He's a Japanese punk, dressed in head-to-toe black, covered in studs, strapped with two bullet belts, and topped with a foot-high blue fan Mohawk. He leans into the microphone. And mustering an exaggerated sneer as spittle flies with each syllable, he dramatically howls a broken-English introduction. "We crossed the Pacific," the punk pauses, with emphasis, "to bring the fuck!" For one reason (a long history of cultural repression) or another (the atomic bomb), Japan's take on hardcore is delivered with more belligerent gusto than any other international brand of contemporary punk. And few bands represent Japanese HC's fanboyish embrace of any and all waves of fast-hard-and-loud like the almighty D-Clone. There's the name, a knowing half-parody of and half-tribute to the musicians who've somehow created an entire genre — D-beat — from the white noise and galloping rhythm perfected by the '80s British crust-rock outfit Discharge. And then there's D-Clone's sound, executed with the reverent expertise of true believers taking part in a tradition they love.