All seems to have been quiet in the Seatlle punk scene in last few years save for a refreshing tidal wave of feminist pop-punk. Lots of metal is constantly descending on the rainy, technocratic hell but aside from a few select Anarcho-revival bands such as Arcane and Medusa Stare, the dreary home of Frasier and Fleet Foxes alike could stand a to stomach a bleak critique as a soundtrack to the inhumane lack of sunlight masquerading as temperance. Luckily for us, out the ashes of the immensely missed Countdown To Armageddon and a star-studded cast of local night creatures, Nox Novacula is here to slice the night with a rusty knife and burn down the church of pleasantries that infects the hegemonic consciousness of the post-modern world, cajoling us into accepting infinite injuries with a plasticine smile. The order of the hour is a revitalized deathrock, distilled to its very essence without the gimmicky Tim Burton spook that at one point rolled the world of goth into a confusing mess of outsourced bondage pants and irritating mall kids.
Uniquely harkening back to golden age pioneers and never forgetting their punk roots, the grisly foursome deliver a sepulchral grimoire voltaic enough to stiffen even the most flaccid cadaver phallus.
Additionally, an important recent development within this relatively small, niche subgenre is the emergence of many women and gender non-conforming badasses stealing the show and seizing what is rightfully theirs. One has a plethora of options to listen to a sharp-dressed middle-class man wail on about their personal misery but there’s a unique fierceness that comes from the rage of a subjugated lived experience that cannot be mimed or imitated. Nox appropriately strengthens the deluge of feminine frenzy sweeping the deathrock and dark punk world.
