14 Oct 2016

Cabbage / Uber Capitalist Death Trade (EP review)

Cabbage are the most exciting new band in the UK. With their debut EP, which came out earlier this year, they set the tone for their future filth with songs like Dinner Lady (a modern day masterpiece about a dinner lady that gets apathetic towards private school pupils so has "a wank in the quiche") and White Noise (chaos). With this EP, Uber Capitalist Death Trade, the band snarl and jibe with some of the sleaziest and most self aware punk rock we've heard in a while.

Cabbage's sound is the marriage of The Fat White Family and The Buzzcocks, and they're so full of vitriol, hatred, and darkness, that even on record they sound inescapably confrontational and just dangerous. The title track has echoes of Raining In Your Mouth, with it's animalistic vocal hollers and jumpy Gun Club riffage, while the ramshackle pseudobilly of Free Steven Avery (Wrong America) sees the Mancunians howling "death to Donald Trump" over and over again. A bad thing? I think not.

On Lies About Manchester, it gets a bit meta as the caustically deconstruct the idea of Manchester's mythology, in what I'd imagine is Britain's equivalent to Losing My Edge. "I've had a pint with every member of The Fall," the singer snarls, and refrains with the oh-so-cliche "I saw the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall" (which is probably a lie you've heard more than once if you live in that part of the world). Caustic, sarcy, wry smile-a-minute, it's Cabbage at their most disconcertingly filthy, and in this case, the word filthy is definitely a good descriptor.

Last month, we saw the release of Tunbridge Wells punk band Slaves' second album, and it made us all a bit uneasy about what 'punk' meant in 2016. But Cabbage are raw, poiltically charged, and above all, dangerous. With this EP, it feels like everything could explode at any second, like everything's alive and on edge. Combine Uber Capitalist Death Trade, and their earlier EP Le Chou, you got yourself some (necessarily) fucked up tunes for some fucked up times.



Words: Cal Cashin