ALBUM REVIEW: Sons of Disaster – Cursed

Not to be confused with Maylene’s Alabama-based Sons of Disaster, this Brussels quintet peddles a more straightforward brand of heady, Punk-steeped Rock. Sophomore album Cursed (Mottow Soundz) sees the band return from hiatus to deliver a no-nonsense follow-up.

a theme which is apparent right from the off with opener ‘Die Motherfucker’, a rampant Rock ‘n’ Roll bluster with Greg Triest‘s slurred vocal shouted over galloping riffs and rhythm. The following ‘Frites, Putes, Bagarres’ (meaning ‘Fries, Whores, Fights’ in French) is another track speeding over bullet-riddled corpses, loading in with breakneck force and flying back out after causing utter mayhem: and while ‘Burning Hearts’ eases its foot off the pedal slightly, this only serves to show that the good-time, hard-partying nature of the band does not disrupt the hard-hitting tightness they possess.

Serious Punk Rock basics get in the ring with the bruising, rattling ‘Pain is my Home’, the twin guitar attack of Selim Mahdhi and JT Paridaens creating violent buzzsaw patterns over a battering rhythm section: while those guitars add Thin Lizzy-esque dual melodies to the crushing ‘HRIR’, Gilles Gutmann‘s muscular bass putting the flesh on Felix Trossat‘s hammering stickwork. It’s uncompromising, brutal yet catchy as hell: a template encapsulated in the anarchic, seemingly autobiographical ‘Boozin N Drivin’, a snarling attitude riding another barrelling groove monster with sparse yet effective melody and chants tailor-made for the live setting. ‘Land Of The Sons’ doesn’t waver from the path, a Hardcore breakdown the only respite from an exhausting yet joyous workout, the speed of the punches akin to how it must have felt to be one of Mike Tyson‘s early opponents.

‘U.S. Bitch’ returns to that early Rock ‘n’ Roll format but loses none of the angry swagger, brief lead flurries harking back to the halcyon days of the Punk movement: and whereas the penultimate ‘Zero Authority’ may be a little slower in pace, it still exudes a ‘don’t mess’ arrogance. Thrash-infused closer ‘Fuck You’ mixes Anthrax with a Beastie Boys brattishness and that Pistols-style veering guitar, ending a half-hour of full-on sneering that, despite offering nothing new, will have you returning for another can of whup-ass whenever the chance arises.

7 / 10

PAUL QUINN