The Agit Reader

Primitive Calculators
The World Is Fucked

December 4th, 2013  |  by Chris Sabbath

Primitive Calculators, The World Is FuckedAs the Primitive Calculators see it, the world is fucked, thanks to the degeneracy of Homo sapiens as a result of the gluttony of technological enslavement and the glamour of social media cachet. Need more proof? Try sitting through the Australian gang’s so-named, 35-years-in-the-making studio debut without feeling a tad cynical (or queasy) in the end. From the moment the flag drops, you’re sucked into its whirlpool of pigfucked savagery and punk slobber while its cruddy snout breathes down your neck every step of the way. The best you can do is hold on tight and pray that the next pit stop is just around the bend. It’s not.

Sprung from the Melbourne suburbs in 1978, the band remained outsiders within the Australian music scene during their two-year existence, with only a 7-inch and a live recording to show for it. The Calculators came out of hibernation briefly in 1986 to perform in the campy Australian drama, Dogs in Space (starring INXS’ Michael Hutchence), before crawling back into dormancy until 2009, when Nick Cave invited them to perform at the All Tomorrow’s Parties festival in Victoria, proving that luckily their influence was not completely swept under the rug in the wake of their inactivity.

One of the distinguishing qualities throughout the Calculators’ history has always been their perplexity. Looking at the covers of the band’s few releases, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into beyond their billboards of chunky white font and black background. You are ultimately forced to dive headlong into the motion sickness and experience it as an unbiased first-timer. The same goes for The World Is Fucked (Chapter Music), which upon first impression, offers practically no explanation to the analytical eye beyond a pile of single-worded tracks (although “Cunt” and “Death” might be dead giveaways).

While the Calculators’ unproductiveness over the years is rather immense, age certainly hasn’t worn them down one bit. If anything, it’s made the group sound even more sinister than their earlier recordings. Songs such as “Pain” and “God” teem with the synth-punk voltage of American weirdo acts like Nervous Gender and The Units, while the squirming electronic fuckery of “Why” matches Throbbing Gristle’s industrial splooge with Pere Ubu’s protopunk shock. For leftovers is the steamrolling snarl of “Love,” which finds singer Stuart Grant raving over what turns him on. “Your eyes, your legs, your mouth, your spit,” he growls over a fumy exhaust of throttle and scorch. It’s a heartwarming affair just shy of flagrancy and nausea.

To sugarcoat the Calculator’s music would be as unrighteous as reviving the videotape for modern day society to chew on. It’s just not going to happen. What is evident when trying to digest the band’s nine-track slaughter on Fucked is a glaring piss-take for songwriting in general. Their approach hinges on abrupt pandemonium, like a bulldozer joyriding through a mass of curious onlookers. The record is a bulletproof testimonial to punk as summed up in its sheer vileness and disdain for conventional standards. The guitars and synths grind and heave with a motor engine lewdness while the percussive element clonks in a relentless thud. While the Calculators’ attack has always been, for the most part, a one-dimensional bludgeoning of shrill instrumentation, it’s a hell of a way to finally make a statement on an official recording.

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