Review Summary: in which we improve U.S.-Canada relations with the power of rock
At the risk of engaging in baseless stereotype with my northern neighbors for the worst episode in our shared history since the Pig Incident of 1859 (this really happened, huh?) my warm-blooded American ass has finally gotten to the bottom of the whole “how are Canadians so
nice?” front. Hear me out: better health infrastructure? Not according to them, even if the numbers say otherwise. Stronger sense of civic responsibility? Debatable—la rivalité interprovinciale est une bête en soi. Does kindness innately seep out of all the maple sap? Not if this born-and-raised New Englander has anything to say about it. Go searching for a fringe explanation and you'll only lose yourself in the process. The answer has been in front of us this whole time: it's their noise rock scene.
Just open the lid and see for yourself: the recently defunct METZ, perpetually overlooked KEN mode, and momentarily brilliant Preoccupations collectively suggest that behind every Canuck’s inviting smile lies a gnarling grit demanding an outlet for their latitudinally-challenged circumstance. Long nights and longer winters aren’t an excuse to put the world on stand-by, forcing all in the Great White North to compartmentalize conflict, and it shows in their sustained choice and chief export of sonic escapism: the Canadian underground has a knack for combining cavernous, bellowing instrumentation with disarmingly approachable attitude, and on the verge of yet another revolution for Best in Show, Saskatchewan-based power trio Blue Youth have reared their heads and re-entered the race with their second LP,
Defeatist, in tow.
It's a strong bid, albeit a mighty condensed one—10 tracks running a combined 33 minutes doesn’t afford the group much time to waste, and they veer perilously close to doing just that on this slim package’s three interludes (two of which, “Lost, Spinning in Time” and “JLB,” are effectively tonal mortar). The actual brickwork thankfully holds under scrutiny: most of the album's meatier cuts, especially up-tempo highlights “T.K.Y.I.T.H.Y.,” “Patient Patient,” and “Redacted,” don’t simply bash skulls—they completely fuckin’
groove, highlighting prominent interplay between Gage McGuire’s feisty vocals, his just as shell-shocked and eminently hummable riffs, and the rhythm section’s perky poise. On that note, Jon Wolfond’s bass is dialed the hell
in, guttural tone setting the red carpet down through the post-metal-tinged title track, post-punk-adjacent “Two Faces,” and every screed in between.
For better or worse, all of
Defeatist seesaws between those two decidedly grayscale sub-influences, but it gets sizable mileage (er- kilometerage? Has this bit gone on long enough?) out of stomping on whichever seat momentarily rests perched off the ground. Whether McGuire’s seethed spite (see “These Hands’” railing against the self-important, abhorrent, and boring) or his fretted friskiness (the metallic jangle to “Modern Lover” and searing pitch bends on...most tracks here) command your immediate attention, all three members of Blue Youth—rounded out by the velocity-happy Garret Matheis on drums—operate in lockstep to smash, smother, or strangle in unison. They’re as cohesive, confident, and clamorous as a band operating in the space between "punk" and "punk but
~slower~" can get, and the only real expense they trade in is not treading anything that could be considered novel ground.
Still, their flaunted formula prevails for a reason:
Defeatist is like a decadent scoop of gourmet vanilla: inherently short on surprises, but committed to replicating a tried-and-true flavor without an ounce of artificiality. If rumors of its sheer hookiness or its irresistible swaying or its top notch production (nice work, Chris Dimas) haven’t done the trick for you yet, let the fact that Zegema Beach Records, screamo’s most devoted stalwarts, took a step back from their calling card because they were too compelled to let this album slip by without getting their hands on it. Unprecedented? I suppose not. Earned? Absolutely. Quintessentially Canadian? Fly whichever flag you want, really. Blue Youth’s Name Your Price asking rate makes quick work of the whole border fiasco for a unifying cause: broadcasting highly replayable tunes about raw nerves and measured rage for all the world to hear. Another win for armchair diplomacy.
