Artist description In the dreams of a champion insomniac, the frail body of a machine initiates it’s convocation. That tip of your tongue bending over backwards feeling attempting to fill the pin-drop silence we so sincerely crafted for ourselves, so to does this machine. With three disconnected limbs that flail in unison intent on the illusion of life. Gears spin frictionless when the motors are feeding off themselves. But, somehow, in the awkward transitional period between fall and winter, this breath was brought to life; dripping wet with youth. Clumsy at first, and still clumsy now, this pseudonym wanders. From city to city, factory to factory, and life to life it searches for that certain something that only poets speak of. That taste of serenity far far away from this day in/day out, first in/first out, miscounted and crossed out, mechanized existence. The only trace of substance lies in the form of a message to those who still have a chance, more specifically, those with blood still under their skin and blue with oxygen. The skeleton of this machine is not compatible with the skeleton of the human body. Insert bones here to induce malfunction. Four simple lines. Twenty-one simple words. Written only on trash compactors. Simple. The way the pursuit of life becomes pedestrian to the search for time. A way out of a factory smudged gray with smoke, dimly lit by the sparks of grinding metal. The leaking coolant of machines juxtaposition to the frayed wires of robots; praying with fingers crossed for the glowing liquid to creep close enough to their electrical tentacles of shoddy craftsmanship and complete the circuit- filling this coffin with windows to the brim with fire, leaving only a black smoking memory. The catalyst has a name, a face, and fail-safe circuitry. Disconnect me from this industrialization. These windows have grown bars. And, in the time it takes for a spark to breathe, the flames of an electrical fire wrap their loving arms around this building. Seeking refuge and having escaped incarceration for the incineration of the Nine-Two-Five factory, this body delineates for the orchestration of memory validation. New York minutes pass like middle America seconds as it searches for a suitable and safe facility. With the aid of a highly trained professional (an unemployed slot machine technician ), and a for a nominal fee (0.008333333333333333333333333333333 dollars per second) the digital reproduction of memory replication has commenced. Uploading files, documenting life, a dissertation monologue of wires. .......................................................................................................{Welcome to real-time.} “Before we begin, you must understand something. If disconnected, the integrity of the data will be compromised. An interruption anytime premature to the data transfer completion will cause memory loss, and a intermittent static error message audibly reminiscent to that of a dot-matrix printer. Entire files may be lost. However, all details aside, if the connection is severed, your circuits will malfunction and you will discompute. This is an extremely delicate procedure.” That was all I needed to know. Uplink connected. File 1 of 17 uploading . Progress assessment: 6%. Circa 86 minutes to upload complete. All we can do is wait. The digital minutes pass so slowly. One quartz movement at a time. From factory to facility. There and back again this journey has come to an end. This face value grows weary. Can these memories be fulfilling? And to whom? When the humans find these memories, will they learn from them? Will they squander them? Files up to and including 11 of 17 uploaded. Only time will tell. The sound of a brute force random code-generator is heard from the security door. The off-time frequency is a dead give-away. It’s the machines. They are here for this body. Files 12 of 17 uploaded. Time begins exponentially folding over itself. The seconds bear down on the clock. In a split second’s decision: Accessing data transmission--------connected--------sending------------recieved. Files 13 of 13 uploading. The others will have to wait. Their place will be known. Another time. Perhaps in some other place The six inch thick titanium door swings like a child in a park. There are seven waiting in the doorway. God knows how many on the perimeter. File 13 of 13: 87% complete. Two minutes and counting. With a honest desperation, I did what I could. Like a cornered rabbit in a room full of wolves, I -----------------------------------------[connection interrupted] ........................................................................................{Meanwhile, somewhere in Utah} -------------------------------------transmission received. Human. Included with this transmission are the first of seventeen intricate digital reproduction memories. These thirteen documentations should provide you with the vague schematics you’ll need to induce malfunction; one facility at a time. However, much to my dismay, this information was unattainable in analog form. The technology at the time was insufficient and did not mesh with the data properly. The remaining four segments poised to complete the blueprints have been digitally corrupted and will be independently administered in analog form (if all goes according to plan). Beware human. The machines await your acquisition. -----------------------------------end transmission.

Music Style Hardcore

Musical Influences The Blood Brothers, Fugazi, Drive Like Jehu, Moss Icon, Universal Order of Armageddon, Refused, Four Hundred Years, I Robot, Bright Calm Blue, At The Drive-In, and Angel Hair.

Similar Artists 400 Years, Refused, Drive Like Jehu, Kill Sadie, Moss Icon, The Blood Brothers, Old Anti Flag, Fugazi, and At The Drive-In.

Artist History This Computer Kills began in Nicks Garage in Sept 1999 ended at The Troubadour in Los Angeles on March 9, 2002.

Group Members Josh:Guitar/Vocals Nick:Bass/Vocals Jeff:Drums

Instruments Drums, Bass, Guitar, Voice.

Albums http://www.substandard.com

Press Reviews Just as I finish telling somebody that playing hardcore in 2002 is not unlike flogging a long-dead horse, here comes This Computer Kills to serve up a big plate of crow for me to eat. Sadly this Reno, Nevada trio announced its breakup only one month after the release of its debut full-length (which was just last month). What a shame. This is easily the best hardcore record I’ve heard in years. I hate it when age is brought up in terms of a band’s talent, but it truly is unbelievable that these guys were still in high school, writing music this accomplished. This Computer Kills plays hardcore, yes, but not your typical, run of the mill, power chord, numbskull pap. The band employs tools you’ve certainly heard before: razor sharp guitars, extremely busy, high-end, melodic bass lines, and shrieking, half-sung/half-screamed vocals, but it presents it all in a reanimated and totally refreshing way. The music is desperate and frantic. The vocals are probably the band’s best asset. Screaming can either be an instant turn off or the defining aspect of a band’s sound. The latter is most definitely the case here. The guitarist and bassist trade off vocals, but the wellspring from which these guys draw their shrill inflections is astonishing. They seem to be able to scream with power and longevity without any signs of tiring. What’s even more impressive is the way they turn their screams into half-sung notes, so that you’re not just ambushed by a bunch of unmelodic vocal noise. It’s tuneful and frightening. The bass player seems to lead each song with muscular fretwork that will cause any bassist to wonder how he can possibly play like that and sing at the same time. Don’t misconstrue- he’s not playing a bunch of extraneous notes just to show off and sound ridiculous like Les Claypool of Primus- the bass lines are tight and smart, driving each track into frenetic layers of spastic yet melodic hardcore. The melodies are not peppy, though. Weezer, this band ain’t, and, thank God for that. There are more than enough copycat Weezer bands to sate the country’s teen angst audience for years. The only sign of the band’s age is inherent to the lyrics, which tend to lean on the dramatic side, but the delivery blows away any youthful transgressions. “Fade Away” embraces the spirit of Moss Icon, Black Flag, The Minutemen, and Joy Division, musically. Explosive and aggressive changes are born out of quirky guitar/bass interplay. The bass and drums are mixed higher than the guitar, which might drive away many hardcore fans, who yearn for nothing but pick slides and power chords, but the discerning listener will appreciate the break from tradition. With the bass player sustaining the structure of the songs, the guitarist can experiment, which sounds very strange in such a tense context, but it works. “Paradigm Anomie” is the best song on the record. I have repeated it so many times I can’t even remember what it was like to hear it for the first time, and I’m still not sick of it. An insanely catchy bass line thrashes out the introduction, and the vocals are perfectly overlain. The chorus is so good. After a few shrieks the singer hits this sustained note, using his real voice, and it’s just so fucking cool. At two minutes and forty seconds, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a better punk song that is this succinct and perfect. Even the lyrics are mysteriously intriguing: “Passion is a virtue long misplaced by time, pave the streets with microchips and random access souls/streetlights scream unknowingly, we need more power/I've got a stick shift in a makeshift... Paradigm: Anomie/Try to tear it down, let it go, tear it down...it’s all right.” “Soapbox Kids” continues the band’s incorporation of unlikely influences into its unique hardcore sound. Arty, jangly guitar work reminiscent of Pere Ubu and The Police (seriously) sounds crazy up against bratty, screamo vocals. The band’s ear for melody transforms the song into a dark sing-along, if you can imagine such a thing. Even a Cure influence wedges its way into the mix on the terrifying “Once Conversational.” The band intuitively capitalizes on all the right moments of tension, creating a desperate atmosphere of manic terror. Clean guitars and gothic-tinged bass lines swirl into a death march as the band screams: “I hate your words and your ruse/we were once conversational.” I can honestly say that every song on this album is well worth a listen. Some are even deserving of far higher accolades. This is unbelievably catchy, memorable, and intense punk rock- just the way it ought to be. This Computer Kills called it quits far too soon. If you’ve been waiting for some band to come along and reinvigorate hardcore as we know it, then you’ll definitely want to seek out this record. You’ll regret it if you don’t. - Eric Greenwood

Additional Info http://www.substandard.com

Location Reno, NV - USA

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