Fuck Buttons, Holy Fuck, Fuckpony and just plain Fuck. You’re not likely to see the names on too many marquees. Obscurity may be in their cards, but the intentions are questionable. Are they still in the immature, giggly phase where curse words are so deliciously naughty and hilarious? Are they trying to confront the world with casual toss-offs of so-called offensive language (God help us if a white group ever puts the N-word in their name)? Or do they simply just not give a fuck? As for the Canadian post-hardcore group, Fucked Up, it’s probably just a matter of descriptive necessity. After all, anyone who’s ever heard their music before will agree that it’s, well, fucked up.
That’s not to say that they intentionally distance themselves from the pop marketplace or take a route rarely traveled to arrive at their destination. No, they’re not willfully crazy like Mike Patton’s output tends to be. Nor are they musically oblique, pushing together ramshackle noise and fury with no attention to melody or purpose. They just do what they do and we arch an eyebrow and think, “Hm, that’s kind of fucked up.” The punk and hardcore genres are pretty open-ended, but their style is still uncannily different than almost anything in the definition. Where else are you going to find the sound of a quaintly fluttering flute opening up an album as destructive and in-your-face as this?
Fucked Up itself is an unusual outfit. It’s nearly impossible to gauge their discography since they drop singles, EPs and the like as easily as the rest of us toss away tissues. The Chemistry of Common Life is only their second full-length endeavor, but I’ve seen lists that denote that their releases number into the fifties. As for the band itself, there are five official members, a “sometimes” third guitarist and their very own Svengali-type in David Eliade. The musicians all have names both real and fake. Apparently, Mike and Josh just aren’t creative enough monikers for them, so they came up titles such as Pink Eyes, Gulag, 10,000 Marbles, Mustard Gas, Guinea Beat and Younger Governor, not to mention substitutes such as Laundry, Father Damian, Concentration Camp, Slumpy and Mr. Jo. There’s almost more realism in Gorillaz. But the nicknames don’t even hint at their back story, be it truth or mythology. I won’t divulge specifics (not tough to find on the internet), but the behavior can only enhance reputation. Yet reputation alone won’t grant staying power—luckily they have the music to back up the cred.
On The Chemistry of Common Life, Fucked Up uses the guitars of Marbles, Gulag and Younger Gov for their main assaults. Some tracks layer dozens of them at a time. But instead of creating fuzzy walls of sweet noise like on Siamese Dream, Fucked Up angles them away from blanket ambience towards a gut-churning thrash sound. Most other bands are content to let a few fingers decide their impact; Fucked Up prescribes to the notion that no matter how fast, loud and distorted you want to get, musical muscle can be measured by the tuneful richness of the pounding as well. Indeed, no matter how savage they get, there are so many little quirks, either masked or naked to the ear, that make Chemistry such a memorable album.
The aforementioned flute won’t soon be forgotten (it’s also featured as an album outro). Nor will the bongos and Middle Eastern-tinged melody of “Magic Word.” There’s a mystic organ/keyboard intro to “Royal Swan” and a female ooh-ahh opens up the explosion of “No Epiphany”—it’s an interesting counterpoint to Damian Abraham’s (aka Pink Eyes) red-throated howl. “Golden Seal” is a psychedelic space rock number, limiting its punishment solely to the steady pulse of the percussion. “Looking for God” is a tuneful but feedback-heavy instrumental that ends with speaker-swaying echoes. And “Black Albino Bones”’s bridge features a clean but buried vocal line that actually (gasp) sings. Singing returns with a Pink Eyes/Katie Stelmanis duet of sorts on “Royal Swan.” Nicely layered voices perform back-up duties on “Twice Born,” as well. It’s a wonder the band doesn’t employ it more often—bringing a melodic quality to the forefront just gives their visceral performance even more impact. Pink Eyes’ glass-gargling growl can grow a bit tiresome over fifty-plus minutes.
As for the band’s rip-roaring, boot-kicking side, they’re equally skilled with hook-heavy anthems as they are with primal freak-outs. Several tracks clutter the mid-section that could easily be radio hits if not for the band name (“Crooked Hand,” “No Epiphany”). And songs such as “Black Albino Boots” and leadoff “Son the Father” are so melodically intricate that they’re refreshing even on a fifth and sixth run through. Both songs are speaker-shatteringly heavy, but they’re played with restless urgency. At six-and-a-half minutes, “Son the Father” is still over too soon, dominated by a churning four-four rhythm that can get stuck in your head for days. And the closing title track runs even longer, but repeatedly changes its shape just when the blood begins to dry, making it a proper barn burner instead of an endless snoozer.
Fucked Up jumps back and forth between arty cogitation and fist-pumping anthem so easily, it’s impossible to pigeonhole their objective. Do they want us to mosh or meditate? Their performance suggests violence; the themes suggest rumination. Do they want us to rail against society/religion/etc. or just think harder about it? I suppose they think we can have it both ways. But don’t think this is all some gimmick. (Oh, thinking-man’s anarchy? Punks with perception?) They may not be originals in miring music that is all answer with subjects that are all questions, but they do it in such a fundamentally indecisive way. They don’t tell, they wonder. Again, they’re fucked up.
Although I wish Fucked Up was even more experimental in their approach, there’s no denying the sprawling canvas and blood-soaked delivery. They’re miles ahead of the carbon copy acts that litter the scene. At this point, the only way to make this sort of music fascinating is to go minimal or slab on the beautiful sounds. Fucked Up obviously prefers the latter method, so for the time being, there’s no discernible limit to what they could and should do. Chemistry may not be a masterpiece but how often do you find an album that attacks the primitive side without prejudice yet improves after each listen? Oh, they’re not easy? Fuck it.
"The Chemistry of Common Life" is on sale October 7, 2008 from Matador.
