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Motorcycle Club


So, if the three members of the BRMC are any indication, it looks like being in a so-called Black Rebel Motorcycle Club means embracing the vacant, apathetic stare that goes hand-in-hand with just being cool, twenty-four hours a day. The problem is, this kind of Creation-catalog-worshipping mod posing can be both distancing and incredibly tiring. Sure, sneering and flipping up the collar on your leather jacket are perfectly badass gestures, but they're also achingly familiar ones-- particularly for the BRMC, which is nuts, given that this is only their second album.
As the image suggests, though, BRMC don't fuck around: their sophomore disc, Take Them On, On Your Own, is packed end-to-end with tight, clenched-fist rock cockiness; its twelve impenetrable songs bulldoze with fuck-off lyrics, mercilessly effects-heavy guitar, huge, throbbing drum beats, and avalanche basslines. But there are recognizable affections, too, and when they pop up, they're either intensely alienating (the record opens with the fitting admission, "We don't like you/ We just want to try you") or devastatingly boring (the predictably aggressive refrain of "Generation").