Fucked Up is a rare band. They're a mutant strain of post-hardcore, arenapunk super-talents capable of reworking the strange and the beautiful into something cohesive, but never at the expense of their signature, addictive, furious entropy. They are truly a blitzkrieg of song and lyric.
Is it work-shy and lazy to call a live record whose songs flow seamlessly into one another "epic?" What if every track is a battering ram of rabid guitar, fugitive vox, death match bass and roaring drums? No matter how you dice it, one word won't ever be enough to explain a band like Fucked Up. All substitutions will pale in comparison to the experience itself. That goes for every blurb and every pixelated mobile phone video out there. But, our record does the show justice.
Fucked Up got their start as many often do, making the rounds on punk and DIY circuits around Canada and later into the USA. Punk is a genre known for its velocity, brevity and politics, although here we have an almost complete inversion of those core traits: songs don't race the clock, mythology and storytelling weaving fully realised narratives, and a bipartisan set with a 100% approval rating.
