(Matador Records/Remote Control)

Fuck yeah.

Just like Admiral Ackbar said during the final assault on the Death Star, it’s a trap! What is? The sweetly ethereal flute solo at the beginning of Son Of The Father that introduces the latest album by Toronto act Fucked Up. God knows what number album it officially is, because after seven years of split-EPs, 7-inches, compilations and various fake releases, your guess is no better than mine. But yes, Son Of The Father is more than five minutes of drilling guitars and the vocal tag team of Pink Eyes and Mustard Gas, which sounds somewhat akin to the Cookie Monster arguing with Sailor Moon. No, seriously. From here on in, there aren’t many surprises, but it’s the sound of a band that treads the fine line between confidence and predictability. The post-hardcore sounds they are traditionally know for are five minute chunks of balls to the wall wanton destruction and madness, but the band know when and how to introduce melody at crucial moments, to counteract any feelings of complacency. No Epiphany contains a slyly subtle backwards guitar part, a melding of psychadelia and punk attitudes that must take cues from MC5. Black Albino Bones is another treasure, with guest vocals courtesy of Dallas Green that almost give it a new wave vibe. Thankfully, unlike his City And Colour persona, Green manages to keep his wimpy falsetto voice at home. For a band with a profanity that made guitarist Mr Jo’s father want to vomit, a band that is also currently suing Rolling Stone and Camel Cigarettes for using their name in advertising without permission, Fucked Up continue to push the boundaries of hardcore punk and Star Wars analogies.

****

MITCH ALEXANDER

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