People don't talk about Trash Talk's music. We talk about Trash Talk as an avenging force, or as a torch-bearing institution dedicated to reminding us of the days when you could get your fucking head kicked in at a punk rock show. The first time I saw Trash Talk live, I'm not sure I even processed the music -- or, perhaps more accurately, I'm not sure I heard the music as anything more than once piece of a transfixingly brutal spectacle. Trash Talk shows are the stuff of instant legend, erratic and unstable and violent before the band so much as plays a note, the music seeming to emanate naturally from frontman Lee Spielman's prowling-panther charisma and the band's all-over-the-place crazy-as-fuck energy. When we talk about Trash Talk, the live show is the first thing anyone talks about, and the music -- fireballs of grimy old-school basement-hardcore intensity -- seems to exist almost simply as a soundtrack for mayhem. Trash Talk's early records are remarkable in their primal radiating-in-all-directions ferocity and in their jarring brevity. (2012's 119, their last album, was by far their longest at not quite 22 minutes, at least until today.) Those records seemed to function, more or less, as souvenirs or previews of the live show, as audio mementos that brought back the feeling of a sweaty elbow mushing up against your temple. And so the band's new album No Peace stands out because its songs function as songs and because it's the first Trash Talk record that creates its own context, independent of the band's live show.