In the roughly year and a half since , barely came up for air. The New Jersey hardcore punks scooped up new drummer Alex Salter, toured nonstop, and signed to a new record label, Blue Grape. Life was so busy that Gel had to wedge themselves into a remote cabin to hash out new songs before their tour schedule swallowed them whole.
Once there, they heeded the advice that closed out : “ .” Those sessions birthed a five-song EP, , that’s bigger and bolder than anything they’ve recorded before. But in true Gel fashion, are top of mind.
Recorded over two weeks and inspired by Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung’s concept of , singer Sami Kaiser digs up the repulsive, unflattering parts of their own subconscious with an honesty that verges on self-punishment; the title track’s threat (“Don’t forget your fucking place”) sounds as much like an indictment of frauds as it does a self-reminder. To further enhance that, the band approaches the definitive Gel aggression with newfound musical aplomb. Kaiser’s bellows foam with spittle, as if the greed and conceit they’re lambasting is contagious.
For guitarist Anthony Webster, it takes shape in guitar tones modeled after and . Both bassist Mathew Bobko and guitarist Maddi Nave bet on tried-and-true punk without shying away from melody. Even Salter tightens his drumming so the opening, isolated quarter notes of “Mirage” hit as hard as the D-beat barrage in “Martyr.
” EP highlight “Shame” represents Gel’s most notable growth with an embrace of studio production. The old metrics for “selling out” in the ’90s, long since expired in the punk world, are slowly draining out of the hardcore community, too; these days, fans bicker over studio-grade gloss in Discord chats but still buy tickets for the show. Gel navigate the leveling-up process on like their or did before them by hiring a producer who understands their ambitions.
Jon Markson ( Drain) is a steady hand at Gel’s mixing console, turning up the volume as bridges build and drawing out individual members’ parts for efficient contrast that doesn’t feel too clean. Throughout , Gel retain their menacing power not in spite of the production, but in concert with it. Markson whittles Webster and Nave’s guitar riffs into sharp prongs until they interlace like zipper teeth.
Salter’s drum hits pummel with the energy of a raucous basement set that’s properly mic’d. Even when Kaiser’s venomous yells border on actual singing, like in the alt-rock chorus of “Shame,” Markson never goes heavy on reverb. In a swift but precise deboning, Gel extract their scrappier instincts and Markson loudly fills in the gaps.
Take closer “Vanity,” which opens with a thick sludge of power chords fit for a metal song. It’s poisonous and gnarled, even as it thins into a trusty hardcore breakdown, complete with Gel’s signature tempo change-ups. As a transitory release, is the best of both worlds: just as ferocious and unrelenting, but with bolder production and deeper hooks.
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