If a punk show that involves blood-spilling moshpits, a relentless stream of stage divers and an almost exclusively male audience wearing cannabis leaf-patterned socks isn’t your idea of a good time, then you’ll probably never like Trash Talk. That’s fair enough, but some of us need to satisfy our psyche’s more aggressive instincts once in a while, and No Peace proves that there’s still potency to the LA-based, battle-scarred four piece’s simple formula. Hardcore puritans hate these guys because of their wider appeal, punk archeologists hate them because they eschew lo-fidelity for expensive-sounding production, and anyone old enough to remember the rap/nu-metal fusion trend of the late 90s (i.e, the worst musical epoch in the history of popular culture) will be cautious of their occasional attempts to infuse distorted riffs with hip-hop. But when they’re on form, it’s hard to deny Trash Talk’s impact. Within 159 seconds of this album, the breakdown of second track Jigsaw drops, and if your stereo’s volume is at a sufficient level, you’ll feel an overwhelming urge to dive headfirst through the nearest closed window. Not bad.

Davy Reed