Savages didn’t ask me what I wanted.
They weren’t concerned for my taste.
On Silence Yourselfe, the band channels Joy Division, Siouxsie and the Banshees and the Stooges.
It’s not so much what they are playing but how they are playing it. Those spaces between are coiled and taut.
I didn’t know I would fall in love with them. Their explosive aesthetic.
When I hear people, cloistered, terrified and bitter people make grand pronouncements stating that rock is a bloated corpse and punk has been appropriated by genre fetishists, I take my fingers and plug my ears.
My alternative response: play this fucking record, Silence Yourself, loudly, in the foreground, till the ears begin to bleed a bit.
Savages don’t ask permission but I’ll grant them all they need.
Here, they liquify viewers with a performance on KEXP.
A Coat of Red Paint In Hell 