Listening to the new Metz records – their debut, despite being around since 2007 – feels like admiring your hard won facial bruises after a long night in a venue with a conspicuously sticky floor. Let me reiterate. It doesn’t sound like listening to a recording of that, but rather like it’s happening right then and there, even if you’re sitting quietly at your desk, or perhaps wearing headphones in the waiting room of your doctor’s office. It’s immaculately recorded to deliver every skullpunch with maximum ferocity. The Toronto three piece even includes an interlude track, “Nausea”, recorded what seems like live and lo-fi – slapdash – to remind you how much work they put into Metz to make it so gleefully punishing.
The emotion behind the music might be simple, but the execution sure as hell isn’t. You don’t need to buckle down and pore over the thing with a fine tooth comb to enjoy it, but conscientious listening (and repeat plays) are definitely reward, revealing things like the subtle background vocals on “Get Off”, or the shocking fullness of the bass riff and brutality of the drum bridge on “Sad Pricks.” By now you’ve probably noticed how humorously bleak the song titles are, and while this album won’t win any awards for lyrical content, I think Metz would only have one, absolutely correct thing to say about that: “who gives a fuck?” The sound is so exhilarating, you’ll shout along to whatever damn words they string together.
Metz is full of just really great moments, like slam-intro of “Rats”, or the wonderfully poppy out-of-nowhere chorus of “The Mule”, but it’s true victory is the whirling dervish of the whole. The way that 10 tracks and 29 minutes go by in what seems like a heartbeat, more or less forcing you to just play it again. Try not to bother people with your foot tapping.