me doesn’t end happily…it barely ends at all, but it’s a story nonetheless. As Kindlon wrote in the album’s liner notes, “Enjoy or Don’t.”
Column by Shannon Shreibak. Go forth and be loud with her on Twitter @ShannonShreibak.