Seconds into their set, Reilly got a circle pit started. He’d grown his hair out and done it up in bloody liberty spikes. It looked like a shark’s fin swimming through us in the gyre. Before Reilly could make three revolutions, a kid in an apron broke it up. The punks fell in line and bobbed their heads to the rapid-fire bass triplets, the parabolic and dissonant guitar melody, the tom rolls organized only by chaos, a cacophony not unlike rain, muted and rhythmic, then suddenly torrential. In the chorus, the front man sang in an eagle’s cry, It doesn’t bother me to see you die. It ended with one last burst of frenetic energy, and in the last measure, the time signature changed. The absence of the final note tore the breath from my lungs.

Read the rest at Joyland.


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