The Flatliners

If you spent every minute, every penny of your adult life on the road, you might make a record like Dead Language.
There’s something that happens when four people have been playing music together, day in and day out, for ten years. In every basement, every colossal concert hall, every small European nation that would have them, the same four people playing the same four instruments. A full decade of plane tickets and van repairs and hangovers and fast food. At some point, the interaction between instruments, between members, transcends the brotherly love of most touring bands and enters the terrifying realm of twin telepathy. The Flatliners aren’t just four dudes banging out riffs five hundred miles from home every night. They’re four dudes banging out riffs in the hallways of the Overlook Hotel just like the unsettling twin girls in the The Shining. You see what I’m getting at yet?
It’s been three years since Cavalcade (2010), The Flatliners’ most successful album to date. A behemoth of a record, it brought famous friends like A Wilhelm Scream and Dillinger Four into the fold for huge songs like “Shithawks” and “Bleed.”
Which is why Dead Language is the perfect response – it’s the brutally crisp sound of four people in a room, the sonic payoff of a decade of learning how to play as one fierce unit. Its strength doesn’t come from racks of guitars or bass drops, but from its sparse precision. The band’s songwriting chops are as honed as their playing, allowing them the freedom to bang out their point quickly (“Young Professionals”) or take their time to make an impact (“Ashes Away”).
The Flatliners’ records have always been an accurate, honest portrait of where the band lived, from the youthful explosion of Destroy to Create (2005) to the nuance of blooming adulthood on The Great Awake (2007), Which is why Dead Language, the band’s most direct and vital record to date, is the monument to the honesty of ten years in the trenches that it has to be.

A fashion-crust Pollack, a dude that looks like if Ben Franklin was young and handsome, a drunken 90lb weakling and a hair-farming little guy that looks like he either parties with the Beastie Boys or the Arab Spring walk into a bar. Sounds like the start of a pretty good joke right? Well, this joke calls itself the Holy Mess and chances are that it walks into a bar, breaks a bunch of things, insults a few people, angrily grumbles and then melts your dick right off your pelvis with their sloppily aggressive take on the already sloppy and aggressive pop punk sound popularized by bands like Dillinger 4 and Lifetime. The punchline of the joke is that the Holy Mess don't give a fuck on a level so profound that when I asked them some history so I could write this bio I just got a message back that said "if that ain't country, I'll kiss your ass." Yet somehow, they have managed to crank out a modern masterpiece of booze soaked, regret fueled bangers that they've foolishly titled "Cande Ru Las Degas" and even more foolishly left up to the flying monkeys over at Red Scare Industries to disseminate to the masses, and said dissemination will commence August 2012, so hold onto your fancy opera glasses, grandpa. -Brendan Kelly

$12.00 - $14.00

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The Flatliners with The Holy Mess, August Ruins

Thursday, June 6 · Doors 6:00 PM / Show 6:30 PM at Smiling Moose - Upstairs