SCABS

“I was supposed to cover their show a couple of months ago but it was cancelled by the sour luck combo of cops and an overpopulated Bison b.c. gig the night before. But what’s done is done, so it’s probably best to just chill, scrape the tar out of the pipe and do some blades, and let my sold soul spiral into the sonic iris, constricted halo, ruptured infection and slipped disk of Scabs. The easy way to describe this would be to say it’s like a bloody head-on collision between Converge and Entombed, or between Bolt Thrower and Fear Before The March of The Flames. But a phenomenon like this is deserving of more in depth comparisons than that so: Chad Jones’ vocals are like a triangulation of the demonic energies of Jake Sayles, Phil Anselmo and a very young and agitated version of either Harley Flanagan or Henry Rollins. The guitars are clear and complex, but thankfully laced with a cool, old school, minimalist dosage. And what would the drums be without super crisp blast beats, clever breakdowns, and the slightest odour of a free jazz influence? All together, this swarm climaxes into a dirty, crooked needle pushed awkwardly into every yogic chakra. The first time I saw this band was on March 7, 2007 (coincidentally my brother’s 25th birthday) at Pub 340. I was effing hammered by the time they played, also covered in dirt, blood, beer, sweat and maybe tears and hopefully not vomit. I wasn’t expecting to see anything that would have topped She Deserved It’s stellar performance, aided by the relentless smashing of bottles over heads until blonde and brunette mullets turned into bloody mops (I’m not exaggerating), was something to behold. But, un-cowed by this onslaught, Scabs hit the nail right into the head, leaving this author and many other new fans with a deep and lasting impression. When the singer released his first gestated gurgle-burp I felt all the wires cross, hesitate to short-circuit, then carry on to oblige whatever duration these stormtroopers would inflict. Chad’s whole body shook! It looked painful. Have you ever screamed so hard and for so long that you almost blacked out and ended with the same kind of stars and pinpricks a concussion gives you? That’s what it looked like he was doing. I think there’s something to be learned about the will of the human spirit somewhere in this display. Seriously. The only thing that could have made it more intense would be if he’d picked up one of those broken bottles and like totally gutted himself. I’m glad he didn’t. Pick Scabs!”-Michael Woods – The Skinny Magazine Issue 15