The Bronx 'Self-Titled (The Bronx)' album

Welcome you to your shitty future. Fucking fusion food and assisted suicide where everything's accepted and nothing works. All those cinematic promises of hoverboards, molecular transport and slave-robots have sold you short.

Since the inception of the group, audio & visiual dissadent have been the agenda. The first offering from The Bronx was 28 minutes of white hot noise, authentic imperfection at its finest, served to the world three times over during two and a half years of extensive touring.

Released in 2003 and accompanied by a handful of EP's and 7-inches, the debut is considered to be virtually out of print in the United States. It's a shame too. It’s a fine record.

In a concerted effort to gain acceptance into a world of grammatically incorrect band names and hair that looks like it was cut with a stapler, the group traveled to El Cajon to meet with a mystic and were told to conceive their new record in the tepid coastal climate of Venice Beach, California where none of the above would possibly be found.

Recorded in a converted methadone clinic a half-block from the Venice boardwalk and inspired by the contrast of its filth and its filthy rich, the method was much the same as the group’s first record - all basic tracks were recorded completely live, capturing the essence of simultaneous, convincing performances. Again, studio perfection wasn’t the measuring stick. The miss-hits and off-notes are all part of the live experience, something the band seems to be championing in these times of glossed over turd-polishing. Vocals were tracked separately on a microphone that Hitler used to address the motherland. Intriguing information, especially when coming from it's owner, the producer, the engineer, a man whose last name happens to be Beinhorn (not German)

The tone of the surroundings slowly began seeping into the essence of the songs: the meth-scuzz of the boardwalk at night, the brown stench of the waters that swirl around the pier, the homeless hot-railing speed in back alleys, $5 rocks for sale on 6th and Brooks It’s all there, where the million dollar condo owners and the insidious current collide. Thematically the record isn’t limited to the same geographical influences, instead it’s composed of a more diverse narrative; white trash mothers giving birth on littered motel beds, the shaking hands of a pursuing psychopath, the Hollywood glam of white boots and a ‘72 El Camino (Gilby Clarke of Guns n Roses made an appearance) while simultaneously flooding the subconscious with images of a greater underlying theme.

Managing to smear the line of division where music and art meet, this record was culled from a palette of cultural and artistic influences that from the 53-second aural equivalent of puking blood that makes up the opening bars of small stone to the Latin-inspired “Dirty Leaves" to the closing notes of the glammed out methadone come-down of “White Guilt” - the record bobs and weaves it way around the sonic landscape, and somehow manages to stay on the tracks, never losing the groove. Wash, rinse, repeat as needed.

Matt Caughthran – Vocals
Joby J. Ford – Guitar
James Tweedy - Bass
Jorma Vik – Drums

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The Bronx - Self-Titled (The Bronx)