WET PISS: S/T

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     The only proper way to listen to Wet Piss is on tape. It seems like when they formed they did so with the medium in mind, their scuzz-rock perfectly tailored to the impromptu cracks and background static. For the Chicago based band, those audible imperfections give them that distinctly punk character, like you’re listening to some rough cut they raced through in an outpour of energy and anger. Pressing play on one of those neon yellow Dumpster Tape cassettes feels like committing a subtle act of rebellion, like you’re about to burn some shit down and tear up the neighborhood.

     Side A kicks off with “Outcome,” synonymous with attitude issues and dinghy bar lighting, there’s a dead energy that makes you want to move, mosh, and dive straight into the abyss of the sound they create. The repetition of ‘come out’ gives the band a chance to go off on earth shaking tangents equally droning and distorted. That lo-fi quality bleeds into “The Kiss,” its rough edges and rumbling bassline buried under a sea of fuzz pierced by the grungey vocals. A dulled down banger, “Ayesha” feels as distant as close can be. Simultaneously it’s like being jolted awake and slipping into the void, a white noise that seems mindless but lurid.

     Flying straight into Side B, “Ready To Go” manipulates the static itself weaving in and out of the breakneck guitar solos and quaking vocals. It seems like they’ve kicked into overdrive and the only way to stop is through a head on collision. “I Am A Cell Phone” races on in every direction, buckling and swearing in a psyched out haze. All that pent up speed and aggression comes out in “Way To Go,” with the wailing guitar and thundering percussion. It seems to melt into a pool of sludgy feedback that swirls and drifts into a tense silence, leaving you suspended in a sense of anticipation.

     Wet Piss is seismic. The sheer force and energy beneath the surface in their lo-fi recordings is akin to tectonic plates shifting and moving beneath the ground. Perpetually on the brink of explosion, a collision could set the whole thing off. Instead their noise-punk verges on monotonous and reserved, a sort of dangerous reverence. There’s a constant paranoia that at any moment those subtle tremors will turn into an earthquake.

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samantha sullivan