Allow me to open by telling you about a Tweet I saw once. I can’t find it now, but the gist of it went something like this: “Screamo fans will be like, ‘this song is absolutely legendary’ and then play the worst music you’ve ever heard.”
A bit of an exaggeration, but there’s a lot of truth in it. If you grew up listening to hardcore and emo like me, then you’ve probably had run ins with screamo fans (or “skramz” as they sometimes call it). I’ve been on the receiving end of multiple diatribes explaining that screamo isn’t just what your mom calls any music with screaming in it (I’ve heard Thrice, Taking Back Sunday, and Alcest all called screamo at various points). Screamo is its own thing, and it’s the best thing. They’ve gone on to describe a passionate whirlwind of music that oscillates between chaotic bursts of harder-than-hardcore energy and emoer-than-emo delicacy, and throw out bands like Orchid or Saetia or pg.99.
And if you’re anything like me, those bands were just about the least enjoyable thing you’ve ever heard.
But something about the way screamo fans described the bands they loved that always stuck with me. And I’ve found several ways to scratch that itch—bands that pack their sonic palettes with very heavy and very delicate shades alike. But very rarely will a band pull it off with the raw passion and vulnerability that I’ve been told screamo has.
Enter Chalk Hands. The Brighton quartet has followed up on some promising EPs and splits with their debut album Don’t Think About Death. Despite a runtime just over thirty-five minutes, this is an absolutely massive statement. Songs twist and shift in unexpected ways: rapid-fire guitar riffs and mosh-pit ready beats melting into spacious post rock atmospherics or delicate fragility on a dime. Most of the tracks run into one another without stopping. There are glimpses of math rock, post-hardcore, sludge metal, and a whole lot of post rock. As of this writing, I’m on my third consecutive listen, and the ride hasn’t gotten predictable.
Chalk Hands bears a certain resemblance to Japanese screamo outfit Envy (who I should note I love), merging violent punk catharsis with post rock grandeur in a similar way. There are several moments of extended ambience or long instrumental passages punctuating the desperate shouts of both the instruments and the vocals.
This sort of sonic push and pull is something that a lot of bands use (or overuse) in their bag of tricks, but few do it this deftly. In a way, it feels like the record itself is breathing. It shouts at the top of its lungs, pauses to catch its breath, then resumes its tirade. It gives the record an organic feeling, like the band itself is a living thing.
So maybe, after years of scoffing at skramz fans, it turns out they were right after all. It’s just that Chalk Hands actually pulls off what they claim their heroes do.
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