Local band roundup appeals to varied tastes

Some fierce femmes, robots and death top the latest roundup of Vegas music releases:

PHALLOPLASTY, “Necrophagic Funeral Ritual” (facebook.com/phalloplastyofficial): Admittedly, it’s an acquired taste, kind of like stomach bile. One-man death metal “bands,” acts such as Putrid Pile, Viral Load and Insidious Decrepancy, smother with a kind of single-minded, do-it-yourself bludgeon, as straightforward in purpose as a meat cleaver.

Vegas’ Phalloplasty (aka Zack Shaw) bulldozes into this small, violent circle with an overworked drum machine, song titles that could have been transcribed from the walls of a psych ward and vocals that sound as if Shaw swallowed a microphone and then recorded himself trying to regurgitate the thing.

Blast beats power high-velocity bullets like “Drenched in Gasoline” and “Liquefaction Necrosis,” but for the most part, Shaw favors a viscous, unsettling, midpaced groove that resonates in the intestines – those that aren’t spilled, that is.

ROBOT NIXON, “Stuffed Animal Liberation Front” (facebook.com/robotnixonband): Three-fourths of Robot Nixon also play in Asterionella, underappreciated indie rock space cadets who are all about atmosphere and sustained mood, their heads not just in the clouds, but beyond the stratosphere far enough to be in the moon’s orbit.

Here, they favor immediacy and the outer reaches of their record collections. Yeah, they get their Hawkwind on during “Mars Travolta,” all feedback, horns, chimes and ominous drone, but that’s about the only tie to their other outfit, as they delve into ska (“Rude Boy”), seedy Americana (“Country”), raw throated hardcore (“Campfire Weekend”) and scruffy, attitudinal pop (“Prince Charming”). “Don’t make concessions,” singer/guitarist Kelley Karas instructs on “Say You Won’t,” and clearly, her bandmates are listening.

.BIPOLAR., “Amor Fati” EP (bipolarmetal.com): It’s as if they’re trying to live up to their name. Bipolar’s splenetic metal is posited on dramatic, sudden mood swings. Take “False,” which starts in full froth with breakneck thrash riffing and double bass drum thunder before settling into a forceful, sharp-elbowed groove with rumbling, downtuned bass lines, which in turn are leavened by frontwoman Charlie Hanks’ doleful, yet sweet sounding singing.

Speaking of Hanks, she breathes fire all over this record, the band’s sixth, alternating a menacing, from-the-gut snarl with more melodic phrasing and sustaining screams for a full 10 seconds in places.

Contact reporter Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0476.