’79 Live catches Friction right as Japanese punk is mutating into something stranger and more angular, a December 1979 set that sounds like it was recorded with the mics pointed straight at the band’s collective nervous system. The trio are all attack and recoil: sharp, metallic guitar figures slashing across a rhythm section that alternates between locked‑groove insistence and sudden, collapsing turns. Vocals arrive in bursts of English and Japanese, more incantation and accusation than sing‑along, riding the line between control and unravelling. Rather than trying to tidy up the room, the recording leans into its grain: you hear the echo of the space, the crowd pressed close, the way feedback and room noise become part of the band’s palette.

The set list moves quickly between taut, almost post‑punk minimalism and more chaotic, noise‑tilted eruptions, sketching out the fault line where Friction were carving their own territory between UK/US influences and a very local intensity. Riffs tend to repeat past the point of comfort, turning short patterns into trance‑inducing loops that recall no wave as much as classic punk, while the bass carries a thick, distorted body that keeps everything from drifting into abstraction. Even when the tempos pull back, the music never relaxes; it simmers, waiting for the next break where guitar and drums can slam back in at full tilt. What makes ’79 Live so compelling is how little separation there is between composition and impact - songs feel like structures only inasmuch as they give the band something to push against in real time.