Rash Decision- Temporary Worker (Clause 4.1)

(Pumpkin Records)

Here’s what I know about Rash Decision: They’re good. So is this album. It’s a sodding fiver off the internet. Go get it. The end.

In a sane and rational society, I could just leave it at that, and go off for a look out of the window. Look, there’s a cloud that resembles some titties. Aren’t the nights drawing in now? Woah, look down there, it’s that man with the binoculars again, flipping me off.

In the name of abstractly justifying my opinion, because the society we live in is absurd without reprieve, I’m required to pretty much masturbate for 600 words, using this record as a vehicle to deliver tortured metaphor-based jokes that will waste your time and mine. Then I’ll arbitrarily sum up my thoughts on the thing, and I’ll either be mocked, insulted, patronised, or slapped on the back in response. Probably a bit of all four.

You people have taken branded entertainment products to your very bosom, crushing them in your smothering, almond-scented embraces until they become hideously fused to your personality, pushing out everything else that might resemble an actual character. Because of this single, salient fact, you’ll decide, on the basis of some words I sneezed out on a Thursday afternoon, whether to bother buying it or not. So are you punk enough to make… a Rash Decision? Punk?!

If punk is what you like, you could do a lot worse than Temporary Worker, and even if you don’t like punk, it gets in, it does its job and it fucks off again, and it makes a change from whatever dross you normally listen to so buy it anyway. The entire album’s a hair over 13 minutes long, none of the eight tracks make it over three minutes, and in fact most barely make it into double minutes. That’s a species of ruthlessness I respect, especially given my usual diet of bloated prog rubbish. It’s a bit like a fun-size chocolate selection box that is actually fun.

At the core, it’s a frankingstein of thrash, punk and hardcore influences, which is a sentence you could have just read on their myspace page, by the way, lazybones. It’s a bit of a problem for me, though, since the influences are so well-blended, you can’t really tease them out without fucking up the entire Jenga soufflé. Or maybe I’m just rubbish. Probably that one.

I can say it’s about as noisy as that particular mélange of genre appellations would suggest. Singer Dave Decision has got a big baggy-throated bark, such that a circle pit down the front might stand a chance of coming a cropper by skidding off a phlegm. His voice reminds me of that enormous fucker out of Orange Goblin, except sped up by a factor of thirty or forty. It’s well good.

Then again, it’s a bit like Crucial Unit in its thrashier passages, but with a singer who sounds like his testicles have descended. Actually, I just learned that this sounds fucking boss as hell if you accidentally play some Crucial Unit at the same time. Official Demon Pigeon lifehack.

Here are songs I particularly like (I like them all) by the band Rash Decision, from the album Temporary Worker (Pumpking Records):

  • Railings, in which we kick off with a big rowdy HEY over a bite-size chugging (relatively, anyway) metal riff. Then the leadfoot is applied, and it breaks hell for leather in the direction of thrash alley, where arses are thrashed all day long. Also it is over quicker than it takes to write a sentence describing it.
  • Rabid Hackery, in which we are eased gently into the song with a quintet of wonderful tom runs, such that you emerge with a broken nose. Then there’s a fiddly-diddly guitar solo that lasts approximately eight seconds, yet is fucking genius in spite, or because of that.
  • Insurance/Submission, in which we find a shouty clattering punk song with an honest-to-god riff, and a coda where that riff is then pushed out to the middle of the stage to do its turn for the nice misters and missuses. It somehow manages to feel epic in the space of 90 seconds.
  • Veins, in which the only thing I can think of to say about it is that he sounds like he’s shouting FACE in the chorus, which, for no readily identifiable reason, reminds me of this cgi reconstruction of Keith Chegwin’s face:

Which in turn, makes me laugh. Good work, lads.

Buy this album, it’s great. Now fuck off and leave me be.



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