Here’s the thing – people have got to know about this band. Sure, this is just some shitty personal blog, but if someone happens to stumble across it looking for midget porn, and finds this album, then I’ve done my job as a douchey Internet denizen. There’s almost no way that Ausmuteants won’t become their new favourite band. They’re just too fucking brilliant, visceral and goddamn authentic to be ignored.
For a little more context, Ausmuteants ripped their name off some Brazilian band, and inserted enough haywire, schizophrenic synths and noisy feedback to warrant any original members from Suicide to drop their instruments in despair. Coming outta Geelong, Ausmuteants feature members of Frowning Clouds, The Living Eyes, School Damage, Wet Blankets, and pretty much any band that sounds like it was dragged from a murder scene, kicking and screaming with an insane look in their eye. Their first album was a gonad-punch of noise moulded into pop and splintered with all the fucked up shit that harps society.
Their second record built up those stages, but threw in a few more avant-garde pieces, like “I Pissed Myself Twice”. On “Order of Operation”, Ausmuteants finally sound like they’re a full band, not just a collection of screams and howls projecting the most disparagingly funny lyrics onto musical freakouts resembling Jack Nicholson’s eruptive fate in “The Shining”.
Furthermore, these songs are yelping animalistic eyeball poppers, more so than shoving a lawnmower, followed by a bottle of vinegar up your arsehole. A re-vamped version of “Felix Tried to Kill Himself” is so furious and deranged, you’d swear someone was trying to kill the band members in the middle of the recording, and the only way to defend themselves was to throw as much noisy guitar at this Jason Voorhees as possible. The same situation applies to the escaped mental-ward patients of “1982” and “Boiling Point”, songs which reach bleeding, scarred and fucked-up levels of success far too easily.
There isn’t really a moment on “Order of Operation” when Ausmuteants aren’t at their crude, twitching best. When not writing songs about porn (“Freedom of Information”), there’s stuff like the gutter revelation of “Depersonalisation”, which sounds like Ghandi reaching Nirvana whilst living in a compost heap in St Kilda. There’s a slight change of pace, within “Wrong”, about the plight of being a constant disappointment, but this seems less like a #stylisticdeparture rather than just fitting the pretty fucking depressing theme of the song. However, it does show that Ausmuteants hold onto that little bit of empathy, and they’re not too far gone to edge back into this boring realm of humanity.
Ausmuteants, I mean, these guys are fucking supernatural. They pound and thrash, and ruin any concept of cliche with their sheer ecstasy. Accompanied by a fucked up (read: refreshing) sense of humour, and enough schizophrenic bellowing to send the Primitive Calculators reeling, Ausmuteants align themselves with the too-oft ignored progressive punk of the 70’s, stuff like The Monks, The Residents and The Tubes. Maybe I’m dooming myself here by trying to compare Ausmuteants to something else, but it’s meant to be taken as a compliment, and in regard to their ability to be a crass, hyper-real thing of the lore that has somehow been brought to life before people are probably ready for it. It’s with a strong hope that people can recognise how fucking brilliant this band is, and ensure that they become cult idols before they’re using machines to breath.