His curved neck bent right back to see the swan
Dreading the four steps up and over to where we ran
I reached the viewing point and I sit here watching and waiting
But then sometimes life’s unkind
Boston’s GOSSIP COLLAR makes post-punk as though somebody locked Ladytron in an abandoned theater with a deathrock band, a stack of Killing Joke records, several reels of damaged fairy-tale film, and instructions that nobody gets out until dawn. Somewhere behind the electronic throb and serrated guitar on their latest offering, the EATEN OF WORMS LP, there is also the emotional breadth of the Chameleons, a little Breeders crookedness, and that marvelous early-goth conviction on bass guitar.
The band began with best friends playing and dancing in a dark Boston basement at the tail end of the pandemic, drawing together members of The Showcase Showdown, Spitzz, and Secret Hearts. They describe this incarnation as their “dark punk chapter,” which sounds about right, though “chapter” seems almost too civilized for music filled with drowning sailors, torn bodies, predatory birds, collapsing circuses, religious dread, and people standing beside freezing seas wondering precisely when existence developed such a personal vendetta.
There are obvious ancestral spirits here: Xmal Deutschland, Parálisis Permanente, early Siouxsie and the Banshees, the strange congregation that gathered around the London Batcave when punk discovered it could wear theatrical makeup without surrendering its teeth. They sound less interested in reconstructing 1982 than in asking what happens when those old poisons get poured into present-day arteries. Their live pedigree adds another clue. GOSSIP COLLAR have shared stages with The March Violets, Pink Turns Blue, Rendez-Vous, Haunt Me, House of Harm, Fotocrime, and Sympathy Flowers, placing them comfortably among bands for whom darkness still needs rhythm, muscle, and enough propulsion to keep bodies moving even while the songs are busy describing spiritual ruin.
Throughout the songs on EATEN OF WORMS, nature rarely provides comfort. Seas threaten to swallow people, birds wait for flesh, wolves pursue deer, plants cut skin, rain destroys, and the night contains forces that clearly have not received the memo about personal boundaries. GOSSIP COLLAR’s apocalyptic fairy tale grows out of this collision between childhood imagery and adult terror, where forests, animals, oceans, and old religious symbols have all turned slightly hostile. Edgar Froese once said, “There is no death, there is just a change of our cosmic address.” GOSSIP COLLAR sound perfectly capable of furnishing the house he moved into.
Disguise My Heart opens with a saxophone-like drone, its low complaint quickly overtaken by a deep, quick-moving bassline and drums that strike with the urgent physical force of Joy Division’s Love Will Tear Us Apart. The guitars pick out a cold, melodic figure before heavier layers gather around it, giving the song a density that makes the vocal seem to travel from somewhere beyond the instruments. Witchy and windblown, the voice calls through the mix with a banshee’s sense of occasion, stretching the distance between the rhythm section’s forward charge and the solitary figure waiting beside the Northern Sea. Freezing water, aching eyes, and blood threatening to turn cold give emotional injury a bodily presence; the guitars seem to press against the skin as insistently as the memories. Even as the drums push onward, the song remains fixed on that desolate stretch of coastline. Heartbreak becomes architectural here: eventually you stop carrying it around and simply move into it.
Scavengers follows with a sheet of cold guitar and an insistent bass throb, burying an unusually inviting melody several layers into the disturbance. When the arrangement briefly catches its breath, the bass leads the voice into view, exposing the sharp, declamatory cadence beneath its witchy inflections. There is an anarcho-punk edge to the delivery, a sense that these words are being hurled across a room even as the guitars make that room feel enormous. That force suits a song whose speaker lies broken, bleeding, and apparently available to whatever happens to be circling overhead. The hook keeps drawing the ear back through the commotion while memories collect like personal debris beside the body. Death may happen quickly, destruction takes its time, and the promise of resurrection supplies a final complication. Apparently even carrion birds are going to have to wait their turn.
A brief arc of distortion introduces Big Top Comes Crashing Down, followed by a jagged guitar figure that rings with the blunt insistence of a tolling bell. Once the drums and bass hit, the riff acquires a crooked melodic momentum, turning its initial severity into something almost indecently catchy. Above it, the vocal echoes with a thunderous breadth, making the performance feel much larger than the cramped emotional circumstances it describes. White greasepaint goes on, the smile gets rehearsed again, and another day disappears beneath the effort of remaining presentable. That circling guitar figure becomes an apt accompaniment to the work of doing it all again tomorrow. The image of someone maintaining the same expression for ten years on Exmouth Street carries the ugly comedy of a photograph that has outlived everybody’s patience. Keep smiling hard enough and sooner or later your face becomes part of the prison.
Haerisis gives the bass room to announce itself, opening with a thick, deliberate strut locked to the drumbeat. Sustained guitar tones spread above that steady march, and the clearer placement of the vocal lets its chanting insistence register more directly. The arrangement has a substantial physical weight, with dense guitar chords and more melodic lines carrying on around a groove that remains easy to follow through all the theological panic. Blood, broken bones, forbidden chalices, frozen streams, wolves, and deer crowd the lyrics, turning belief into a landscape where almost everything can injure you. The sustained tones lend those images a sense of scale, while the rhythm section keeps their violence close enough to feel. There is something particularly effective about the orderly tread beneath all this religious dread: the song advances with the certainty of a procession whose destination nobody has thought to question.
On Dead Thing, a heavy wash of guitar gives way to the splash and momentum of the drums, with the opening density settling into a firm support for the melody. Another weighty riff sweeps through the arrangement, while a persistent guitar drone keeps pressure on the spaces between its movements. The vocal sounds cavernous, its thunderous resonance making each phrase seem to return from the far end of a large, inhospitable room. Those overlapping guitar textures give the song’s fascination with self-destruction considerable force. Lions are led by their manes, weapons are made, and human ingenuity eventually discovers the convenience of turning its own inventions inward. Scars become evidence and shame becomes inheritance, yet the drums maintain enough movement to make the plea for dancing feel entirely plausible. Tenderness enters through the side door wearing funeral clothes, and the rhythm section has already made room for it.
Why Me? begins with eerie chimes and a low drone, suggesting an old piano being played somewhere beyond the inhabited rooms of a house. A thick bass figure gradually establishes the song’s tension, recalling the stalking movement of the Cure’s A Forest with considerably more weight behind each step. The vocal holds its heat close, sounding troubled and intimate against the spacious opening. Around the halfway point, heavier guitars enter and the arrangement settles into a cold gothic-rock groove, increasing the pressure while keeping its movements controlled. That restraint gives the lyrics’ grotesque physical imagery additional bite. Red lips, internal screaming, and organs hanging from trees turn desire into a form of captivity, while the bass continues its patient inspection. The fascination directed toward the speaker feels increasingly forensic, as though somebody has been pinned beneath a collector’s glass and asked to appreciate the compliment.
The uneasy string-like tones and warbles that open Peaceful in Daylight make its title seem optimistic well before the kick drum lands. Arcs of cold guitar stretch across the entrance, then the full beat pushes the song into motion, carrying heavy riffs and a vocal whose witchy bite grows sharper against the instrumental weight. Seaweed, dense smoke, cutting thorns, broken walls, injured skin, and abandoned nests accumulate in the lyrics, filling the song with evidence that something has gone badly wrong. The arrangement gives that damaged environment a restless physical life; every forward push seems to uncover another unpleasant detail. An old-school rock guitar solo adds a flash of theatrical excess, briefly letting the instrument take over the voice’s fevered work. Daylight may make this place easier to inspect, but there is very little in the music to suggest that inspection will bring reassurance.
Spelling Misery initially gives its guitar melody a clear view of the room. The figure rises and falls over a solid rhythm section, its easy memorability providing a point of reference before heavier guitars and dark vocals crowd into the arrangement. Further melodic details appear as the song progresses, with a recurring gothic-rock guitar phrase adding small complications to the surrounding force. Those returns keep the ear attached to the song even as its family portrait becomes increasingly difficult to look at. Anger lives in the blood, a father kills the fatted calf in nervous rage, and memory falters under the effort of naming what has happened. Biblical promises of shelter follow: arrows will fail, feathers will cover the vulnerable body, and fear might be held outside for another night. The returning guitar figure offers a little steadiness amid those appeals, though the heavier passages make the promised protection feel precarious.
Unsafe State opens with a buzzing synthesizer pulse and cold electronic tones, briefly suggesting a turn toward synthwave before the melodic resonance of the post-punk guitars establishes its place on the record. The vocal sits more clearly in the mix, and its somber delivery makes the song’s vulnerability unusually exposed. Where other tracks enlarge their distress through dense guitars and cavernous echoes, this one allows the words to feel nearer, with the electronic repetition giving them an uneasy regularity. Eyes lose their rhythm, time becomes a dark tunnel, and the speaker digs until their nails hurt while dead souls call from somewhere nearby. The guitar melody carries that distress with a fragile clarity, giving the song an emotional directness that makes its domestic setting especially troubling. Home is supposed to provide some distance from danger; here, danger has apparently obtained a key.
The closing Merchants of the Wave begins with a bassline that shifts up and down, setting a rolling motion beneath a classic post-punk guitar figure. Broader gothic-rock arcs develop around that melody, while the ghostly vocal seems suspended above the rhythm section’s steady movement. The arrangement gives the record’s returning ocean imagery a physical shape: friends venture onto dangerous seas, boats pitch, beds shake with frantic dreams, and tears become indistinguishable from salt water. The bass keeps the song moving beneath those anxious visions, its rises and falls suggesting the uncertain footing of people trying to remain upright. Prayer repeats because repetition may be the only available defense against forces too large to negotiate with. The sea that opened the album as a place of private emotional exposure becomes a shared source of fear here, carrying the possibility that somebody loved might disappear beyond reach.
GOSSIP COLLAR keeps returning to bodies under pressure: freezing, bleeding, scratched, exposed, dissected, exhausted, threatened with consumption or drowning. Yet these bodies persist. They dance. They pray. They disguise themselves. They paint their faces. They get abandoned to scavengers and announce plans to rise anyway.
Musically, that stubbornness comes through in the combination of deathrock abrasion and electronic precision. Imagine Ladytron discovering a box of Killing Joke singles beneath the floorboards, then recruiting the Chameleons to widen the horizon while somebody from the Breeders quietly rearranges the furniture. Beneath all the gothic architecture runs punk’s ancient belief that anxiety becomes considerably more useful once somebody gives it a bassline.
That may be why GOSSIP COLLAR’s particular apocalypse remains so inviting. Civilization has collapsed, the circus tent is falling, the sea wants your body, God may or may not be answering correspondence, and several animals appear to have questionable intentions. Fine. There is still a song playing downstairs.
Might as well dance before the scavengers get here.
Listen to EATEN OF WORMS below and order the album, out now via Bat-Cave Productions, here.
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The post Boston’s GOSSIP COLLAR Explore Faith, Fear, and the Frailty of Flesh on Gothic Post-Punk LP “Eaten of Worms” appeared first on Post-Punk.com.
