The members of this Oakland, CA-based art/rock/punk trio are adamant that their new EP doesn't have a title. It's not self-titled. It's not untitled. It just doesn't have a name. It also doesn't have much in the way of packaging production values -- plastic slip cover, see-through acetate graphics containing only the song titles and the band's logo, an "r" with a circle around it that looks like a big trademark symbol. You can only tell which side of the CD plays, because it's green. Replicator could clearly use a marketing consultant to explain that records usually have names and art and liner notes. I just hope they don't get one soon. Right now they're putting all their energy into the music itself, and it's blowing me away.
The rap on Replicator is that the band rocks too hard for the latte-sipping punk deconstructionists, and at the same time, it's a little too complicated for the guys who just want to party. That's great for the rest of us, because Replicator skates the thin line between thrash and art. It's music that will rock your head while it shakes your body, and split your eardrums while it shatters your misconceptions.
Bob Weston engineered Replicator's full-length debut, Winterval, last year, so it's no surprise that the band is often compared to Shellac. After a hasty side-by-side, I found that the two bands have some features in common: rhythmic backbone, killer bass lines and sudden starts and stops. Replicator adds some interesting tape samples to the mix, including a self-help tape on "Validation Complex". The result is a sound that stands up well -- and not just to Shellac. I put the fourth track, "Epoch", on a tape between Nirvana and Sonic Youth, and there was no sag in the middle.
"Epoch" is the stunning high point of this four-track EP. It starts with a guitar line that runs through an obstacle course of fast triplets, then is pushed from behind by driving drums and bass. The rhythm section in place, Conan Neutron's voice bursts in like a prophet, turning the personal investment-speak of the 1990s into a curse. He shouts, then whispers, "Have your attention. Like a billboard, the ballroom lights up. The stock price is rising. The bottom line's been cut. It's the expenses. The bastards. You never miss a meal. Just in case you're wondering. Here's how we feel. How can you sleep?" Good question.
The tour diary at Replicator's website shows a band still at the beginning of its career, with members getting sick from bad road food, playing at clubs with big smelly dumpsters out front, and expressing gratitude to a couple of audience members who sat right up front all night "with no ear protection". Here's hoping that they make the big time soon, without losing the passion and urgency that makes this short recording great.
