SONG: "Try Honesty" - Billy Talent (Billy Talent, 2004)

As a club DJ there are always certain records which you never get bored of, and indeed actively look forward to playing; those precious few for which you’re quite prepared to suffer the indignity of hammering out Livin’ On a Prayer another 400 goddamn times. There are countless songs from the general mainstream milieu which I hold pretty high in this regard; however, in the alternative genre, my five uncontested favourites (in ascending order) are as follows:

1) “Staring At the Sun” – The Offspring

2) “Losing My Religion” – R.E.M.

3) “Bleed American” – Jimmy Eat World

4) “Munich” – Editors

5) “Try Honesty” – Billy Talent

The fifth song in the list is easily the most ragged of the bunch, and certainly the one best-suited to hollering along to with a skinful of alcohol in some dingy rock club. The first time you hear this record, it offers a sensation not entirely unlike having your face slapped by that rubbery orange twat off the Tango adverts. Watching the sight of these four straggly livewires roar out of MTV2 two years ago was one of those glorious (and, sadly, increasingly rare) moments where I get so excited by a record that I literally jump up out of my seat and start frantically pacing around the room, pointing excitedly at anyone who’ll listen while proclaiming “Christ, this is fucking brilliant. BRILLIANT, I say!” (anyone who’s ever witnessed this sorry sight will no doubt testify as to just how entertaining it is, though we ought to spare a thought for the poor young lady who once invited me back to her place only to be confronted with such a display upon first hearing Reuben’s Blamethrower).

Try Honesty, with its queasy opening arpeggios, choppy dynamics and volatile temperament owes as much to bands like At the Drive-In and Refused as it does to old-school punk influences The Buzzcocks and the Sex Pistols. Consequently, the band have a sound which is not only invigoratingly aggressive, but also snappy, melodic and unmistakeably their own. Imagine waking up in a video game and suddenly being bombarded with all kinds of dangerous objects while the cast of Gremlins chases you across the screen. Much more than the usual run-of-the-mill punk-rock bludgeoning, it’s a full-blown assault.

Much of this rampant individuality is undoubtedly attributable to the presence of vocalist Benjamin Kowalewicz, a twitchy, wild-eyed madman who sounds like Squeak from South Park overdosing on Ritalin. Rhythmically this song slices and dices all over the show, and the band’s snottily anthemic sound is littered with backing chants reminiscent of the shouty gang mentality of bands like Rocket From the Crypt and Agnostic Front. “Forgive me father / Why should ya bother?”, Kowalewicz barks before that massive hookline literally erupts to steamroller its pathway across the chorus: “TRYYYY HONESTY! TRYYYY HONESTY!”

However, it’s the monstrous breakdown in the middle-eight where the song really comes into its own. Without warning, the rhythm shifts into half-time with a series of pyrotechnic explosions that soon give way to a seriously filthy riff that rumbles its way down the scale with a wilful disregard for anything in its path. “I’M INSANE!!! IT’S YOUR FAULT!!!”, Kowalewicz yelps, before the rest of the band weigh in with a sly melodic caterwaul of “CRYYYYY…” The punk-rock equivalent of a massive pressure-drop in a dance track, it’s absolutely one of the greatest moments in modern alternative music.

The whole song has a hilariously mocking tone, as if deliberately emulating the stroppy temper tantrum of a bawling baby. Never ones to shy away from an opportunity for invention, there’s also a great moment towards the end where they unleash a series of wiry guitar bends which sound like uncoiling springs in a broken mattress. It’s no surprise that this song was the first one to be written in the band’s transition from larkabout punk-metal japesters to serious contenders; it rightly turned them into megastars in their native Canada and thrust them kicking and screaming into the limelight just about everywhere else. Just as the ridiculous follicular architecture of guitarist and chief musical force Ian D’Sa suggests, it’s an utterly electrifying experience akin to jamming a wet fork into a plug socket and flicking the switch. I will continue to play this record for as long as I’m DJ-ing rock nights, no doubt flinging myself around with reckless abandon all the while.