At what point do we not only laud the mighty Bronx as one of this generation's greatest punk bands, but also as one of the very best bands punk has ever produced? The time must have arrived by now, surely.
Four brilliant albums in, and every single one of them kicks like a mule in steel toe-capped boots. This latest outing cuts out some of the more desert grooves of III and goes back to full-on punk’n’roll fury, with rock’n’roll licks that Satan himself would envy at every turn, and an irresistible reckless abandon. Not since the dearly missed Rocket From The Crypt has a band been so effortlessly cool or played every single note like they were certain it was going to be their epitaph.
Matt Caughthran’s silver-tongued delivery is as melodic as it’s possible to be when you constantly sound like you’re going to glass someone, and the sheer passion of his bandmates is sharpened by a flawless delivery. IV is an adrenaline-starting, blood-pumping tour de force that makes you feel alive from the first second to the last.
It’s hard to comment on individual tracks when every single one of them feels like an injury time winner against your local rivals. The Bronx have done it again. Dig it.
