#criswell

Plan 9 from Outer Space (1957) Edward D. Wood Jr.

Sparkstember Day 11: "Mael Predicts"

Israfel Various Artists 1997, Ape

A 1997 vinyl benefit compilation of mostly Middle American grindcore / powerviolence / emo acts, assembled in an edition of about 1000 by Bloomington-based DIY label Ape Records (active 1995 to 2002), in handmade sleeve with a recent release catalogue, a substantial zine, and a few priceless gag inserts (incl. YOUR HARDCORE SELL OUT DECODER RING). I’m not an aficionado of any of the genres Israfel covers by any means, but you’d have to be a real head to know most of these: in terms of notoriety, the Locust (who contribute a 47 second blast of lo-fi outrage) are basically Led Zeppelin compared to the rest of the acts, most of whom topped out with a couple of EPs and compilation appearances.

Of course, hearing music that would otherwise be basically lost to time is the appeal of taking a flyer on a comp like this. One of my favourite tracks is “Untitled” by Roanoke, VA’s the Weak Link Breaks, supposedly the first thing the band ever wrote (and, judging from their discography, nearly the last too). It begins with a very, very quiet spacy-Fugazi-style amble (the vocal harmonies couldn’t be more Ian and Guy) that explodes into a brief screamo-style D-beat section, and then some big heaving riffs that make me want to exaggeratedly lift and stomp my feet like a giant trying to keep his balance. I also dig Murfreesboro, TN’s Serotonin, an emo / post-hardcore act with a steely '80s shred band guitar tone who play like they want people in the pit to twirl around ecstatically instead of slam dancing. A lot of the other nasty yowling cat speedballs on Israfel don’t really catch my ear, but that’s okay—I’m weirdly proud of them 27 years after the fact for being themselves and getting out whatever they needed to get out through this violence.

The package’s tone is all over the place. The zine opens with a haunting description of the compilation’s beneficiaries, the family of a pair of little girls with spinal muscular atrophy (a common birth defect) whose condition worsened until they perished, leaving their parents distraught and financially ruined—and the 21-year-old compiler racked with guilt that he didn’t somehow do more to help. From there, it whips through his heterodox thoughts about the hardcore scene (despicably self-absorbed; unresponsive to requests from label operators); the state of emo (too abstract); the best way to bring about change (working within the capitalist system); rape (it’s bad; consent is black and white; can we stop litigating this in the scene?); calling the cops (fine to do); disrespecting the American flag (played out; tacky); and drinking/drug use (“when did self-destruction become rebellion?”). After he finishes up, each band (that got their artwork in on time anyway) gets a page to talk about themselves. This section is full of old school punk zine/leaflet treasures, with designs that mimic motel newspaper ads, postcards, messy handwritten perzines, and Xeroxed 7” grindcore sleeves.

It's funny reading his scornful words about pseudo-rebellious drunkards stumbling toward “the day when punk rock is shelved for an 8 hour workday, Budweiser, and television” and then finding his LinkedIn, where he describes himself as “driving omnichannel excellence” and as “whimsical (after coffee).” You wouldn’t believe it from the splenetic angst of the Israfel zine, but the guy seems like he turned out happy and normal, with a few kids and a successful career. I wonder how the 21-year-old would see the 48-year-old, if he’d call him a sell-out or feel relieved that things worked out; if the 48-year-old would pity his former self, or feel ashamed about losing his edge. More one-time zinesters and hardcore kids end up looking square from a distance than you’d think (I certainly do if you catch me during the workday), because you usually stop hearing about them when they drop out of the scene. For most, the quiet part of life is the larger portion by far. It’s your choice whether to embrace that, mourn it, or seek your own alternative. But if Israfel reminds us of nothing else, it’s the importance of having a good scream at least once in your life.

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