Daniel Vandenberg
Author Archive

Daniel Vandenberg

22, m, Aus. Likes cats.
Author of the book 'Electric Dreams'. Check it out here:
danielvandenberg dot bigcartel dot com
danielvandenberg dot tumblr dot com

Death RockDemosMusicPost-PunkReviews

Dissonant buzzsaw guitar that manages to be hypnotically soothing and psychotically unnerving at the same time is the first thing you hear on ‘Exil’, the first track on Ottawa post-punkers Aube‘s new demo, and it’s a perfect indicator for the mess of contradictions that is the record to follow. Screeching,

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Death RockMusicReviews

Label: Rust and Machine Records Jittery, up-tempo post punk is the name of the game on this new release from Melbourne, Australia band Masses. Horde Mentality is packed full of skittering rhythms, propulsive basslines and subtly melodic guitar-work, with a slight trashy garage rock vibe and a melancholic dark wave

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Blackened CrustDemosGrindcoreHardcoreMusicReviews

Dead Peasants are a three piece blackened hardcore band from the mean streets of Baltimore. They originally formed in 2011 but didn’t release any recordings until early 2013, when they put out a split with fellow Marylanders, sludge metal band Ecco, and this, a half hour demo of raw, speaker-splitting

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80s HardcoreArtFanzinesHardcoreLiteratureMusic

As a kid and burgeoning adolescent I spent almost every weekend for a period of years longer than I’m willing to admit at the local shopping centre. When you start to measure the passage of time by shopping mall additions and renovations you know you’re in trouble. It wasn’t just

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Death RockHardcoreMusicReviews

Criminal Code from Tacoma, Washington, play an anthemic, sneakingly melodic mixture of post-punk and post-hardcore. Formed in 2011, they’ve just released their debut LP No Device on Deranged Records, a welcome shot in the vein (or kick in the teeth) to an increasingly ethereal genre. No Device harkens back to

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ArtLiterature

“Between us, there always seemed to exist some deeper identification, born of a deep, unspoken bond; an underlying sense of kinship. It was as if loving Narcisa was like loving some wayward, feral strand of myself; a distorted funhouse mirror image of my own brutalised, mangled, forgotten inner child, restructured

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