Milemarker

When Milemarker started tempering its abrasive, politically informed punk with keyboards, electronic twiddles and female vocals, it lost a few fans. Among them were esoterica enthusiasts who equated accessibility with weakness, and choreography connoisseurs who, when confronted with a real dance beat, resented being unable to bust hardcore moves such as the swinging-gorilla-arm and the lawnmower-yank. Those who stuck with the group soon learned it had sacrificed little of its experimental nature or confrontational edge. Its synthesizers form melodic skeletons, which the group crushes with bone-breaking drum blasts and fractured guitar riffs. Roby Newton’s wispy ooh ooh accents seem, in the context of these chaotic compositions, to be haunting the songs rather than sweetening them. Milemarker views vocals as just another component in its mix, one that can be overlapped or violently distorted. Its intelligent lyrics sometimes get lost in the shuffle, but the tunes don’t suffer; the parts interlock perfectly, eliminating the need for a singer in the spotlight. Milemarker churns through ten-minute songs with unceasing intensity, running marathons at a sprinter’s pace.