High Priests of the Death Church: A Rudimentary Peni Retrospective

Nat informed me that “punk is not fashion, it’s an attitude.” I have heard this somewhere before. I must say I am relieved that both he and Greg take this view and will not be resorting to war-zone dress sense of many punks. Nat gleefully described the “corpse of punk” as having no life in it whatsoever, and it was this decayed grandeur of a fallen subculture which had so attracted him.

Nick Blinko
The Primal Screamer
1995

Rudimentary Peni did not revolutionize punk rock. At least not in the sense that the band boasts a wave of imitators intent on stealing any hint of the English band’s psychologically unstable glamour and passing it off as their own. The trio of guitarist/vocalist/visionary Nick Blinko, bassist Grant Matthews and drummer Jon Greville is just too idiosyncratic and hermetic for such easy imitation and commoditization.
But what the band has accomplished over its 30 year run is unrivaled in the annals of punk. When too many other punks celebrate their semi-centennial birthdays with sad trips around the nostalgic circuit (is there anything more pitifully un-punk than the very existence of such a nostalgia circuit?) or filing lawsuits against former friends, Rudimentary Peni unexpectedly pop back up a couple times a decade to drop yet another immaculate EP’s worth of new material that builds on the morbid visions they first laid out in 1981 without recourse to rehashing their (wilted) salad days.
Unique among the restless waves of politically-minded crust punks that roamed England in the early 1980s, Rudimentary Peni, while certainly political, filtered their diatribes through Blinko’s nightmarish insights and intricate artwork to set themselves well outside the circle of their peers. Rudimentary Peni songs, practically from the very outset, were psychologically rich meditations on death, decay, social oppression and mental upheaval that resonated far beyond the glut of bands who just tried to provoke and shock with cheap frights.

G&P review: Rudimentary Peni

Rudimentary Peni
No More Pain
Southern
“Pachelbel’s Canon in E,” the last track on Rudimentary Peni’s latest EP, No More Pain, may have you wondering if guitarist/artist/novelist/psychiatric patient Nick Blinko has been taking the right meds. Or any meds at all. The tune, a fuzz-drenched psychedelic version of Baroque organist Johann Pachelbel’s “Canon” seethes and scrawls like an amateur stoner rock band on the verge of blowing the fuses in mom and dad’s garage.
The unexpected twist is quite a feat for a band that has consistently pushed punk beyond its … erm … rudimentary limitations for the better part of three decades. It also confirms why Rudimentary Peni is still my favorite punk band.
Their fourth E.P. since 1995’s Pope Adrian 37th Psychristriatic, the band has turned its back on full lengths and pared the fluff from their songwriting, only issuing the best tunes in their queue. The result has been a string of consistently excellent 15 minute bursts of death rock every few years.
And at 20 minutes, No More Pain is the longest of their most recent offerings, blasting out delectable slices of their accustomed doom and gloom, such as the T.S. Elliot referencing opening “A Handful of Dust,” a grating, groaning meditation on death a million anime-haircutted bands in girl jeans would slit their wrists to have penned. But knowing Blinko’s history with mental illness and psychoactive pharmaceuticals, the near suicidal vibe of No More Pain rings more poignant than bratty.
Blinko’s deceptively simple riffs pack enough slice through his lyrical scars, leaving fresh wounds on his psyche during the ZZ Top shuffle of “Doodlebug Baby” and necrotic creak of “The Eyes of the Dead” while Grant Matthews’ busy, burbling bass work propels the songs over John Grenville’s solid drumming.
If you’re still hoping for another Cacophony or Death Church, you’ll be disappointed, but after treading their own dreary musical path for damn near 30 years, Rudimentary Peni’s latest shows a band in full command of its impressive talents forging ahead with a singularly bleak musical vision.