Although it has a legendary reek is some circles, the actuality of the Western Mass Hardcore scene is really kinda gloopy. I mean, for all extents and purposes, the Pajama Slave Dancers were the kings of the Valley. And there’s just no way that a milieu dominated by a goddamn funny punk band can
really be maxist. But it’s worth bearing in mind that Hardcore was a predominantly suburban artform. Even the bands that became associated with certain cities were usually from the environs, rather than any downtown you’d recognize.
Because of this, Hardcore was one of the first underground musical movements that was instigated by teens themselves (rather than culturally-aware chickenhawks), and it was also a pit of anguished
non-erotic-male-bonding. Drinking, drugs, wanton sex, none of these timeless topics was celebrated inside the Hardcore vortex. If these guys shared any Dionysian impulses they were directed towards record collecting, skateboarding and dancing around in weird tribal circles.
Which is not to say these bands didn’t rip; they did. They created a crashing, post-glottal tongue-universe inside the heart of the Reagan Era, and destroyed (once and for all) the idea that it was necessary to maintain any real barrier between the audience and the band.
That said, Deep Wound, was a strange and powerful unit inside the doctrinaire confines of Hardcore. Although they were all kinda nerdy(excepting secret weapon Charlie Nakajima), they shredded in a very explicit way. There were some obvious structural debts to the Oi! Bands in their
compositions, but they approached the exterior textures with stylistic nuances that were distinctly North American. As the Neos did on their Hassiban Gets the Martian Brain Squeeze EP, Deep Wound compressed time in ways that were extreme, and way outside the standard Square Dance beat that had been defined by Robo’s drumming for Black Flag.
But Deep Wound’s actual story is nothing out of the ordinary. It is but a minor variation on a thousand others.
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