Black Cock, Robot Child With A God Complex
One of the cruelest things about Black Cock’s relentlessly brutal debut is that it’s actually really good, forcing us to spend the year saying, “We really like Black Cock… No, really.” Hilarious, dudes (and lady-dude). (Perhaps next year some talented motherfuckers can start a band called Eating My Own Poo, or Touching Children Inappropriately.) Like its up-yours moniker, the sci-fi conceit of that title is no accident either: A post-apocalyptic unease pervades the disc, as the twisted-steel slam of the guitar and drums—those last remaining soldiers of mankind’s resistance, nihilists who spend their days blasting Jesus Lizard’s Goat in their tanks to pump themselves up—are dive-bombed by the buzzard-like screech of a battalion’s worth of synths, sparking an album-long back-and-forth tumult between man and machine that was way more entertaining than Terminator: Salvation. Even the ostensible human vocals are vulnerable, stretched and pitched into an otherworldly, bewitching, permanently sneering Greek chorus that seems to find all this death and destruction endlessly amusing. (Or maybe they’re still laughing about that name.)

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