First, some preamble: What does or does not constitute grindcore (or hardcore, or metal, or math rock) is, while surely a question for the ages, not at issue here. Nor is Justin Pearson's possible magnificence (he's one of those enviably productive art stars with a few bands, a label, political opinions and balls, but possesses a je ne sais quoi of "sort of a drag"). Take it up in your zine.?Grindcore and its running buddies exist as an anathema of melodic logic. At its worst, it's derivative and tedious, not to mention physically painful. At its best, it's dangerous and highly potent, offering the kind of soul-sweating experience that some people spend their entire youths and drug budgets hunting down. The Locust wriggles somewhere in between. It's not exactly expression for the sake of it—the lyrics are pinned to an evolving disgust with the usual, interchangeable subjects of discontent, like corporate America and the government. Their live mandate is more standard than Suckdog, though the confrontational, costumed set-up is kind of a trip, especially when you're eleventy beers in.?The San Diego band has recorded for Epitaph's ANTI arm, Ipecac, Gold Standard Laboratories and Pearson's own label, Three One G (which has also released stuff by Pearson's hardcore band, the thrilling Some Girls, who are not to be confused with Juliana Hatfield's unfortunate recent attempt to have a band, which is not to be confused with the reformed Blake Babies, which is not to be confused with first-run Blake Babies). The Locust's jarring, sharply angular racket returns this spring with the record New Erections.