Over 10 years and dozens of releases—both under their current name and previously as End of a Year—the post-hardcore band Self Defense Family have built themselves out of perversity. Before the so-called “emo revival” became widely reported on in 2013, frontman Patrick Kindlon and crew had already rekindled the cathartic desperation of Fugazi’s two primary predecessors in the mid-80s, Rites of Spring and Embrace (“End of a Year” being a song by the latter). Emo never really went away—but with End of a Year, it finally came full circle. Kindlon, though, was just as apt to mix black humor, jarring turns of phrase, and pop-culture references into the band’s otherwise open-hearted hardcore. End of a Year’s gradual evolution into Self Defense Family has given Kindlon even more room to stray from emo fundamentalism—and on Self Defense’s official full-length debut, Try Me, stray he does.
So does the group as a whole. Although most tracks on Try Me are taut and concise, they’re built around churning, sprawling riffs that feel far larger than the songs that contain them. On “Tithe Pig” and “Turn The Fan On”, an atmospheric circularity creeps along, and that lurching, mesmeric sameness hits its apotheosis on “Dingo Fence”, 10 minutes of spiraled repetition that recall the ringing, primordial drone of another Dischord Records legend, Lungfish. But this is music for disrupting trances, not inducing them. “All the dumb cocks, they get what they want,” Kindlon chants with ever-increasing belligerence throughout most of “Dingo Fence”—until he replaces “cocks” with “cunts,” and then ultimately “cops.” His voice is a raw, blunt bark, except for when it drops into a deceptively intimate lull.
The problem with “Dingo Fence” is its intro. During a too-long intro, Kindlon includes what seems like an impromptu, spoken-word studio rant that dwells on his choice of cock, cunt, and cop that soon appears in the song itself. Flippant and dismissive, Kindlon debates how each word choice might be construed before concluding that “I don’t have a preference. I really don’t. I could give a fuck.” It demystifies the song before it even has a chance to kick in—like watching the director’s commentary before seeing the film—and even if that’s the intention, it drains Try Me’s crowning moments of much of their power. It’s a wise-ass move more suited to Kindlon’s noise-punk side-project Drug Church, whose 2013 debut Paul Walker—released months before the actor’s fatal car wreck—works better as a spasm of self-deconstruction.
Elsewhere on Try Me, Self Defense locks into a more focused, if no less corrosive, groove. “Nail House Music” is the album’s high point, a lunging, stomping anti-anthem that draws as much from the pulse of Lifter Puller and Wilderness as it does Fugazi. (Kindlon’s refrain of “I found you in the witch elm/ Who put you in the witch elm?” is strongly reminiscent of Guy Picciotto’s “Out of the ashtray/ Into the ashtray” from Fugazi’s “Runaway Return”.) As he’s done on past releases, Kindlon cedes the mic entirely to singer Caroline Corrigan; “Mistress Appears at a Funeral” is a shadowy tale of infidelity framed in Corrigan’s muted, melodic vocals and a gently tense instrumental. And on the mournful “Apport Birds,” backup singer Kai Stone offsets Kindlon’s choppy, vein-popping philosophizing with breathy whispers.
Try Me’s biggest hurdles aren’t musical—in fact, they’re the absence of music. Clocking in at a combined 39 minutes, the tracks “Angelique One” and “Angelique Two” comprise an interview Kindlon conducted with veteran porn star Jeanna Fine. Kindlon has been upfront about his reasons for splicing these lengthy tracks into the album—foremost among them, his use of Fine’s erotic photos as masturbatory fuel in his youth. In the past, he’s been just as open about his views on sex workers, sexism, and the state of free discourse about such contentious topics in the punk scene. Being confrontational and contrarian is still a part of that discourse for Kindlon, and he walks the walk with “Angelique”. Taken alone, it’s a solid piece of Studs Terkel-esque reportage in which Fine is given free rein to tell the gripping story of her life and experiences in porn. But it imbalances the album, to the point where it’s more of a distraction than an invitation, which is a disservice to Fine’s harrowing narrative. At the same time, it’s a bold move, one of many on Try Me. That they don’t always pay off only makes it that much braver—and that much more of a welcome deviation from the post-hardcore playbook.
