50 years after the genre turned the music world upside-down, Grade 2 bring the raw power of old school punk to a new generation. Their second release on Tim Armstrong's legendary Hellcat Records is a thumping 15 track tour de force melding the uncompromising ethos of punk with the howl of contemporary injustice, personal identity and frustrations of Gen-Z youth, authentically told by three lads with punk coursing through their veins. Formed on their native Isle of Wight when they were just 14 years old, Jack Chatfield (guitar & vocals), Jacob Hull (drums) and Sid Ryan (bass & vocals) honed their craft covering punk pioneers before creating a sound uniquely theirs: ten years on, the eponymous ‘Grade 2’ is their magnus opus. From the complex rhythms and brutal two-note guitar of opening track ‘Judgement Day’, the record grabs by the scruff of the neck and never lets up. With a commitment to the cause, lead single ‘Doing Time’ is a thunderous hardcore punk track screaming “Spoon feed me corporate lies; I left that place with a noose to my neck.” Intertwined are upbeat bangers (‘Under the Streetlight’, ‘Celine’), classic pop-punk (‘Don’t Stand Alone’, ‘Fast Pace’), and savage old-school grit (‘Parasite’, ‘Gaslight’). The result is a bone-crunching 35-minutes that agitates, intoxicates and liberates in equal measure.
“Straight up, no one is having more fun than me when we’re up there!” beams DRAIN frontman Sammy Ciaramitaro, whose face is perpetually glued in a grin. For anyone that’s seen the Santa Cruz hardcore firebrands live, there’s no mistaking that fact. Drain isn’t just a good time as Sammy presides over the chaos of stagediving bodies and mic-grabbing frontline; it’s a party—and everyone is invited. (Dolphin shorts and boogie boards are optional but encouraged.) “The vibe of it is, enthusiastic, hectic,” says the vocalist. “Five people deep singing and stagediving, then kids going berserk behind that. It’s a great vibe and I think people pick up on that.” That, in a nutshell is DRAIN. The quartet inject a serious dose of relatability—not to mention catchiness—into hardcore’s penchant for toughness and brutality on their Epitaph debut Living Proof. Ciaramitaro’s desperate, snotty howl rides roughshod over thrash-leaning riffage as rhythms bounce in a big way. If you’re picturing the Pacific Ocean waves that rise and fall along the coastal town, occasionally violently so, you’re not far off.