Get Busy Living or Get Busy Crying by Dirty Harry: A Punk-Fueled Chaos You Didn’t Know You Needed
Dirty Harry’s Get Busy Living or Get Busy Crying is the kind of album that punches you in the gut and then demands you thank it later. Released back in 2018 via Ribfest Records, this punk beast leans hard into its roots but throws some curveballs with folk, world, and country vibes sprinkled throughout. It’s raw, unfiltered, and messy as hell—just how punk should be.
Let’s cut to the chase. This record ain’t perfect, but damn if it doesn’t make an impression. Tracks like “Silver Lining” and “Suburbicide” stick out for me because they’re relentless. “Silver Lining,” man—it hits like a freight train right from the start. The guitar riffs are scuzzy, the vocals sound pissed off at life itself, and there’s just enough melody to keep your head banging without losing that gritty edge. It’s one of those songs where even though you can barely understand half the lyrics, you feel every word deep down in your bones. Like yeah, life sucks sometimes, but hey, here we are screaming about it anyway.
Then there’s “Suburbicide.” Holy crap, talk about rage with a purpose. If suburban boredom had a soundtrack, this would be it—but on steroids. The energy never drops; it's like Dirty Harry took all their frustration with cookie-cutter neighborhoods and turned it into pure chaos wrapped in three chords. Every time I hear this track, I wanna kick over a trash can or something. Not saying I do (okay maybe once), but the point stands—it’s infectious as hell.
The rest of the album keeps the momentum going, though not everything lands perfectly. Songs like “Hitchin’” and “Tickin’ Time” repeat themselves more than necessary, almost like filler—but honestly? That doesn’t kill the vibe too much. By the time you hit “Invisible,” which closes things out with a slower burn, you realize these guys weren’t aiming for perfection—they were aiming for impact. And guess what? They nailed it.
Here’s the kicker: listening to Get Busy Living or Get Busy Crying feels less like entertainment and more like therapy through noise. Sure, it could use some trimming, and yeah, the production is lo-fi AF, but none of that matters when the heart behind it screams louder than any polished pop-punk anthem ever could.
So who cares if it ain’t perfect? Perfection’s boring anyway. What Dirty Harry delivers here is real—a middle finger to mediocrity disguised as art. And honestly, after blasting this album, I kinda want to move to the suburbs just so I have something to hate properly.
