tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79630414422061416312024-03-05T05:59:21.421-08:00Dirty SheetsRock reviews from Gunther, Josh, Angie, and guests.Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-49673432466223120502013-05-22T09:49:00.002-07:002013-05-22T09:49:48.571-07:00Velvet Elvis - s/t (Enigma, 1988)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjZdPnHyZCSLhRd9f-Y3tnzqRYpVxtXK3P2Sl1JkVw_3VpiU-UWzyvmG6UJI5MtezK_LANmbFTT-zsl6MLfzOtSvunFWBGGiGecD4j9QjgPQ-aHI1LkZ0Rol3Tq0tstsYZ_YTV9BOYNtH/s1600/velv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjZdPnHyZCSLhRd9f-Y3tnzqRYpVxtXK3P2Sl1JkVw_3VpiU-UWzyvmG6UJI5MtezK_LANmbFTT-zsl6MLfzOtSvunFWBGGiGecD4j9QjgPQ-aHI1LkZ0Rol3Tq0tstsYZ_YTV9BOYNtH/s320/velv.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Somewhere in an obscure corner at a Tidewater Virginia-area thrift store, a dusty copy of this
modern rock shaving from BACK IN THE DAY (TM) is marked by a two-dollar price tag and an
old Post-it Note from an ahead-of-the-curve WODU disc jockey. Pop-packed sounds from the
Lexington, KY, combo would've paced five-on-four power plays during hallway hockey battles
inside the dormitories of the Hampton Blvd.-based campus. On second thought, maybe the
above scenario is merely a product of collegiate utopias seen on episodes of "Beverly Hills,
90210" and "21 Jump Street." Like other releases I've discussed on Da Sheetz, I used to spot
Velvet Elvis' self-titled selection in bargain bins at Tracks, Mother's and Volume CD Exchange
with regularity throughout the 1990s. Don't know why I consistently passed on the offering,
for it would've been a minimal risk to snag a cheap cassette version for my ever-growing
archives. At FYE's 40% off liquidation sale about a month ago, VE presented itself in front of
the assorted "V" section. Though the adjusted cost rang up at $2.40 before sales tax, I
experienced the usual hesitancy surrounding the disc. Fortunately, a longtime FYE employee
(and a personal friend) was able to squash my indecisiveness once and for all. Melissa had
owned a Velvet Elvis 7-inch single, thus she was comfortable with describing their M.O. and
recommending the purchase. I had entered the former Planet Music that Sunday afternoon
with the goal of obtaining Hoodoo Gurus' <em>Purity Of Essence</em> and The Smithereens' <em>2011</em> at a
cut rate. Who knew that the third choice in the bag would become my favorite one of the
trio?
<br />
<br />
Befitting the biggest Cadbury egg in producer Mitch Easter's basket, "Take It If You Want It" is
filled with the familiar jangle-folk yolk of earlier treats. The sugary sweetness of its chocolate
shell, however, fails to enrich a belated Valentine's Day gift ("I'd give you my heart, but you'd
only laugh"). A make-up present of Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers' <em>Playback</em> box set
stomps all over the thoughtless candy container from Walgreens. Should you and yours
become displaced at a packed-to-the-rafters TP gig, key lines in "I Got Everything" will prove
helpful in the reunion ("If I should see you in a crowd/Don't be afraid to cry out loud"). Your
girlfriend's "Ambition" is driven by the type-A personalities projecting from her Toyota's tape
deck (The Plimsouls and The Replacements, in this case). By comparison, getting up to rewind
side-A of <em>Pleased To Meet Me</em> is a lofty achievement for you ("I feel so big when I'm standing
tall/One look at you, and I'm really small"). It's a "Privilege" to be reminded of the killer hook
from The Rolling Stones' "She's So Cold," but painful reflections from pointed arguments jab
between the sheets ("As you reach to turn the light above your bed/You take a look upon the
things you said"). The CB transmission on "Over And Out" signs off with a big 10-4 on the
relationship, though it suggests another mode of communication for further talks ("All that
you'd hoped for means nothing to us now/Call when you know more").
<br />
<br />
These days, Elvis impersonators are all velvet ropes and posture. I don't know about you, but I
prefer to kick back and relax with the album reviewed above. Oops! I just spilled a tall glass of
iced tea. <br />
<br />
-Gunther 8544Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-79641985699180260622013-05-06T05:36:00.000-07:002013-05-06T05:36:27.354-07:00Mudhoney - Superfuzz Bigmuff plus Early Singles (Sub Pop, 1990) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxAmc7YF9LgVUrLsHVJw0MlzZDzi6iSmJxmGu5d-0L3SLDF0YCwNhaJIJVqepiN_9jNoBnMPGwu5tSl4dqgnTkwUZaEY1bozb69wXeGKpVJ5GGFXmgjo47uNj7sWmTqBwMJkIVs6PEVqG/s1600/superfuzz+bigmuff+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqxAmc7YF9LgVUrLsHVJw0MlzZDzi6iSmJxmGu5d-0L3SLDF0YCwNhaJIJVqepiN_9jNoBnMPGwu5tSl4dqgnTkwUZaEY1bozb69wXeGKpVJ5GGFXmgjo47uNj7sWmTqBwMJkIVs6PEVqG/s320/superfuzz+bigmuff+024.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Grunge" has to be one of the most misused terms in the history of rock journalism. Widely and erroneously applied to Pearl Jam's p.c. arena rock, Soundgarden's stoner sludge, and Alice In Chains' heart of darkness metal, "grunge" became cultural shorthand for any Seattle-based heavy rock music that was marketed to flannel clad Gen-Xers in the early '90s. It is not my intent to diminish the contributions of the aforementioned bands. I'm a fan of at least one of them. It's just that, in all honesty, they had little to do with grunge. If you want to hear what grunge was <i>really</i> about, listen to Mudhoney's early recordings.<br />
<br />
If grunge can be loosely defined as a fusion of punk and metal characterized by heavily distorted guitars and popularized in the Pacific Northwest in the latter part of the '80s, its pioneers were probably the likes of Green River, The U-Men, and Skin Yard. But it was Mudhoney who took grunge to a new level of awesomeness, infusing the style with a heavy dose of the Stooges. Issued in 1990 by Sub Pop Records, <i>Superfuzz Bigmuff plus Early Singles</i> is the definitive compilation of Mudhoney at its fiercest and filthiest. It collects the band's first two singles as well as its 1988 debut EP. Historical significance aside, it contains some of the most raging and feral rock n' roll of its time. If you've never blasted "Touch Me, I'm Sick" at obnoxious volumes while making yourself hoarse screaming along with Mark Arm, you haven't lived!<br />
<br />
Arm, who had been Green River's lead singer, was no doubt a founding father of grunge. And Mudhoney guitarist Steve Turner was also in Green River for a while. But Mudhoney was a different band entirely - incorporating garage, blues, and lots of<i> Raw Power</i> worship into its flammable blend of heavy riffs and punk ferocity. And in drummer Dan Peters and bassist Matt Lukin, the band had one of the greatest rock n' roll rhythm sections <i>ever</i>. Jack Endino's minimalist production - a common factor in many "classic" grunge records - was an especially good fit for Mudhoney's rampageous attack. Debut single "Touch Me, I'm Sick" remains the band's defining song. And after 25 years, it's lost none of its bite (no pun intended - that drumming is <i>sick</i>!). Listening to these early tracks, one has to wonder why Arm is not recognized as an all-time great punk howler. His vocals are <i>so</i> primitive and in-your-face, and all that bad attitude and sheer depravity is a far cry from the mopey angst that people tend to associate with grunge. Whether you prefer sonic fireballs like "You Got It (Keep It Outta My Face)" and "In 'N' Out Of Grace" or thundering dirges like "Sweet Young Thing Ain't Sweet No More", there's something here for anyone who yearns to hear the "Seattle sound" at its very best. And covers of the Dicks ("Hate The Police") and Sonic Youth ("Halloween") demonstrate the diversity of influences that made grunge what it was. <br />
<br />
It was unfortunate yet not surprising that Mudhoney was left out in the cold when grunge went mainstream in the fall of 1991. There wasn't anything even remotely commercial about the band's music. And given that grunge's marketability was largely tied to the myth of an entire generation needing to feel sorry for itself, Mudhoney's caustic humor and brazen fuck-you attitude weren't exactly selling points. But the band almost certainly preferred it that way. Perfectly content with their cult following, they just kept going strong and are still at it today. They just released their ninth LP - the outstanding and still snarling<i> Vanishing Point</i>. Unlike most bands that start off with legendary early works, Mudhoney has never embarrassed itself or "gone soft" on its later records. There's really no such thing as a "bad" Mudhoney album. But<i> Superfuzz Bigmuff </i>is where it all started<i> -</i> a perfect<i> </i>introduction not just to grunge rock but also to one of the most criminally unheralded bands of all-time. <br />
<i><br /></i>
-Josh Rutledge Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-27652122770559669062013-04-29T05:40:00.000-07:002013-04-29T05:40:21.592-07:00The Figgs - Lo-Fi At Society High (Imago, 1994) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggftKI8-Odh7qYXqgwlh1niTZ2LKJ1RM1Y0EMCNTrmBlW_A46gl4bRZ1re85G18S77flfUEmHASPE6E3HcKTq5-uPAAl5ST6XxaHSkL_4NLAMInhqKLqi0YN7iEm1tuu77xTInD1dOmgIJ/s1600/figgies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggftKI8-Odh7qYXqgwlh1niTZ2LKJ1RM1Y0EMCNTrmBlW_A46gl4bRZ1re85G18S77flfUEmHASPE6E3HcKTq5-uPAAl5ST6XxaHSkL_4NLAMInhqKLqi0YN7iEm1tuu77xTInD1dOmgIJ/s320/figgies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The Figgs have released 11 full-length albums over their 26 year history, and honestly you can't go wrong with any of them. But if I encountered hostile visitors from another planet and had to convince them of The Figgs' unequivocal greatness in order to save the world from obliteration, the album I'd play for them first is the band's 1994 major label debut. <br />
<br />
Saratoga Springs, New York's Figgs were one of countless underground bands to get signed amidst the early '90s major label feeding frenzy on "alternative" acts. Inked to Imago Records (a faux indie BMG subsidiary whose roster featured the likes of the Rollins Band, Love Spit Love, and Basehead), The Figgs were hardly newcomers on the scene. They'd been together since 1987 and had already released two highly praised cassette albums on Brad Morrison's Absolute A Go Go Records. And while <i>Lo-Fi At Society High</i> didn't exactly tank, clearly The Figgs were atypical of what was passing for "alternative" music in the post-Nirvana world. Musically influenced by the likes of Elvis Costello, The Replacements, Kinks, and Buzzcocks, The Figgs had little interest in teen angst or self-loathing. <i>Lo-Fi At Society High</i> is exactly what you'd expect from a band renowned for its high energy live performaces: an upbeat pub rock/power pop record made to be played loud and thoroughly <i>enjoyed</i>. And while it may be a little on the formulaic side (What great power pop album <i>isn't</i>?), the band's brilliantly sardonic lyrics and incredible musical talent elevate the record from standard genre exercise to overlooked classic. Blessed with two superb songwriters (actually three if you count the unheralded Guy Lyons), The Figgs did not hurt for A-level material. Mike Gent and Pete Donnelly, the indie McCartney and Lennon, were both just coming into their own as artists. But while The Figgs may have gone on to make even <i>better</i> records, there's just something about their early stuff that hits the sweet spot for me. Anytime I'm jonesing for <i>classic </i>Figgs, I go for <i>Lo-Fi</i>'s punchy melodies and exhilarating hooks. <br />
<br />
Nearly two decades later, it's <i>the songs</i> that make <i>Lo-Fi</i> hold up so well. Donnelly's "Favorite Shirt" is still a manic jolt of pop perfection. And Gent's mid-tempo masterpiece "Wasted Pretty" remains the best song Graham Parker never wrote. "Step Back Let's Go Pop" is one of my all-time favorite album openers, while the hyper-caffeinated "Stood Up" embodies the kind of band The Figgs were at this point in time. And while it's the faster stuff that everyone remembers most, fine ballads like "Shut" hint at the varied repertoire this band would later cultivate. Many of the album's best tracks were re-recorded versions of songs from The Figgs' two tapes - which accounts somewhat for <i>Lo-Fi</i>'s "all killer, no filler" feel. From start to finish, it's a flawless collection of rockin' pop songs. Whether you're cranking it in your car or just chilling on the porch with a cold beverage, this is one of those albums that never gets old. <br />
<br />
After Imago Records folded in 1996, The Figgs landed at Capitol Records and issued the spectacular but overlooked <i>Banda Macho</i>. It would be their last major label release. Undeterred by the loss of their deal with Capitol and the eventual departure of second guitarist Lyons, the band probably made its finest recordings in the late '90s and early 2000s. And even in recent years, they've continued to turn out consistently excellent releases. The 25-song retrospective <i>1000 People Grinning</i>, issued this year on Stomper Records, is a great summation of The Figgs' long and brilliant career. But if that's where you start, make sure <i>Lo-Fi At Society High</i> is your next stop. <br />
<br />
-Josh Rutledge Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-71630967836920445152013-04-12T05:53:00.000-07:002013-04-12T08:10:38.263-07:00SUBSETS - Ape Facin' EP (Granado Records, 2013)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOmi3OU2xZjhtRaD4UtGiSjy2B6TXI42wyVePmfY_4jvgTJNLU2EOPatctIFBnuZQsBGBWScjqsbx5n5vDkynTUiTRqzUSS4EbOW0MI9up4l1nPfXYoNplx3ZzFjqvIko5G6rV6WPfGI9Z/s1600/sub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOmi3OU2xZjhtRaD4UtGiSjy2B6TXI42wyVePmfY_4jvgTJNLU2EOPatctIFBnuZQsBGBWScjqsbx5n5vDkynTUiTRqzUSS4EbOW0MI9up4l1nPfXYoNplx3ZzFjqvIko5G6rV6WPfGI9Z/s320/sub.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
(BOMB-001): That's the official catalog number of the first release from Cincinnati-based
Granado Records. Appropriately, a pull-the-pin weapon used in warfare and other hostile
conflicts such as deciding where to eat chili serves as the company logo. The already-iconic
visual will undoubtedly explode upon targeted stationery, bumper stickers, buttons and T-
shirts. Territories mapped in the label's crosshairs include several STOP signs on Ludlow
Avenue, a trash receptacle behind Darou Salam African grocery, Foxy Shazam's bloated tour
vessel, Andy Slob's mailbox, the rear bumper of whatever the hell Kenny Roa is driving these
days, an overlooked bin at Shake It Records, the bulletin board at a nearby Kroger, a "Crave
Zone" spot at White Castle, a City Beat paper box and Timothy "Treebeard" Adams' apartment
door. The apparent hostage situation will actually be a rescue attempt to save the chosen ones
from their everyday gunpoints of eating soggy sandwiches on white bread, texting "OMG" and
"LOL" to Facecrack "friends," placing orange wedges in faux-microbrew bottles and watching the
latest bits of phony reality on an idiot box. Forget the Taylor Swift breaking-up bullshit, and start
a relationship with an artist who cuts more to the quick.
<br />
<br />
Like a stray shark who's hungry for an inexperienced surfer's leg, SUBSETS draw blood on the
menacing title track and tear at the limb until it is completely severed. Utilizing the Screamers-
with-guitars behaviorist attack of The Spits, they dine on "electric eels," "mall losers" and
"turkeys" amidst the backdrop of a purple-haze horizon. "Make You (Do It Again)" repeats the B-
movie madness on terra firma "with a switchblade." Though the knife-related lyric is all I can
decipher from the transmission, tension stabs reminiscent of an old Dangerhouse 45 or Shawn
Swifty's favorite Kill The Hippies record require no assistance from a code talker. The Spits'
Ramones-y side punches its time card on "I Don't Wanna Be Here," and the 1-2-3-4 beats on the
mundane routine of a 9-to-5 existence. Hey, SUBSETS: Could you steal some good pens for me?
The ink from this Rollerball has been flowing inconsistently throughout the review. 'Pprech!
Lastly, "Suffocation" chokes like Iggy Stooge fronting the Wipers in a venue constructed out of a
giant Ziploc bag. Some might ask, "Well, ain't that grunge?" They can go suck on John Varvatos'
exhaust pipe with that crap.
<br />
<br />
(BOMB-002) will drop soon. Stock the shelter with Star-Kist. You've been warned.<br />
<br />
-Gunther 8544Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-74849130179137776992013-03-08T06:21:00.000-08:002013-03-08T06:21:44.781-08:00Monrovia - News EP (self-released, 2012) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4xf0JNjRU1xe9wK9tHkXd14dWu_KJxxekKGSRxM2tR-c3ZpZeZb5FyKgdjHUwEwSHgdxZ6W_MU8W-JzqU2M95XNyT721j6IQtYi7DD3Afd5-WpmaXDJ1ag-Kj6sUFjSJgh9MXQhGDupd/s1600/monr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-4xf0JNjRU1xe9wK9tHkXd14dWu_KJxxekKGSRxM2tR-c3ZpZeZb5FyKgdjHUwEwSHgdxZ6W_MU8W-JzqU2M95XNyT721j6IQtYi7DD3Afd5-WpmaXDJ1ag-Kj6sUFjSJgh9MXQhGDupd/s320/monr.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Even though I didn't know what the hell to call 'em at the time (2011), I chose Monrovia's "Exit Stage Right" as the #2 song (just
behind Uglyography's wonderfully quirky "My Brain") on my Best Music From Greater Norfolk list -- an awards ceremony without
actual documentation. After a single screening of the YouTube video that'd been forwarded by a friend in the know, I bestowed
a "Pop God" tag upon main man Jon Schilling. Many releases from Frank Black and The Figgs occupy a certain section of my Yoo-
hoo container, and "Exit Stage Right" would dignify every single plastic disc from those F-ers. The cut's resolution is to "throw
everybody straight into jail," which is where bands with by-the-numbers beats belong.
<br />
<br />
"Rational Trash," the treasure-laden second single, deposits a skateboard-riding, cheerful bear who uses the long neck of a
dinosaur as an effective take-off ramp in the animated short. "Somebody told me that empty space is a money-making machine"
appears at odds with the many vacant Rite-Aid buildings in Tidewater, but a dedicated area for Teddy Ruxpin to pull off McTwists
would reap an increased quality-of-life currency.
<br />
<br />
Those who don't know history will unknowingly repeat it. The twitchy "Atlas Shrugged" covers both sides of the faded coin
("Creation wasn't born when your ancestors pushed you out the door/Keep crackin' open bottles so your wisdom ends up passed
out on the floor"). <br />
<br />
"I've got 500 channels..." pitches the cable package on "Stand Up." You can keep your Kim Kardashian and <em>Call Of Duty</em> franchise
(the Nickelback of video games?). I'll embrace Sarah Purcell and Activision cartridges. Take a hike, technology.
<br />
<br />
Oh, Monrovia took top honors in a category from 2012: Best Band Named For A City Named For A U.S. President. If there were a
real trophy, I'd get former WAVY-TV 10 reporter Mary Kay Mallonee to present it.<br />
<br />
-Gunther 8544Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-944753769963907462013-02-28T05:18:00.000-08:002013-02-28T05:18:00.893-08:00Satin Gum - LP2 (self-released, 2012)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61xuoRLeN1J5lWs6U9D3Zt2qHIDEVB1gCbwW9Sdco9GO5Pf6cu8xAGYxHOYRmiAO8djb3seykeCMD_HZ9GpeiapV94oFpsY3yY0GPO7CAJ8BWG3SYbhzxL_QAPH3lyoNycTiBSTTaS7Cd/s1600/satgum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61xuoRLeN1J5lWs6U9D3Zt2qHIDEVB1gCbwW9Sdco9GO5Pf6cu8xAGYxHOYRmiAO8djb3seykeCMD_HZ9GpeiapV94oFpsY3yY0GPO7CAJ8BWG3SYbhzxL_QAPH3lyoNycTiBSTTaS7Cd/s320/satgum.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Confession: I first came across these Pittsburgh purveyors of crunch-pop via the advertising sidebar on Facebook. "If you like Husker Du,
you'll love..." Kinda reminds you of an old perfume campaign, huh? Along with familiar scents of those Twin Cities titans, a strong aroma
of The Replacements engulfs the air inside Howlers (Satin Gum's hometown dive) on the YouTube clip of "Hip Shake Heartbreak." The
window-backed stage is similar to the street view of Norfolk's Taphouse Grill, so the guys should feel comfortable when a gig for them is
arranged there. Had Satin Gum come of age during DGC's heyday in the early 1990s, the fries-on-sandwich lovers would've traded bites
with the likes of Teenage Fanclub, Sloan, The Posies and Weezer in crowded clubs and major magazines. True, an earlier EP served a
different combo meal altogether with a heavy-rock presentation a la KISS and The Hellacopters, but the stacked creations of melodic
meatiness have proven to be the most popular orders.
<br />
<br />
Away from the Iron City limits, a camping trip seems like a good way to decompress from the usual smokestacks. The decision to "Call
You" after several sips from an unknown intoxicant, however, smolders any chance of becoming one with nature ("Four shots and I'm
gonna have a heart attack/Ghosts in my sleeping bag"). A Swatch was a fashionable method for measuring hours and minutes in the
freaky '80s, but "Forever" has its own indicator ("The last ten years felt like a lifetime/Come on, let's get high"). For combating post-romp
hunger and battling potential loneliness, "Did You Know I Know Kung-Fu?" is an empty-hearted martial art. "My bed and my pillow keep
me company" furnishes "The Weekend" retreat of one who "...can't ever see myself loving like that again."
<br />
<br />
Next time you're on Facecrack, pay attention to the margins. You just might be sold on something that's worth the Honus Wagner hustle.<br />
<br />
-Gunther 8544Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-75048035675808165222013-02-08T07:04:00.003-08:002013-02-08T07:06:34.665-08:00The Manic Low - Songs For An Up Day (Moonlight Graham Records, 2012)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJXfR9AfPBYgPI4iwuUAyVIXmwPqih9-Jm8w8Yvhkz_I2gpKbUDtZV1vhWnFWN2Y7Fs4NjF4ite24tEUZL2LPnt8T05HpfgUb8kvDs6s6t-m-LFxVd30XvXvF4TTCqp8-noYGbY7joO-W/s1600/maniclow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJXfR9AfPBYgPI4iwuUAyVIXmwPqih9-Jm8w8Yvhkz_I2gpKbUDtZV1vhWnFWN2Y7Fs4NjF4ite24tEUZL2LPnt8T05HpfgUb8kvDs6s6t-m-LFxVd30XvXvF4TTCqp8-noYGbY7joO-W/s320/maniclow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Currently, the only T.S.O.L. (Does anyone other than Poindexter punks refer to the band as True Sounds Of Liberty?) disc in my
pile marked "Stars 'N Stripes Punk" is the horror-informed <em>Dance With Me</em>. It was marked down to $1.99 in Musicland's
(Pembroke Mall location) cheapo bin during a 1995 search, thus it joined a similarly priced Bad Brains live CD in the store's plastic
bag. Jack Grisham's rich intonations and the group's tough 'n taut instrumentation certainly made for a Damned-good listening
experience, but two subsequent efforts carved their initials more deeply into my cranium. <em> Beneath The Shadows</em> flipped like
Grisham and friends turning the pages of UK stalwarts Magazine, via its distinctive vocal pitches and skillful flourishes in
electronic noise. Joe Wood, Grisham's brother-in-law, took over frontman duties on the <em>Change Today?</em> follow-up and proved to
be a prized pupil in the Morrison/Astbury/Danzig after-school choir. Elsewhere, the oft-jangly guitar propulsion suggested a trade
involving Grisham, Peter Buck and a drummer to be named later. I largely missed out on the post-T.S.O.L. pill The Joykiller in the
1990s, but I'm pleased to ingest Grisham's latest tablet fresh from the bottle.
<br />
<br />
Joined by Paul Roessler (piano/organ/backing vocals/digital instrumentation), Sean Graves (guitars/bass/backing vocals) and Rob
Milucky (electric guitar), Captain Jack steers the newly christened The Manic Low amidst pop-crested waves of varying heights.
"Daylight Comes," the most valuable treasure in <em>Songs For An Up Day</em>'s chest, beams with the heated intensity of a gold-plated
Pete Shelley solo gem buried in submerged sand. Waking up is vital to greet each day with a salute, but permanent, sound sleep
isn't a bad way to honorably discharge. If Duran Duran possessed more punk cred, maybe "Some Girls Own Me" would be a
shining star on one of their short films. Surely, Simon Le Bon and company would agree that the hired models are "better left
undressed." Liberation takes the wheel on "I'm Free," as Grisham turns his throat expressing the most powerful of feelings
("When you got the love, it's never gonna bring you down"). This heart beats like an outtake from the <em>Beneath The Shadows</em> days,
but the blood flows with the velocity of a Buzzcocks composition from the "comeback" era. There's a new Bowie record out, huh?
In spite of the title, "Choked Out In A Candy Store" could've been one of its finer moments of understatement. Elegant piano
touches provide a sharp contrast to the mouthful-of-Brach's-butterscotch imagery.
<br />
<br />
Jack, I'll never refer to The Manic Low as T.M.L. You have my word on it.
<br />
<br />
-Gunther 8544 Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-62465207652316542202013-01-19T11:35:00.000-08:002013-01-19T11:37:50.283-08:00The Black Beauties - Catch A Beat (Full Breach Kicks, 2006)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx5QTPhipt_28LcO5jVxxSShk7PnIQailonYTGFlh6z1HLDSx9dGRkHxJ6ekh-kyBGMq_vL57uVj_pp52hb8R9KukjK_otKWAvVT_dvebLaksNOSOqDh3jCf_v7DQ558rc-KtGdA3kWE3e/s1600/black+beau.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx5QTPhipt_28LcO5jVxxSShk7PnIQailonYTGFlh6z1HLDSx9dGRkHxJ6ekh-kyBGMq_vL57uVj_pp52hb8R9KukjK_otKWAvVT_dvebLaksNOSOqDh3jCf_v7DQ558rc-KtGdA3kWE3e/s320/black+beau.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Small-time hustler Joe May was having a rough patch. He had accumulated a modest fortune selling defective watches and duck-shaped cookie jars to unsuspecting Chicagoans, but an extended hospital stay put a cold cap on his commissions. Checking up on old affairs with an in-the-know bartender, Joe parked himself on a ripped stool long enough for a whiskey shot/beer chaser combo. "Go fuck
yourself!" he mumbled to one in particular. When Joe returned to his quaint apartment, there was an unfamiliar air about the place. Hearing a woman's voice in the shower, he slowly stepped into the bathroom and carefully peeled back the curtain. Joe's introduction to the pretty, naked brunette was made in the form of several hard slaps across his cheek. Profusely apologetic, he explained to the young
mother that the apartment had been his residence for over twenty years. The landlord assumed Joe had passed away or skipped town, thus the reason for the place's current occupants. With nowhere else for the former tenant to go, the woman agreed to let him rent a room for $100 per week. Joe was grateful for the arrangement, but the five bills in his wallet needed some fast company.
Contacting an ex-supplier, he begged the intimidating gentlemen for products to move: watches, TVs, stereos, etc. By this point, Joe was considered dead weight to the operation. Instead of favored electronic items, a corn-fed, 50-pound lamb shank imported from New Zealand was placed in the desperate man's hands. "WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?" Joe bellowed. "It practically sells itself," said the leader of the laughing trio. "Now, get out of here!" Needless to say, every restaurant manager, grocery clerk, convenience store cashier and dishwasher had absolutely no use for the bloody, bulky animal part. Most were violently adamant with their refusals. Feeling the full brunt from sub-freezing temperatures in the Windy City's air, Joe's final pitch was made to an outfit not normally in the business of buying meat slabs: the offices of Full Breach Kicks record label on N. California Ave.</P>
Once inside the cramped quarters, several interesting pieces caught his eye as potential trades for the pulled portion. A "gold"-plated disc from The Electric Kisses was nicely framed ... and autographed by Mike Frame! Two "Grammy" statuettes signified "wins" for 2005's Album and Song of the Year -- Chaz Matthews' <i>Amazing Graceless </i>and his "Beautiful," respectively. An embossed, drug paraphernalia kit flashed the logo of California trash-punk legends The Joneses -- whose back catalog had garnered a deluxe reissue treatment on FBK -- with a personal inscription from bandleader Jeff Drake. Twelve labeled glass bottles contained sugar-sweetened cola specifically manufactured for The Soda Pop Kids' <i>Teen Bop Dream</i> release party. Paired with the initial presentation's failure of any cash exchanging fists, Joe's suggested swaps for the shank were politely turned down. FBK countered with an offer of a hot-shit local act's latest wax and a bunch of band stickers. Despite grumblings of an uneven tit-for-tat, the remedial Zig Ziglar couldn't imagine walking out the door with added poundage. Resigned to the short end of the selling stick, Joe responded in a loud and direct fashion: "WELL, LET'S HEAR THE GODDAMN RECORD!"
</P>
You could've put The Joneses' handle on The Black Beauties' <i>Catch A Beat</i>, and many rock 'n' roll junkies would've spiked the needle into its grooves without asking about the original dealer. David Jo/J.Drake-ish vocals injected with more snot than a nurse's office filled with fifty sniffling noses. Guitars that bend like a riff competition between Chuck Berry's <i>The Great Twenty-Eight</i> and Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers' <i>L.A.M.F.</i> Booze-informed lyrics mixed with a swizzle stick of playful raunch and pointed concern. "PCP To Me" is the closest TBB come to a mirror reflection of The Joneses' "Pill Box," revealing a habit tougher to kick than any narcotic ("I shoot that girl right into my brain/This addiction I can't explain/In the alley or on the subway/I gotta have her every day"). Jonesing (HA!) for pre-gig jams en route to the N.Y. Dolls or Jayne County date downtown? Put on your tight pants, splash Hai Karate liberally, drink copious cups of wine and crank out "Action Party" stat. Be careful when taking your turn in an all-night game of "Fussin' And Fightin'." You might have to abandon the wrinkled comfort of Gain-scented sheets and greet the cloudy morning with a broken heart to go with your busted brain. Add up the numbers representing transportation devices in "Taken For A Ride," and you have 131 ways how to be a secret admirer ... or stalker ("Wonder if she's goin' ta work/Wonder if she's goin' ta school/I wonder if she looks at me/And thinks I'm a fool").</P>
Back to the transaction, this "rock 'n' roll shit" didn't touch the haggler's heart like beloved Puccini albums he'd spun in more fruitful times. Lamb in arms, Joe headed for the exit and paced towards The Mutiny. He thought gyros would be an excellent addition to their menu.</P>
-Gunther 8544
Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-15781700107529541392012-10-10T04:34:00.002-07:002012-10-10T04:34:54.440-07:00HEAP- Live At Arlene's Grocery (Rave On Records, 2008)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZPgMdsWt4ONtF3P3kWDz-U2Zv3rN2a0sSUxQio3ptRUC4jXch_RN5IvIj7bwOz1zTS9W0t5KTaU1Gc81y3t5VHq95x1tVZ38lIuwcR1ZZJHc9Rx7MgocfI-OD0hOQ_exMvXudTzQTSVs/s1600/heap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZPgMdsWt4ONtF3P3kWDz-U2Zv3rN2a0sSUxQio3ptRUC4jXch_RN5IvIj7bwOz1zTS9W0t5KTaU1Gc81y3t5VHq95x1tVZ38lIuwcR1ZZJHc9Rx7MgocfI-OD0hOQ_exMvXudTzQTSVs/s320/heap.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Usually, live albums aren't the best way to hear your favorite bands. The cliched "You had to be there!" line is often attached to any description regarding their merits. Generally, I agree with such reasoning. I'd much rather spin KISS' <i>Dressed To Kill </i>or Cheap Trick's <i>In Color</i> <i>(And In Black And White) </i>than subject myself to their respective <i>Alive</i> and <i>Budokan</i> concert clatter. Hell, a lot of the
action on the discs was subsequently doctored up in the control room. Gene and Paul even had the chutzpah to include bonafide studio cuts on their "live" records! Make no mistake, I'm not saying that live albums are completely worthless. The "fast" version of Queen's "We Will Rock You" from <i>Live Killers</i> is the only way the song should be played, because it eliminates the annoying "Champions" part that plagues the second half. Yeah, yeah ... you won your Super/Gator/Toilet Bowl. Who gives a turd? Flush it down the pipe with a million other classic-rock crap formations. Don't think Bob Mould has ever heard Husker Du's posthumous <i>The Living End </i>CD, which was released more for Grant Hart and Greg Norton's benefit. I mean, it's an OK collection of Hu Du on various stages, but I haven't held the thing in over eight years. I'm more apt to grab <i>Candy Apple Grey</i>, <i>New Day Rising</i> or <i>Everything Falls
Apart</i>. Oops, forgot to mention <i>Land Speed Record</i>. Well, I'll cite it here to reinforce my point concerning live albums. I buried that tuneless piece of tripe under the sands of Bonneville over two decades ago.<br />
<br />
Since acquiring them several years back, HEAP's first two releases have been very close friends with my Magnavox CD player. Their fun, energetic, rock 'n' roll chops conjure up the veteran know-how of label mates The Reducers, the "Do the boob!" behavior of The Real Kids and the songwriting smarts of The Replacements. (With all those "Re-" band references, I'm surprised HEAP aren't known as REAP!) The studio slabs are plenty potent, but <i>Live At Arlene's Grocery</i> makes me want to return this review's first sentence for a refund. Recorded in December 2004 amongst their NYC faithful, HEAP deliver fourteen blows that punch just as hard in posterity as
on that hot night. In addition to other comments on the fair species, "Women" contains a couplet ("'Cause every aging centerfold/Someone's grandma getting old") that could work as a tribute to the sadly missed Kitty Foxx. Martha Stewart gets chowdered on "Not A Good Thing" ("Filthy-rich, horse-faced queen/I don't read your magazine/Why you're living, I don't know/While I'm changing past your show"). "The Sober Life" examines the back-and-forth between staying straight and being shit-faced ("I'm not often mistaken/For a genius [on] Friday night"). Musical taste and a language barrier prevent one from getting to know the "Puerto Rican
Girl" on the train ("The tragedy?/No habla espanol"). "Two Speeds" closes the show and commences the post-game by stating, "We're in the bar drinking. Bye."<br />
<br />
The next time Born Loose return to Norfolk, I hope they bring HEAP along for the fun. I'm almost certain the Belmont House Of Smoke has Jameson's in stock.<br />
<br />
-Gunther 8544
Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-90421704695264033792012-08-12T15:43:00.000-07:002013-01-23T05:34:37.714-08:00The Mongrolls - Truth Or Dare (Hideout Records, 2011)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglNnpJ0VPTeGMwOdhZbZ4qHPNogRn1stljPUaXbE5NNuIPY-25CQVHvcDynZg0aKsmh-yrtcZxTOVZWPix8QR58eDDi6WzCx1GoP3l04XqkFUJpdhAXX2RTTluxHaIctPGzydAP-oBFdkG/s1600/mongrolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglNnpJ0VPTeGMwOdhZbZ4qHPNogRn1stljPUaXbE5NNuIPY-25CQVHvcDynZg0aKsmh-yrtcZxTOVZWPix8QR58eDDi6WzCx1GoP3l04XqkFUJpdhAXX2RTTluxHaIctPGzydAP-oBFdkG/s320/mongrolls.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From the wild woods of Middleboro, MA, a
frustrated leader of a one-man band ixnays the high-priced position on a therapist's
couch and confronts his demons in a more direct way. Greg Mongroll chooses
the punch of a sledgehammer over the pill of sedation on "Smash It,"
and the recorded evidence makes a strong case for leaving doctors and their obnoxiously
displayed diplomas behind for good. Archaic answering machines, tapped-out
televisions, innocent Coke cans, useless tapes and a Feederz
album (seriously?) are demolished beyond recognition and donated to the
worst thrift store in Hell, Delaware. To label "Smash It" as a
Damned song sans adverb (or is "Up" an adjective in this case?) would be a somewhat inaccurate price tag, but there's plenty of good punk-junk
in the tune's trunk. New Englanders should appreciate the snot-covered
trinkets modeled after The Queers' Wimpy era, while those flying their Union
Jacks high would salute the lo-fi treasures recalling the best of Billy Childish
and Eater. Much like Teengenerate's "She's A Dumb," "Smash
It" is poised for a sweet spot on an upcoming Dirty Sheets mixed CD.
Try to be gentle with it, Greg!</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
With utmost certainty, there ain't a goddamn thing delicate 'bout "I Tell
You." Suicide suggestions are delivered in a tone redolent of the
angry Germanity put forth by punk Fuehrers PVC/Pack. "Drunk Again,"
"I Don't Want Your Love" and "No Way" intoxicate at
the BAC levels of Cincinnati lager legends The Slobs. Yo, Shawn
Abnoxious: I don't invoke<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that
esteemed name lightly, so think on it before you scream "FOUL!"
Speaking of The Slobs, The Minds' "Night Drive" is the sort of swag
they would've covered on a 45. Haven't yet heard the original, but I will
after tonight, mang. Killer take, 'Rolls! How do I own the Unnatural Axe tribute disc without
possessing recordings from the group itself? "Three Chord Rock"
(reprised on <i>Truth Or Dare</i>) is an apt description of both UA and Greg's musical
leanings. Menace's "GLC" spits like "jealousy"
when said aloud. The Mongrolls' version should make pseudo-garage
shits with four times the members and one-fortieth the talent feel exactly
that way.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Pussy Riot are released from a Russian prison, The Mongrolls should be the
meat on a sandwich bill with Madonna. The concert could be held at the same
arena where Rocky Balboa defeated Ivan Drago. Maybe Greg can get a
few attendees to cheer ... FOR HIM!!!</span></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Gunther 8544</span> </span></div>
Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-3035000272089213972012-07-04T06:44:00.001-07:002012-07-04T10:12:05.613-07:00The Psychedelic Furs- Talk Talk Talk (Columbia Records, 1981)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaGCoPBrAu5qIH-ZGOhi5y_jXvuFgOCkEVDRXogpKOkSkDrnEIy5GdoqK2MquphDMg34gmeNB7UXdJ7eqd64uhp7KbbW2Qom-xF3QwbsEfRhhh0mtHo3mEDohjcbHbKoAFahq8w5vvm6H/s1600/furs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaGCoPBrAu5qIH-ZGOhi5y_jXvuFgOCkEVDRXogpKOkSkDrnEIy5GdoqK2MquphDMg34gmeNB7UXdJ7eqd64uhp7KbbW2Qom-xF3QwbsEfRhhh0mtHo3mEDohjcbHbKoAFahq8w5vvm6H/s320/furs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Every time I've ever tried to name the most underrated rock bands of all-time, The Psychedelic Furs have been one of the first groups to come to mind. In fact, I'd be hard pressed to think of a more underrated band, ever, than the Furs. It's not that the Furs have been completely forgotten. And I certainly can't say that they didn't sell a lot of records. But for the most part, I don't think people realize just <i>how good</i> this band was - especially in its early days. In an era in which <i>so</i> much incredible music was being made, The Furs were one of the most creative and unique bands going. They may be best known for their slicker new wave pop hits, but prior to that they made two of the greatest post-punk LPs of the early '80s. The second of the two makes my short list of desert island discs. <br />
<br />
In contrast to the Furs' dense, brooding debut, <i>Talk Talk Talk</i> is a bundle of energy. It adds a brighter pop sensibility to the band's modernized fusion of Berlin-era Bowie and Roxy Music, and it's the one Psychedelic Furs album that clearly shows the group's punk roots. Compared to its predecessor, it's a far more accessible record. Yet it's no less of an artistic achievement. From start to finish, it's the finest collection of songs the Furs ever wrote. And Steve Lillywhite's large-scale production, which came off a bit "grandiose" in his work with U2, is a perfect fit for the Furs' crackling wall of sound. Spearheaded by Vince Ely's powerhouse drumming, Duncan Kilburn's ebullient saxophone, and John Ashton's textured guitar lines, <i>Talk Talk Talk</i> is as rocking as it is arty. And it <i>is</i> both, with a huge injection of '60s pop melody to boot. The influences at play are hard to miss, yet the Furs were a classic case of a band that borrowed certain elements and proceeded to "make them their own". Sure, there's a <i>little</i> bit of David Bowie in Richard Butler's vocals. But ultimately, no one in the world sounds like Richard Butler (although many have tried!). Gravelly-voiced and emotionally charged, he's an absolute <i>force</i> on <i>Talk Talk Talk</i>. This is an album chock full of classic tracks ("Pretty In Pink", "Into You Like A Train", "Mrs. Jones", "Dumb Waiters"), and it's hard to imagine any of them with a different singer. No doubt about it: Richard Butler is the man! <br />
<br />
<i>Talk Talk Talk </i>would be the Psychedelic Furs' last album as a six-piece. With the departure of Kilburn and second guitarist Roger Morris, the band's sound was scaled back and gradually commercialized (their next album was produced by Todd Rundgren - talk about a dramatic change!). And while I'd classify all of the Furs' later records as good to very good, there's something truly special about their first two. <i>Talk Talk Talk </i>in particular is one of the seminal works of "alternative" rock. It's the perfect bridge between the band's arty beginnings and later pop success, and in a good way it brings together all the best qualities of early '80s new wave rock. If you mixed the sexy sophistication of Roxy Music with the sonic experimentation of Kraut rock and the "edginess" of punk, then somehow made it all appealing to the masses without sacrificing an ounce of artistry, that would be the Furs in their prime. I won't discourage anyone from going out and buying a quality Furs best-of collection. But this is one of those bands, like the Pretenders, where you really miss out if you pass on their best album. Save the greatest hits package for later. <i>Talk Talk Talk </i>is where you have to start with The Psychedelic Furs.<br />
<br />
-Josh RutledgeRutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-21502128940717005192012-07-03T08:37:00.002-07:002012-07-03T08:37:44.170-07:00Nine Pound Hammer- Hayseed Timebomb (Crypt Records, 1994)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidffUTdhM2UJK9580zisWHRkhIe-g6MiNd047KhecaeXfGVpPk4UtU0NqDbDYBy3KJ0UAvHv9OEbfg7T95HpjTfNaWWhkMLklG6mu5IInHlj2nBpMuaoVeHPOvBRcwM12e50g_-Zb4uSM_/s1600/nine_pound_hammer-hayseed_timebomb%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidffUTdhM2UJK9580zisWHRkhIe-g6MiNd047KhecaeXfGVpPk4UtU0NqDbDYBy3KJ0UAvHv9OEbfg7T95HpjTfNaWWhkMLklG6mu5IInHlj2nBpMuaoVeHPOvBRcwM12e50g_-Zb4uSM_/s320/nine_pound_hammer-hayseed_timebomb%25281%2529.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd love to tell y'all cowpokes that this Kentucky-bred bunch of shitkickers coined their band after a reactionary tool used to drive Trent Reznor's industrial-lined nails nine feet into the ground. Sure, you could rank Nine Pound Hammer alongside REO Speedealer and Jon Cougar Concentration Camp as hefty handles dumping fescue all over established artists. The stupendous name, however, is lifted from an early country classic by the rather refined Merle Travis. Because the fine folks in NPH were raised amongst agriculture, the twang in their bang comes across as naturally as sipping 'shine outside the general store. Indeed, the amphetamine-laced readings of jukebox joints from Johnny Cash, Buck Owens and Hank, Sr. split the toxic shots between reverent and ragged. Early shows at dives like Great Scotts Depot in Lexington added cover tunes from the likes of Ramones, The Clash and Eddie Cochran to the raging repertoire. Lest you think heavy metal gets the shaft, Ozzy Osbourne receives a dual citation in the band's own "Headbangin' Stockboy" ("I'm the 'Iron Man' of the produce aisle" and "Sharing SpaghettiOs with 'Mr. Crowley'"). Conversely, an American Eagle is defeathered in the absolutely scathing "Bye, Bye Glen Frey" (sic) ["Gonna get a gun/Shoot Glen Frey/Radio's playing/Reason why"]. Pile on terse comments on religion ("Jesus or Jack Daniel's/Fuck, it's all the same to me"), family relations ("He and his brother/Married the same girl/If you're still confused...") and pop culture ("Chuck Norris is her favorite movie star"), and Nine Pound Hammer sizzle the thick-cut bacon like a suvvern-fried Dictators or a displaced Devil Dogs. If the producers of "My Name Is Earl" had been more in tune to good music, the <em>Smokin' Taters!</em> collection would've been blasting outta Mr. Hickey's beater.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the Earl in all of us, Scott Luallen (vocals), Blaine Cartwright (guitar), Matt Bartholomy (bass) and Bill Waldron (drums) team up on <em>Hayseed Timebomb</em> and further their tongue-in-cheek tales of backwoods behavior. "Shakey Puddin'" runs the going-after-girls gamut from fooling around with a sister's friend as a youngin' to pondering marriage and kids later in life. 'Tween those years, the "little cad" thumbs thru his father's Playboys and puts fingers on "Catholic girls (who) like to play along." Two slices of "Fuck Pie" are filled with the respective fruits of inexperience ("Back when I was young and naive/I wore my influences on my sleeve/Preached from the safety of my bedroom floor") and wisdom ("One day, you're gonna see/That all the powers that be/Always make enough crosses to go around"). "Skin A Buck" emanates with the joint aromas of skunk piss and cheap brew. While endlessly perched in a tree stand, the would-be Ted Nugent slips into the stranglehold of a camo-covered coma ("Last night while I was huntin'/I fell asleep and had a dream/That all the deer had rifles/An' they were comin' after me"). The two-fisted roughneck in the title track subsists on an anti-Dr. Oz diet of crank, pork rinds and cold beer. Profits from the sale of his worn boots are used to line the pockets of one-eyed hookers. "Outta The Way, Pigfuckers" steers the rusty F-150 towards an off-ramp leading to pastures away from Podunk ("With your Wal-Mart gossip and country-fried philosophy/Toothless witticisms about farm machinery"). Weary truckers "Stranded Outside Tater Knob" only have a "wax museum of dead 'Hee Haw' stars" and "fat girls stripping to Molly Hatchet songs" to decompress from long hauls. The whorehouse that "used to give special rates before the Baptists burned it down" is greatly missed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fun fact: I've never eaten pork rinds. Maybe Burger King will soon serve them in their sundaes. That's no less bonkers than the chain selling pulled BBQ sandwiches. WTF?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Gunther 8544</span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-40524218023907231522012-02-17T11:37:00.000-08:002012-02-17T12:17:48.289-08:00Ruts- The Crack (Virgin, 1979)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopTRs3Nln2v2tQCtc90wZMMYyVgf-wqKX4iMML3hyphenhyphenOCYgUmZZ-FFTNwkKSWmRDKS8oJEx5MjjU5OBVBX5leegpuMhDtZJyHtBLn2FPwdxA0KtPMx0SpBti9FydGsYXwU82zp8ROc81Uw2/s1600/ruts.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710191186192701346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopTRs3Nln2v2tQCtc90wZMMYyVgf-wqKX4iMML3hyphenhyphenOCYgUmZZ-FFTNwkKSWmRDKS8oJEx5MjjU5OBVBX5leegpuMhDtZJyHtBLn2FPwdxA0KtPMx0SpBti9FydGsYXwU82zp8ROc81Uw2/s320/ruts.jpg" border="0" /></a> Out of all the punk bands to come out of England in the 1970s, Ruts in my opinion remain the most underappreciated. In fact, if I had to name the ten best U.K. punk bands <em>ever</em>, Ruts would easily make that star-studded list. Seriously, who was better? The Clash, Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, Damned? Sure. Generation X? Probably. X-Ray Spex? Okay. Adverts? Perhaps. But that’s about it. And eighth place all-time, amongst that kind of company, ain’t too shabby! If you like ‘70s U.K. punk rock and aren’t into Ruts, that situation needs to be rectified promptly.<br /><br />Ruts probably arrived on the scene too late to garner the sort of accolades and mass popularity of The Clash, Pistols, et al. And tragically, they weren’t around long enough to grow their renown over time. But in their far-too-short existence, they did produce one of the great albums of early punk in their 1979 debut, <em>The Crack</em>. While Ruts’ blend of socially conscious punk and reggae merited comparisons to The Clash, they were far from copycats. In fact, Ruts had as distinct of a sound as any early punk group. Infusing a proto street-punk sound with the advanced instrumental prowess of arena rock and the chilling clang of post-punk, Ruts were a distinctive presence at a time when cookie cutter punk bands were the norm. If there was ever a missing link between Slaughter and the Dogs and Joy Division, Ruts were it! <em>The Crack</em>, while historically undervalued, was hardly a flop. It generated two Top 40 UK singles in “Babylon’s Burning” (#7) and “Something That I Said” (#29). And the album itself peaked at #16 on the UK charts.<br /><br /><em>The Crack</em> kicks off with a bang. “Babylon’s Burning” is an anthem if there ever was one – as urgent and compelling as anything The Clash ever did. And you know I love The Clash! But it doesn’t take long to establish that this is no ordinary punk album. “Dope For Guns”, with its finessed guitar work and nimble bass lines, wouldn’t sound out of place on a mixed tape next to something off of Joe Jackson’s <em>Look Sharp</em>. And “S.U.S.” fully establishes the album’s tone - coming on with a slow, menacing guitar crunch, sophisticated rhythm parts, and a generally haunting feel. That vibe reaches its apex on the epic “It Was Cold”, an eerie slow-burn driven by hypnotic bass work, multi-textured guitars, and an unsettling vocal from Malcolm Owen. The musical chops on display throughout the album are pretty mind-blowing. Some of the instrumental parts on “You’re Just A” and “Savage Circle” will have you thinking you’re listening not to Ruts, but rather Rush! But never does the technical proficiency of the playing detract from the prevailing mood of the album. <em>The Crack</em> is a gritty, desperate affair, and even its “punkest” tracks (“Backbiter”, “I Ain’t Sofisticated”) will never be mistaken for generic three-chord thrash. And “Jah War” may be the best reggae song done by any punk band in the ‘70s.<br /><br />A mere ten months after the release of <em>The Crack</em>, Malcolm Owen was dead. Although the surviving members carried on as the very respectable Ruts D.C., it was never the same. As incredible as Paul Fox, Dave Ruffy, and Segs Jennings were on their instruments, they had a special chemistry with Owen that could never be rekindled. It’s tempting to talk about what Ruts <em>might</em> have become – how they would have been the band to keep punk music going strong into the ‘80s. Surely they would have picked up the slack as The Clash began going to shit, right? Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll never know. What we do know is that <em>The Crack</em> was one of the best albums of its time. There are a lot of legendary punk albums from the same era that don’t hold up nearly as well today. Check out <em>The Crack</em>. Bask in its greatness. What a band. What a fucking band!<br /><br />-Josh RutledgeRutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-24842771307301035152012-02-10T12:45:00.001-08:002012-02-10T13:17:32.585-08:00The Crumbs - s/t (Lookout, 1997)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoOdaIXEUtsSbiLj_p5j3tQhSjpZpZgcApbDo23GBJESwocV6-B2TYUnobvkVibvOp3PSSKLZJ3T2nY47l7focUKrXC78t4P_2jaTT3kI7Wu5o6xSWLrpn7teri-sq9h2KJ3UVx7h_9ta/s1600/crumbs.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; height: 317px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707614285638597922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoOdaIXEUtsSbiLj_p5j3tQhSjpZpZgcApbDo23GBJESwocV6-B2TYUnobvkVibvOp3PSSKLZJ3T2nY47l7focUKrXC78t4P_2jaTT3kI7Wu5o6xSWLrpn7teri-sq9h2KJ3UVx7h_9ta/s320/crumbs.jpeg" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Earlier this year, Lookout Records (According to former boss Larry Livermore, the name was never intended to be written with an </span><span style="font-family:arial;">exclamation point) made the decision to cease operations. Though I'd paid scant attention to the imprint's later releases, it was </span><span style="font-family:arial;">still somewhat shocking to hear the news of Lookout's demise. Like Amphetamine Reptile, Junk, Pelado and others before it, so </span><span style="font-family:arial;">smothered another flame from what time has proven to be a productive '90s for likeminded labels. The first album I owned from</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Lookout was Screeching Weasel's <span style="font-style: italic;">Wiggle</span>. A friend had picked up the disc for me as a belated birthday gift. The bratty vocals,</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> cultural references and thoughtful lyrics laced their Chuck Taylors as tightly as the Ramones' most beloved pairs. Twenty years </span><span style="font-family:arial;">on (Where in the hell did the time go?), <span style="font-style: italic;">Wiggle</span> remains one of the best punk rock platters of any era. In 1996, the same bud </span><span style="font-family:arial;">passed along a dubbed tape with The Mr. T Experience's <span style="font-style: italic;">Love Is Dead</span> on side "B." (The Humpers' <span style="font-style: italic;">Positively Sick On 4th Street </span></span><span style="font-family:arial;">covered the front half!) Whereas the Weasel mostly fed on a 1-2-3-4 diet of Bowery-like blasts, MTX balanced their "Gabba Gabba </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Hey!" intake with the smoother hooks of power pop. I've got fond memories of <span style="font-style: italic;">Love Is Dead</span> powering the cassette deck as my</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> friend and I drove around aimlessly on Independence Day in search of a free cookout. We ended up at Kempsville Inn with a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">pitcher of Miller Lite (100% drank by yours truly), three plastic darts and an otherwise empty room. I'd dug The Queers' <span style="font-style: italic;">Killed By</span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Death</span>-compiled cuts like "At The Mall" and "I'm Useless" for a great while, but I only recently became a convert of their 'Mones-</span><span style="font-family:arial;">meets-Beach Boys proper catalog. With statements such as "Ursula Finally Has Tits" and "I Can't Stop Farting," 1993's <span style="font-style: italic;">Love Songs</span></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> For The Retarded</span> is a spirited celebration of eternal juvenile behavior. All of the aforementioned LPs are prime staples in the now-</span><span style="font-family:arial;">gone Lookout catalog. However, my favorite leather-jacketed lads from the label hail (Yeah, they're still making music!) from the </span><span style="font-family:arial;">decidedly non-rock outpost of Miami, F-L-A.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My first nibble on The Crumbs was on the shared space of a Stiff Pole Records 7-inch single with fellow Sunshine State roustabouts</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Pink Lincolns and Gotohells. "What Do They Know?" flew its Ramones flag high with a punchy patchwork stitched by snottiness and</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> uptempo beats, but the threads of Aussie punk popes The Saints and '50s greaser rock also pledged allegiance. The Chris Bailey-</span><span style="font-family:arial;">esque snarl and the familiar Lower East Side trademarks shine their stripes even brighter on The Crumbs' self-titled effort. Around the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> time of the album's release, an Arizona trader sent me a tape containing a broadcast from the nearby college radio station. Finest</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> moment from the mix? "Get On With My Kicks." Framed by some serious rock 'n' roll riffin', it's the tale of a reckless woman who's</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> constantly on a first-name basis with trouble. She's got no qualms about dropping everything and hitting the road with a Clyde to her</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Bonnie in search of illicit substances. Indeed, the willing tag-along is "all shook up even more than Elvis allowed." "No Time" shares</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> a title with a Saints song from<span style="font-style: italic;"> (I'm) Stranded</span>. Even with different lyrics, the feeling of being trapped by a Timex is most relative ("Are</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> you stuck inside the classroom?/The teacher always putting you down/The bell never rings and the minutes go by too slow"). "Long</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Distance Luv" tracks a lonely heart beating strongly for a displaced crush made possible by the USPS ("I've only seen her once/She lives</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> a thousand miles away/But every time I get a letter/In this world I wanna stay"). Descriptions of a modern "Shakespeare": "He got no</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> money and he got no home/He got no place to go/He got no license, no degree/Got no PHD." Tasting toast with diet pills and raiding </span><span style="font-family:arial;">liquor cabinets satiate the cool kids who exhibit "All Style." "It's Gonna Take All The Time I Got" sets its broken Swatch on drunk o'clock</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> ("Here comes a girl from another land/She said she saw me playing in a rock 'n' roll band/Turns out she's the daughter of this clingy place/</span><span style="font-family:arial;">Drinking without paying 'til I fell on my face").</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So long, Lookout Records. I'll still keep my eyes on you.<br /><br />-Gunther 8544</span><span style="color: rgb(136, 136, 136);"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /></span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-61336692337543769292012-01-28T16:47:00.000-08:002012-06-30T07:11:05.590-07:00The Jellybricks- Soapopera (Rite-Off, 1999)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0h5-2i0kP_EETTOhXRhMP7FUZnFEDg1q1c2TFgBrQCRM-uw8tOzVXxqBbyrZqZDWfGfOd0IEDufEHN7UuuUI0iMihDp8eUYabGLDOrmRQONl5I8xCwvOERPRdTpOCPvYlJYX7_phLj_B/s1600/The+Jellybricks+-+Soapopera+-+1999.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702849264696348818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0h5-2i0kP_EETTOhXRhMP7FUZnFEDg1q1c2TFgBrQCRM-uw8tOzVXxqBbyrZqZDWfGfOd0IEDufEHN7UuuUI0iMihDp8eUYabGLDOrmRQONl5I8xCwvOERPRdTpOCPvYlJYX7_phLj_B/s320/The+Jellybricks+-+Soapopera+-+1999.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Planet Music (OK, it's been called fye for years, but I prefer to reference the place by its former name) in Virginia Beach produced some interesting finds in the 2-for-$3.00 bin last Sunday (1/22/2012). I'd seen Lava Love's </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Whole Lava Love</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> in discounted piles for nearly a decade without taking it to the register. What an idiot move! The female-fronted jangle-pop rings as clear as any prior Mitch Easter production. Now that LL's other album is on my list, it'll probably never turn up at Planet again. Flop were spotlighted in the Northwest-themed "Hype" documentary, but I'm having trouble recalling their scene. (Side note: My friend Holly bought the film on VHS for a buck at said store in 2002) </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">World Of Today</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> is stuffed with the sort of crunchy guitar-pop favored by famed knob-tuner Kurt Bloch (Fastbacks/Young Fresh Fellows). Led by vocalist/guitarist Don Fleming (formerly of Norfolk's own Citizen 23!), Gumball spat out several discs agreeable to fans of peer groups Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Super Tasty</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> was the one I bit on BACK IN THE DAY (TM), but </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Revolution On Ice</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> blows a bubble that's just as big. The prime artifact from the Planet visit, however, comes in the form of a wonderfully</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> squishy slab based out of Harrisburg, PA.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">Possessing the winning wordplay of early Elvis Costello, the sensitivity of Material Issue, the down-at-the-pub punch of The Figgs and the radio-friendliness of Matthew Sweet, The Jellybricks' </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Soapopera</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> might've only cost me $1.50, but its true value is akin to a moon rock in NASA's display case. A manly man like Victor Newman would never have to seek female</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> companionship at a laundromat, but a dollar-changer like the dude in the title track should Bounce at such an opportunity ("She got me through my color separation/Was this my chance to ask her out, or just idle conversation?"). Once hook-ups by the machines become painful routines, "Fingernails" might claw in the direction of that factory reconditioned washer/dryer</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> combo at East Coast Appliance ("Mouth to mouth in sight/Nothing else seems right/Thirsting for this pain/Unwashable blood stain"). Clogged with lint from the dryer trap, "Speechless" requires a service call to restore sweet sentiments ("I love you when you're miles away/I'm speechless in your presence/I'll think about you twice a day, and smile through my sentence"). How many</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> cups of Gain would it take to coat the loads of cynicism in "Martyrs"? ("You can beat yourself 'til you're black and blue/Maybe Elton John will sing for you") "Bone-crunching, blistering, bad-acid bowling for premature pregnant teenagers with no soul" crams the Kenmore by explicitly defining a "Prerequisite Rocker."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">According to the message on the CD's back cover, "the music found here is an appropriate accompaniment for dancing, staring at the walls, light snacking and many other activities." It's time to place a clean pillow over my face, dream about that one woman with a fresh scent and play </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">Soapopera</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> at a volume exceeding a washer pumped by the blood of yearning hearts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: arial;">-Gunther 8544</span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-62985189456912967722011-10-30T09:17:00.000-07:002011-10-30T12:20:06.758-07:00Buzzcocks - Trade Test Transmissions (Castle Communications, 1993)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK5_AXe-RLDfVL6nVfgrbRSlWRrRnQT9chpk3I1s6d0hRTJKur7qlrB6bC17_CvfbmbMPkAFJTpvufTbeieaTbTIzHwb2yOqLQ0_Cd2y_hqOfFGSuJVuMEYkgzgLtGcvRUKKuAopAngOWG/s1600/buzzcocks_test.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK5_AXe-RLDfVL6nVfgrbRSlWRrRnQT9chpk3I1s6d0hRTJKur7qlrB6bC17_CvfbmbMPkAFJTpvufTbeieaTbTIzHwb2yOqLQ0_Cd2y_hqOfFGSuJVuMEYkgzgLtGcvRUKKuAopAngOWG/s320/buzzcocks_test.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669322903969457314" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Luckily, I have seen these Mighty Men from Manchester twice on stages away from the Tidewater area. </span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br />The first fix was at a now-defunct dive called Twister's in Richmond, VA. Touring with the Lunachicks and Down By Law as part of a package deal for Go-Kart Records in 1999, the Buzzcocks were actively promoting their fairly recent (and Miami Dolphins-hued) <span style="font-style: italic;">Modern</span> album. Dismissing the 'Chicks as "punk rock for girls in gas station shirts" and DBL as "sounds for skater shits," my fair-weather friend jOhn A. and I turned our heads and spent the duration of the support acts' set time chatting with a cool couple from Carolina (North division). Most </span> <span style="font-family:georgia;">exchanges were of the "I wish the Buzzcocks would hurry up and play already!" variety. After the genie's grant, Pete Shelley and Steve Diggle -- two of UK punk's songwriting masterminds -- were joined on Twister's platform by Tony Barber (bass) and Phillip Barker (drums). Hearing '70s gems like "Ever Fallen In Love?" and "Autonomy" (their most metallic track?) in the flesh more than made up for the eternal wait outside and obvious questions from panhandlers. Cuts from <span style="font-style: italic;">Modern</span> such as "Soul On A Rock" and "Speed Of Life" added just as much wind to the Twister's cyclone. Post-gig, jOhn, the Carolina duo and I complimented the 'Cocks on the execution of old and new favorites. In return, we were given access to the band's spacious tour bus. I mostly conversed with the driver and someone from the Buzzcocks' camp, but jOhn got a 30-minute audience with Shelley. My friend fired away with the burning questions, and Pete seemed genuinely taken with jOhn's humorous satire via his <span style="font-style: italic;">Skin Alley</span> zine. The dude was beaming all throughout the two-hour ride back to Virginia Beach!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In 2003, the 'Cocks made a stop at the legendary Cat's Cradle in Chapel Hill, NC (the only show I've caught outside Virginia's borders, save for a boss blues band in B-More whose name escapes me). New tunes like "Jerk," "Friends" and "Sick City Sometimes" made the self-titled effort another winner, but the totality of the CC experience lacked the magic that'd been pulled from Twister's hat four years prior. Still, I held Shelley's</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;">Sprite bottle while he was signing something, drank three quick PBRs, ate tasty pizza from the kick-ass parlor next door and heard Donnie Iris' "Ah! Leah!" for the first time in nearly 20 years. Not bad for an "off" night, huh?</span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"> </span> <span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br />Here's the final bit from my review of the Buzzcocks' s/t disc that appeared on the long-gone <span style="font-style: italic;">Empty Wagon</span> site: "It's amazing that Shelley and Diggle were once at a dilapidated shopping center on Newtown and Baker Road in Virginia Beach." That club in the blighted part of town was called Outer Limits and had played host to other top tourers like drivin n' cryin' and The Posies. Like a lugnut, I declined jOhn's invitation to witness Shelley and Diggle perform numbers from their well-received 1993 comeback wax (<span style="font-style: italic;">Trade Test Transmissions</span>) at OL. Maybe I was too busy hanging out with the Touch Tone crew at Summer's Past or some other watering hole in hopes of being the rebound for a lonely lady, but missing the Buzzcocks in VB was akin to air-balling a free throw from three feet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In contrast, owning <span style="font-style: italic;">Trade Test Transmissions</span> is like jamming all of Vince Carter's dunks in that famed All-Star contest in a single attempt. Gripping a well-worn subject on the hardwood, "Palm Of Your Hand" manages to keep its dribble inbounds with cheeky cleverness ("Executive attention, yes, the kind that relieves/You've got the instruments of pleasure at the end of your sleeves"). Like a baller braggin' 'bout his PPG prowess, "Do It" scores twos and threes "like the river fills the sea," but the star calls a 20-second timeout with emotional pondering ("My only consolation/Is that someday you'll care/Perverse sophistication/You won't get far if you're going nowhere"). "Isolation" is blessed with a killer hook (shot) and Reggie Miller's touch when left alone at the perimeter ("There's an empty space where nothing grows/There is no life for the rose/Only a shadow in my heart"). Were it not for the lockout that's threatening to deep-six the entire 2011-12 NBA season, LeBron and Kobe could use the title cut's opening tip ("Turn the television on/You've been reading too long") in a promo piece and leave the teachings of sincerity and sarcasm to bonafide instructors. Perhaps only Bill Walton amongst hoopsters past and present would be able to pass the classic-rock reference of "Innocent" while trapped in the paint ("Even though you're not my mom/I've got to get my washing done"). "Last To Know" rewards with something greater than the Larry O'Brien trophy in June ("I came into your room while you were sleeping/And tip-toed to the bottom of your bed/I held my breath so I could hear you breathing/Love's such a sweet thing").</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The first time Bob Mould saw the Buzzcocks, Pete Shelley shouted the chord changes of various songs to him. Talk about an assist that's greater than any of Magic Johnson's spectacular dishes!<br /><br />-Gunther 8544</span><span style="color:#888888;"><br /></span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-68571316410670386952011-10-19T05:23:00.000-07:002011-10-19T05:37:46.096-07:00The Ergs- Dorkrockcorkrod (Whoa Oh Records, 2003)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXXIDS_VhqLw0GABEtiI0-abB0l6woj0XUrt7roPkkRIMYc1ZOOwJmnBHqiW4eR5EYyDroy-vQ7e39VJQuoKyzgipSPsul26ZL-7_RfmVrDSARVcm73O7RfS18ih8zSt05l2OfWOp14jQ/s1600/ergsd.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665178051423912386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihXXIDS_VhqLw0GABEtiI0-abB0l6woj0XUrt7roPkkRIMYc1ZOOwJmnBHqiW4eR5EYyDroy-vQ7e39VJQuoKyzgipSPsul26ZL-7_RfmVrDSARVcm73O7RfS18ih8zSt05l2OfWOp14jQ/s320/ergsd.jpg" border="0" /></a> To the best of my recollection, the most “contemporary” album I’ve ever reviewed for Dirty Sheets was <em>Guitar Romantic</em> by the Exploding Hearts. And that came out nine years ago. What’s my beef with <em>modern</em> music? I don’t know. If it’s an unwritten rule that the records we write about here should be ones we truly and deeply <em>love</em>, then it kind of makes sense that I’ve mostly stuck with older records. It takes time to really <em>get to know</em> an album. A relationship between man and music must be properly cultivated. Notoriously prone to rash judgments about music, I have been known to pan albums that I later loved. And I have been known to praise albums that I never listened to again. But if I’m reviewing it here, it might as well be written in stone. So then: in the year 2011, it seems safe to finally write about my favorite band of the 2000s, The Ergs.<br /><br />South Amboy, New Jersey’s Ergs, in their eight-year career, put out two albums, several EPs, and over ten thousand singles. And while I’ll maintain that The Ergs did not hit their absolute peak until they recorded their final LP <em>Upstairs/Downstairs</em>, there’s one album I always reach for when I’m craving “classic Ergs”: 2003’s <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em>. As a style of music, “pop-punk” is not exactly most people’s favorite. But if every pop-punk band sounded like The Ergs, it would be a different story. While the typical pop-punk band of their day was like a second-rate Screeching Weasel or a third-rate Ramones, The Ergs were more akin to The Descendents with jazz inflections, hardcore tendencies, comedic undercurrents, an air of geek chic, and a whiff of Jersey. Neither wimpy nor formulaic nor lyrically clichéd, the music of The Ergs proved that pop-punk could <em>rock</em>. And <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em> is in my mind one of the landmark recordings in the history of the genre.<br /><br />Individually, the members of The Ergs are among my favorite musicians of recent memory. Joe Keller (now killing it with the Night Birds) is still one of my two favorite bass players in punk rock. Mike Yannich, in my mind, is one of the most gifted pop songwriters of his generation. He’s also one hell of a drummer. And Jeff Schroeck is a truly brilliant guitarist. Yet somehow, with all that incredible talent, The Ergs managed to be even <em>more</em> than the sum of their parts! They were a true <em>group</em>- a dynamic and cohesive power trio who combined their complementary superpowers to create a singular force of awesomeness. <em>Dorkrockcorkrod </em>achieves a sound that all pop-punk groups should aspire to: powerful and aggressive, with guitars and drums pushed so high in the mix that you could close your eyes and swear the band was right there in the room with you. Credit must go to producer Chris “Gobo” Pierce for knowing how a punk rock record was supposed to sound. Equal credit must go to the band for its formidable chops and undeniable chemistry. With nods not just to The Descendents but also The Minutemen, Replacements, Black Flag, Husker Du, Green Day, Elvis Costello, and The Zombies, this is an album far removed from the banality of cookie cutter pop-punk. Rife with obscure pop culture references, smart-guy witticisms, rollercoaster tempo shifts, and Ginsu-sharp hooks, it’s an album that delights even after a hundred spins. I should know!<br /><br />While The Ergs were far from creatively undemocratic (Schroeck and Keller both contributed songs to <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em>), Yannich was no doubt the band’s “star”. When you think of The Ergs, you probably think of Mikey Erg and his “brokenhearted love songs”. On <em>Dorkrockcorkrod </em>he keeps ‘em coming, even as he pokes fun at himself for doing so. “Pray for Rain”, perhaps the greatest Ergs song ever, opens with these lines:<br /><br /><em>I'm so in love with you/</em><br /><em>So I thought I'd try something new/</em><br /><em>And write a silly song about just what your smile can do/</em><br /><em>But it's just not working out/ </em><br /><em>And now I'm having my doubts/</em><br /><em>It seems that broken hearted love songs are what I'm all about</em><br /><br />Funny stuff for sure, but in typical Mikey Erg fashion it absolutely tears your heart out. In the same manner, songs like “Saturday Night Crap-O-Rama”, “Everything Falls Apart (And More)”, and “Most Violent Rap Group” channel one young man’s excruciating heartache into music that’s emotionally charged yet incredibly <em>fun</em> listen to. “Pray for Rain”, for all the anguish it unleashes, is an utterly triumphant number, and one of the all-time great tracks to air-drum to while you’re operating a motor vehicle. You just can’t help pumping your fist and shouting along to that chorus: “And I!/Could write you the perfect song!” You don’t want to wish relationship woes on anyone, but if there’s a silver lining to Mikey Erg’s bad luck in love circa the early 2000s, it would be brilliant songs like this one. And the album is full of them! In the liner notes, my old friend Lew Houston perfectly sums up the thematic scope of <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em>: “This is an album about girls, and showers, and new beginnings, and globes, and vampires. That leaves 12 songs about girls. A concept of sorts. Not a very complex one, but one nonetheless.”<br /><br />The songs on <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em> that are <em>not</em> about girls are no less essential to the flow and feel of this pop-punk classic. Joe Keller’s “Extra Medium” is like a “Turn on the News” for the Internet generation (“Please don’t turn on the TV/Or open the paper/’Cause the chances of tragedy/Are now part of the weather”). Jeff Schroeck takes the mic for his contributions “Fish Bulb” and “I Feel Better Tonight”, switching things up with his blunt vocal delivery and provocatively vague lyrics. And leave it to the Ergs to go ultra-obscure in cover song selection, having a go at “Vampire Party” by the Paul Roessler/Mike Watt collaboration Crimony. As a whole, it’s hard to find fault with <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em> – every detour into hardcore thrash or experimental jazz doubling back to snappy power pop (“Rod Argent”) or hard-charging melodic punk (“180 Degree Emotional Ollie”). The general vibe is fast and fun, but it’s the variety that carries the day. It’s as if your favorite early ‘80s “post-hardcore” group stepped out of the pages of <em>Our Band Could Be Your Life,</em> hopped a time machine to 2002, and decided to show the pop-punk scene what it had been missing. The Ergs would go on to make much more great music, and individually they’ve carried on in terrific bands like Black Wine and the aforementioned Night Birds. But <em>Dorkrockcorkrod</em> was something special, and will likely forever remain my favorite thing that any of these three men have ever played on. Has it really been <em>eight </em>years? Damn!<br /><br />-Josh RutledgeRutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-14417100445376120502011-10-09T13:45:00.001-07:002011-10-09T13:57:30.872-07:00Jeff Dahl- Ultra Under (Triple X, 1991)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PKI8FUr18QefuGWdSsoK4q86jxn4-b95TrRxmwqIKVCDSTsXPQgELzgojIaKcgLPSncZBskSU1_mRyVYNEKR78WXZqAp1D_ZX0oJNx1UQIE1Yt510E0xxUNu5WyKtJ2bo0vY0omBIer-/s1600/dahl.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_PKI8FUr18QefuGWdSsoK4q86jxn4-b95TrRxmwqIKVCDSTsXPQgELzgojIaKcgLPSncZBskSU1_mRyVYNEKR78WXZqAp1D_ZX0oJNx1UQIE1Yt510E0xxUNu5WyKtJ2bo0vY0omBIer-/s320/dahl.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661596451977909602" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: arial;;" >Thirty-nine cents! It's tough finding a goddamn Snickers bar for less than that amount of lint-covered coins, but spotting arguably Dahl's best album on tape in Camelot Music's cheapo bins inside Virginia Beach's Lynnhaven Mall circa 1995 surely satisfied (albeit temporarily) my ears' hunger for fresh sounds. Judging by the thick nest of frizz on the cover (Mark Bolan with a perm from Hell's hairdresser?), the sleeveless Stooges tee, a dedication to Stiv Bators and song titles like "Junkies Deserve To Die" and "Mick & Keith Killed Brian," I was readily eager for </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >Ultra Under</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" > to acquaint itself with the deck of my Magnavox boombox. After the fourth or fifth</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" > complete rotation of Dahl's promising platter, I made the following mental declaration: "Man, this dude's like Iggy Pop and Johnny Thunders rolled into one human being!" Indeed, Dahl's shoveling The Stooges' "Dirt" was so spot-on, my New Jersey-based friend (who'd acquire </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >Ultra Under</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" > on CD within a week after wearing out the dubbed copy) thought it was Mr. Iguana himself. Said bud also gave high marks to the take of The Runaways' "Cherry Bomb," for it served as a template for Dahl's oft-girly vocalisms. Remember The Sweet's version of "Reflections"? Same shit, different era. It was the opening whine ("Touchy, Touchy Baby") that</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" > initially impressed us the most, however. Personally, I dig lots of '80s hair bands (as recipients of my grit comps would confirm), but this wild child sipped its glam formula with punk rather than metal. Because Dahl spat out lines in the same way a toddler extracts Cheerios ("So many questions got you on the spot/You don't bother to answer/Just give it up/Plain as day, but she can't see/Just shrug your shoulders/Ah, c'est la vie"), we sang along to </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >Ultra Under</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" > in my amigo's rental car during his return to Tidewater.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >Mr. New Jersey is no longer a friend of mine (100% his fault, but whatever...), but Jeff Dahl can still be counted upon whenever a rock 'n' roll jolt is necessary to power bleak days and nights. Recounting the true story of a horrible night amidst the '70s punk scene in Los Angeles, "Elks Lodge Riot" puts you in the middle of the chaos ("Flying vultures overhead/Tracking my every move/Sirens running thru the streets/Sets such a dangerous mood"). An absolutely stinging guitar riff from Chemical People's Jaime Pina (shades of Cheetah Chrome) heightens the tension. Dunno what kind of household Dahl grew up in, but "God Don't Care" is an answer-back redolent of many an artist a la Jim Carroll and Patti Smith ("Take it any way you want/It ain't blasphemy/If you sell your soul, baby, you ain't free/Put all you've got in the collection plate/Yeah, you can buy salvation if it ain't too late"). "Somebody" and "Pretty Blonde Hair" (another Pina lead!) are apt tributes to Stiv, as both throw flames with the white-hot intensity of the cookers on </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >We Have Come For Your Children</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" > (the BETTER of the two Dead Boys albums!). Sparse piano and voice could be the stuff of your mom's favorite Jeff Dahl composition ("Just Amazin'"), though the tale of succumbing to addiction keeps it out of the recital realm. Elton's preferred instrument is also utilized on "Chemical Eyeballs," which blinks with a mid-tempo groove reminiscent of primo Bowie and Mott The Hoople.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >Thank you for letting me share my thoughts. All 39 pennies' worth</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >-Gunther 8544</span><span style="color:#888888;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color:#888888;"><br /></span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-74594582004728695842011-07-22T04:08:00.001-07:002011-07-22T04:19:24.077-07:00The Ugly Beats - Motor! (Get Hip, 2010)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UHYNQauRuXs3RGn-WCLnyiZiW14-4tmNuoq7AXpfz55-EFOH-PGaMifuBYCDESHi-XApUeN-6ZhAPPTh7j6PfXFWd0219gsWDqmD4gFtLqr0jPI49ID07sPWonLT1g9CJuBh1amXOHtI/s1600/uglybeats.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632131969346928594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UHYNQauRuXs3RGn-WCLnyiZiW14-4tmNuoq7AXpfz55-EFOH-PGaMifuBYCDESHi-XApUeN-6ZhAPPTh7j6PfXFWd0219gsWDqmD4gFtLqr0jPI49ID07sPWonLT1g9CJuBh1amXOHtI/s320/uglybeats.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Austin, TX? I've never visited the city, but that doesn't mean I can't make assumptions about the place. For the friends I may or may not have from the Lone Star State, please take any generalizations with a sip of Shiner Bock and a forkful of juicy steak. If my perceptions on the quirky college town were 100% truthful, I'd be on the next Amtrak departing from the Bad Newz terminal. Off the train, here's what I noticed during my imagined trip. Barbecue beef brisket is consumed for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Every person you meet is in a band of some merit. The ratio of record stores to Walgreens locations is 15:1. All street signs are adorned with "Keep Austin Weird" bumper stickers. Every person you meet has taken a ride in one of Billy Gibbons' classic cars. There's a taping of "Austin City Limits" around the clock. Every person you meet has experienced one of Daniel Johnston's freakouts in the flesh. Police officers here are much friendlier than in other parts of the state. Every person you meet claims to have attended every SXSW Festival and whines about it being cooler when there was less hype. More than twenty must-see shows happen nightly. Girls wearing long dresses and multiple bracelets exclaim, "I bet you're wondering how someone can be a vegan in a state where beef is what's for dinner!" Every person you meet has a story about eating dinner at Roky Erickson's house and taking bong hits with him afterwards.<br /><br />Dreams and glass pipes extinguished, The Ugly Beats REALLY are a prime cut of contemporary garage rock 'n' roll from the same butcher's rack as earlier Get Hip beef slabs like The Cynics, Sons Of Hercules, Stump Wizards, Steel Miners on down. A suit holding a snifter might accuse the menu that's the liner notes of being self-serving, but those who lament the closing of The Grate Steak in Nawfuck wish they could still cook their own meat. With dry rubs from the early Beatles, Byrds and a host of seasonings found on the <em>Nuggets</em> box set, TUB are a well-done hunk of heifer that's grilled to my satisfaction. "Through You" and "Bee Line" sear like the Lyres' Mono Mann at his most manic, courtesy of the uptempo, organ-driven beats and howling vocals. "Don't Go" tenderizes a la the Fab Four's "Love Me Do" with the same plea for affection, but the sweet intones of a female accompanist hasten the USDA stamp of approval. "All Comes Back" simmers in the jangle that Peter Buck borrowed from Roger McGuinn, while the voice liberally blends in the unique style of another REM member. "You'll Forget" is a regional take on an old Neil Diamond B-side recipe, and the heavier approach raises the temperature just a tad. "Funny Girl" brings Babs to mind in a titular sense, but her Noo Yawk ass ain't anywhere near the kitchen. Someone should check to see if Linda Ronstadt is back there. She's one hot pepper, and if there's one thing that Texas loves...<br /><br />Oh, all taxi cabs in Austin are Cadillac Eldorado convertibles with "Hook 'em, Horns!" hood ornaments.<br /><br />-Gunther 8544 </span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-35525344194212849582011-07-14T20:42:00.001-07:002011-07-14T21:01:46.321-07:00The Star Spangles- Bazooka!!! (Capitol, 2003)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5HNPn_4xImveF4sAzPvX2xIXxNgv80mXyu8WEhcEfrnDH1RIjd7Ja5r8Ys5DoQhMAr5Bw8MigVxgaezu86M_zL8eDDGE75v4H_BFGPDT2wRb-BCbx-wNX4b0MbxJpWZsODwSZlth4_I7k/s1600/the_star_spangles_-_bazooka_a.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 318px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629419620485992674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5HNPn_4xImveF4sAzPvX2xIXxNgv80mXyu8WEhcEfrnDH1RIjd7Ja5r8Ys5DoQhMAr5Bw8MigVxgaezu86M_zL8eDDGE75v4H_BFGPDT2wRb-BCbx-wNX4b0MbxJpWZsODwSZlth4_I7k/s320/the_star_spangles_-_bazooka_a.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">More than baseball, hot dogs and apple pie combined, procrastination is America's favorite pastime. Which is the reason why this review wasn't submitted to Dirty Sheets in time for a themed piece on Independence Day. On July 4, 2011, my lovable laughing stocks from Crab Town were defeathered by the Texas Rangers sans Cordell Walker, a Ball Park frank was replaced by a Chicken BLT with sweet potato fries at Ruby Tuesday and the usual sweet treat was benched in favor of several pieces of Ferrero Rocher candy. The digital vinyl spun on my Facecrack wall didn't necessarily uphold the Stars 'N' Stripes tradition, either. Kate Smith, Lee Greenwood and Bruce Springsteen? Those old standbys might've been on your flag-draped granpappy's phonograph, but I chose to blow out the candles on Old Glory's birthday cake with some lesser-heard gems that smear the same shades of red, white and blue frosting. If Lady Liberty holding her flaming torch symbolizes freedom, then her NYC homeboys The Dictators are emblematic of the freedom to rock 'n' roll. Name a band from China or Cuba. I sure as hell can't. Their version of "America The Beautiful" (from the <em>Every Day Is Saturday</em> odds 'n' ends collection) expresses its loyalty with brash vocals, loud guitars and skipped stanzas. At a shade under three minutes, it's also a tribute to the short attention spans of our nation's citizens. Salute! Formed on a military base in Europe, America proffered an overseas take on "California rock" thousands of miles away from The Golden State. Still, "Sandman" is "Top Gun" before Tom Cruise. Prominent mentions of aircraft ("All the planes have been grounded") and alcohol ("We ain't had no time to drink that beer") would be welcome in any at-ease watering hole from Oceana to Oceanside. American Heartbreak paid lip service to Finnish transplants Hanoi Rocks with a cool reading of "Rebel On The Run." Could you imagine Michael Monroe and the boys moving to North Korea instead of Los Angeles and releasing album after album of top-shelf glam rock? It's a good example of the "Great American Melting Pot" that's versed in the "Schoolhouse Rock" bit. Lastly, I selected another Noo Yawk group who might be one of the few to have graced the stages of Chicho's in Virginia Beach (on 9/10/01 -- think about that date for a minute) and the Ed Sullivan Theater.<br /><br />I don't know what David Letterman does with all the CDs he gets from musical guests on his talk show, but I'd like to think The Star Spangles' <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Bazooka!!!</span> was the soundtrack to more than one backstage soiree with several fresh-faced CBS interns. The juxtaposition of Johnny Thunders-like sleaze with Paul Westerberg's corn-fed sensibilities suggests that the Indiana-raised host kindly asked his tryster for permission to drop the Worldwide Pants. Faulty wiring is the thread to many a relationship. Via a measure to curb arson-laced arguments, "Which Of The Two Of Us Is Gonna Burn This House Down?" (Ain't that a mouthful, Dave?) is up to code with the Dalmatians and their handlers ("Because the best thing to do for fire prevention week/Is if me and you just not speak"). Moving to a different breed of dog, track 8's opening lines flame like Michael Bolton driving a jacked NYC ladder truck in reverse ("If we can't be lovers/We can't be friends"). Later lyrics are sure to strangle the poodle with a hose ("Maybe I'll call you if I need a meal/Maybe I'll ball you if I need a cheap steal"). Fueled by a Steve Jones-style guitar octane, "I Don't Wanna Be Crazy Anymore" pays at the pumps and confesses on a cat-clawed couch ("I'm public enemy in my hometown/Parents tell their kids not to say my name out loud"). Prescribed medications in effect, "The Party" favors a less toxic approach to having a good time ("Fill the beer can with Coca-Cola/Makes you feel like a rock 'n' roller"). In the right frame of mind to meet a possible better half, perhaps the appreciative "Angela" will be the one you get to know away from the stage ("She's got my posters up on the wall/She used a box of tacks to make sure it just don't fall/And when I stare into that space/I will always see her face").<br /><br />Stay tuned for my Labor Day story. It should be ready by Halloween. Or Thanksgiving. Or Christmas.<br /><br />-Gunther 8544 </span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-63789878620130464072011-07-10T19:25:00.000-07:002011-07-11T07:09:38.420-07:00The Subhumans- Incorrect Thoughts (Friends Records, 1980)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi039ZJY2cKzg-H__lxehvcrud8kaTAWrnwqqFyxwR1ZqLBpL9Ir5LtnNjopLLVo1_C5tvK5SzDBiILzmbfEnRVvTm5flgOxSrbN6SawwmQ81mPK8EIijfLJ2w7T-9lZS4S4cIfUXOQMBl8/s1600/sub.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627915565181067058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi039ZJY2cKzg-H__lxehvcrud8kaTAWrnwqqFyxwR1ZqLBpL9Ir5LtnNjopLLVo1_C5tvK5SzDBiILzmbfEnRVvTm5flgOxSrbN6SawwmQ81mPK8EIijfLJ2w7T-9lZS4S4cIfUXOQMBl8/s320/sub.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I think of all-time-great first wave punk bands that nobody ever talks about, the original Subhumans are among the first that come to mind. While the majority of punk rock fans are far more familiar with the later, vastly inferior U.K. Subhumans, it was the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Canadian</span> Subhumans that made some of the finest and most ferocious punk rock to come out of North America in the late 1970s. Respect!<br /><br />Often compared to Vancouver’s<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> other</span> classic early punk group, D.O.A., The Subhumans were similar for good reason. Singer Brian “Wimpy-Roy” Goble and original drummer Ken “Dimwit” Montgomery were in The Skulls with D.O.A. singer Joey Shithead. The Skulls then splintered into two bands. D.O.A. and The Subhumans frequently played shows together and shared passionately strong opinions on socio-political matters. If both bands sounded <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">kind of</span> the same, that was strictly a blessing to the punk world. What could be better than a great political-minded punk band from Vancouver? How about <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">two</span> great political-minded punk bands from Vancouver? And as in-your-face as Shithead and company were in espousing their world views in song, the boldly anarchistic Subhumans took it to another level entirely! <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Incorrect Thoughts</span>, the band’s 1980 debut album, relentlessly attacks on musical and lyrical fronts from the first raging strains of “Big Picture” to the final note of that tender love ballad “Let’s Go Down to Hollywood (& Shoot People)”. This is angry, explosive music that goes for the kill and never lets up. If you took the righteous indignation of The Clash, multiplied it by 100, and set it aflame on a runaway train, you’d get the seething ferocity of “The Scheme” or “Death to the Sickoids” (the band’s debut single from ‘78, ragingly reprised here). In essence, this is hardcore punk before the term really existed. Yet because it’s some of earliest hardcore known to man, it’s got just as much in common with ‘77 punk rock as it does with ‘82 hardcore. Basically it’s rock n’ roll played louder, faster, and way more angrily than it ever had been played before, and in these blazing tunes you can hear an affinity for everyone from the Avengers to The Ramones.<br /><br />Like D.O.A., the Subhumans were propelled by one of the hottest & tightest rhythm sections of their time. And although Montgomery (older brother of Chuck Biscuits) did leave the band in 1979, replacement drummer Jim Imagawa was no downgrade. Imagawa and bassist Gerry “Useless” Hannah set a breakneck pace on<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Incorrect Thoughts</span>, while Mike “Normal” Graham unleashes a righteous blend of melodic leads and heavy, scorching guitar. On lead vocals, Goble atones for a lack of a traditionally good singing voice with passion, conviction, and the sheer force to move mountains. The man sounds flat-out <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">pissed</span>, and he’s got <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">a lot</span> to say! While the term “anarchist punk” would be sullied in the ensuing years by several generations of really awful bands, what you hear on<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Incorrect Thoughts</span> is some of the best music ever. It’s aggressive and hard-hitting, no doubt, but at the same time you’re pumping your fist, singing along, and itching to get out there and wage war against the powers that be! Whether he’s railing against new wave rock (“The Scheme”), bully jocks (“Greaser Boy”), poser punks (“Dead at Birth”), brainless sheep (“Model of Stupidity”), the mass media (“Death to the Sickoids”), or the forces that oppress (“Big Picture”), he’s at 11+ on an anger scale of 1 to 10. And the band behind him is bringing it <em>hard</em>! It may strike some of us as odd that the new wave bands we music geeks now romanticize are the object of derision in “The Scheme” (Goble did most definitely <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">not</span> get The Knack!). But there’s just no denying that it’s one of the greatest punk rock songs of the early ‘80s.<br /><br />“Big Picture” opens the album with a proverbial bang. Hot on its heels are the classic anthems “We‘re Alive” and “Firing Squad”. At that point a lesser band might have shot its wad. But The Subhumans are just getting started, and the action doesn’t really hit its peak until midway through the album. The all-time classic “Death to the Sickoids”, the furious call-to-arms “New Order”, the satirical & metal-tinged “Slave to My Dick”, and the melodic sing-along “Greaser Boy” are four of the best songs the band ever did. They spearhead the album’s inspired back half, which seems to be gaining momentum even as closing track “Let’s Go Down to Hollywood (& Shoot People)” eases off the gas pedal a tad. What a rush! If you need a musical recording to get you fired up, or if you’re in a foul mood and crave some good old angry punk rock,<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> this</span> is the album you want! If punk rock music is about saying “Fuck you!” via song, then this is one of the punkest records ever made.<br /><br />If you were actually there to <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">see </span>The Subhumans circa 1980-81, what an experience that must have been! Those were wild times, with many shows literally culminating in riots. The band gigged throughout Western Canada and the U.S. West Coast, playing with kindred spirits the Dead Kennedys as well as Husker Du, Black Flag, Bad Brains, X, and Minor Threat. Even after Hannah and Graham left the band in 1981, reinforcements were brought in and a second album was recorded for release on SST Records. By the time it came out, however, Goble had left to play bass for D.O.A. and the Subhumans were no more. Hannah would gain notoriety in 1983 for his role in the bombings of an environmentally unfriendly hydroelectric substation on Vancouver Island and a missile manufacturing plant near Toronto. He served five years in prison. Dormant since 1982, The Subhumans reformed in 1995 with Hannah and Goble on board for a Canadian tour. And in 2005, the band reformed for the long haul with Graham back on guitar and SNFU’s Jon Card taking over on drums. They put out a new LP in 2006 and last year re-recorded<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Incorrect Thoughts </span>in its entirety due to a contractual inability to re-release the original album. I have not heard the new version, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Same Thoughts, Different Day</span>. But come on: if you’re gonna get <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Incorrect Thoughts</span>, accept no imitations. Find the original album! A classic of hardcore punk and one of the best punk LPs of the early ‘80s, period, it’s worth tracking down. And if you don’t feel bad about screwing the band out of royalties, the CD Presents reissue adds two bonus tracks and comes with quite the nice booklet. Talk about a moral dilemma!<br /><br />-Josh RutledgeRutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-68729823572428903732011-06-03T06:02:00.000-07:002011-06-03T06:18:41.288-07:00Parasites- Punch Lines (Shredder, 1993)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_Ew71eGpqpYU5Vv65YqClyQOK1exqmNcR4dD1OzEgXUv8YoTExC9dGqYPy6CZ9t8D4VfMrAWIzy0_qbECjprIYdSgPiyany3SDHUD12nPAg9SO8xgnSq1cT7IGdE4bb7g5ySx5KD1xMS/s1600/para.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613978389673426530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_Ew71eGpqpYU5Vv65YqClyQOK1exqmNcR4dD1OzEgXUv8YoTExC9dGqYPy6CZ9t8D4VfMrAWIzy0_qbECjprIYdSgPiyany3SDHUD12nPAg9SO8xgnSq1cT7IGdE4bb7g5ySx5KD1xMS/s320/para.jpg" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;">For a man of 40, I’ve had a relatively small number of “favorite bands” in my lifetime. When I was 10, my favorite band was AC/DC. At 15, I was rockin’ with Dokken. At 21, I was all about Nirvana. The lengthiest favorite band reign of my lifetime belongs to the Dimestore Haloes, who were “my” group from 1998 until they disbanded at some undetermined point in the early to mid 2000s. The title has remained vacant ever since. In between, there were others like Judas Priest (my seventh grade year) and Bad Religion (the year after college). And I’ll never forget those years – circa ’96-’97 – when the Parasites were my #1.<br /><br />Along with Screeching Weasel, The Queers, the Beatnik Termites, Green Day, and the Mr. T. Experience, the Parasites were the cream of the crop of ‘90s pop-punk. Originally formed in New Jersey in 1985, the Parasites became more or less a one-man show when Dave “Nikki Parasite” MacKenzie relocated to Berkeley, California in the early ‘90s. Working with a revolving door of supporting players, MacKenzie recorded two albums for the indie imprint Shredder: <em>Punch Lines</em> and <em>Pair</em>. The latter was primarily comprised of songs that had originally appeared on the band’s 1990 debut <em>Pair of Sides</em>. For years, I insisted that the punkier <em>Pair</em> was by far the superior album. Although I liked <em>Punch Lines</em>, I contended that it was “overproduced” and sounded “like an Elton John record”. It’s easy for me to understand why I felt that way <em>then</em>. I was a young man – 25, 26 years of age. I was a dyed in the wool “punk rocker” with a closet full of Clash t-shirts and a bedroom floor littered with <em>Maximum Rocknroll</em> back issues. <em>Punch</em> <em>Lines</em>, for all of its merits, did not deliver the buzzsaw guitars and stripped-to-the-bones simplicity I craved in pop-punk music. But as the years passed and I came to value musical substance over musical style, I completely fell <em>in love</em> with <em>Punch Lines</em>. It’s not even close – <em>Punch Lines</em> is the best Parasites album, and to boot one of the ten greatest pop-punk albums of all-time.<br /><br />Perhaps because MacKenzie played everything but drums on the album, <em>Punch Lines</em> has the feel of a solo record. Although the obvious influences (Descendents, Buzzcocks) contribute to the general musical approach, the album is the distinctive work of a truly unique artist. True enough: MacKenzie has always been a genre traditionalist, and no one is better at crafting simple, catchy pop-punk songs. But no other pop-punk album has ever sounded quite like <em>Punch</em> <em>Lines</em>, which derives its character from MacKenzie’s plaintive vocals and brilliantly heartrending lyrics. If <em>Punch Lines</em> really <em>is </em>a concept album, the concept is not hard to grasp: love’s a bitch! The man once told me that he wrote songs because it was a lot cheaper than paying a therapist to listen to his problems. And judging by the lyrical tone of <em>Punch Lines</em>, he must have suffered through some serious relationship woes prior to writing these songs. I had suffered through some serious relationship woes of my own around the time I bought the album, so it’s easy to see why <em>Punch Lines</em> connected with me. The record affirmed my views on love – and probably influenced them going forward.<br /><br />While typical pop-punk music of the day addressed the ups and downs of teenage romance, Parasites songs spoke of far more complicated <em>adult</em> love. <em>Punch Lines</em> recounts the less pleasant aspects of grown-up relationships: the inevitable dysfunction and subsequent betrayals, the torture of loving someone who doesn’t love you back, the neurotic over-analysis of what went wrong, the dark cloud of obsession looming over new love, the agony of loss and the hole it creates in your heart, the bitter realization that what started out so promising could have ended in heartbreak and despair, and through it all, the optimism to believe that no matter how many times love fucks you over, it’s going to <em>finally </em>work out next time. By turns pitch dark (“Dead Roses”), hopeful (“When I’m Here With You”), cathartic (“Letdown”), stalkerish (“I’m Gonna Make You Love Me”), bitter (“I Don’t Believe You”), and bizarrely upbeat (“Crazy”), the relationship theme plays out with all the poignancy, humor, and high drama of a cinematic love story. If they ever make a Broadway musical out of <em>Punch Lines</em>, I’m first in line for tickets.<br /><br />Perhaps a fair criticism of <em>Punch Lines</em> would be that its best tracks outshine the rest. The funny, self deprecating “Young and Stupid” is just about the greatest pop-punk tune there’s ever been. And album opener “Crazy” is simply an extraordinary song – a touching tale of two very imperfect individuals who nonetheless make a perfect match (“I met you in emergency/You rolled right by on your way back from shock therapy/I knew that you were meant for me/I loved the way you moved/Even though you moved involuntarily”). Also meriting classic status in the annals of pop-punk is the peppy and impossibly catchy “When I’m Here With You”. But while the rest of the album may suffer slightly by comparison, it's still <em>really freaking good</em>. The likes of “Someday”, “The Next Time”, and “Nothing At All” are solid tunes on their own and crucial components of the album as a whole. And “Letdown”, for all of its dragging instrumental bloat, is the epic closer the album needs. While not quite a “happy” ending, the song brings closure to the artist’s suffering. A page is turned, and our protagonist lives to love another day.<br /><br />The optimist in me was sometimes tempted to re-program the CD so that it would end happily with “Crazy”. But deep down I knew it was pointless. <em>Punch Lines</em> is <em>supposed</em> to be a bummer – the kind of record you listen to when you’re going through some major shit and need company for your misery. You listen to this guy spill his guts about how much his love life sucks, and it makes you feel better. The album sure got <em>me </em>through some rough times. Today at a considerably <em>happier</em> point in my life, I hope to never again require its consolation. But <em>Punch Lines</em> will always be a favorite of mine. The 25-year-old me may have been mostly full of shit, but he had fine taste in music.<br /><br />-Josh Rutledge</span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-15763266792165081232011-05-28T15:13:00.001-07:002011-05-28T15:23:24.566-07:00The Adicts - Songs Of Praise (Dewd, 1982/Cleopatra, 1993)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyx_nynC3SWzwoV2G4qqhFuNEj3M2jtuUyawMP9hMCdqRQMLlgx5M-O3l3teq2R7Co4spRQdQMCjyQYE5qf1OyulMAfGQiJeRL2CabaxngkOv77k_0MoeS7XvtLtzzF2hU3p_Cdngp710c/s1600/Adicts%252C_The_-_Songs_Of_Praise.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611895383381065378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyx_nynC3SWzwoV2G4qqhFuNEj3M2jtuUyawMP9hMCdqRQMLlgx5M-O3l3teq2R7Co4spRQdQMCjyQYE5qf1OyulMAfGQiJeRL2CabaxngkOv77k_0MoeS7XvtLtzzF2hU3p_Cdngp710c/s320/Adicts%252C_The_-_Songs_Of_Praise.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;">Along with the Toy Dolls and Peter And The Test Tube Babies, The Adicts were part of a movement within a movement I've seen classified as "fun Oi!". While street-punk pioneers such as Sham 69, Cock Sparrer and The Business occasionally had their humorous turns, the eternal cut-ups were far more interested in going to the pub with Harry rather than using his influence to unite the kids. Donned in droog costumes straight from the wardrobe of "A Clockwork Orange" and fronted by a "Monkey" man in joker paint, The Adicts were the class clowns of '82 UK punk. Stage props like confetti, beach balls, toy instruments and bubbles enhanced their yearbook superlative. Who else would discuss a fruitless search for food ("Chinese Takeaway"), "lament" over a lost love ("My Baby Got Run Over By A Steamroller") and express a genuine appreciation for classical music ("Ode To Joy") in the midst of serious sloganeering from other outfits? Familiar inflections from vocalist Keith "Monkey" Warren are perhaps The Adicts' most amusing aspect. Josh swears up and down that it's Robert Smith from The Cure masquerading as a punk rocker. Sounds legit to me. Maybe Smith listened to The Dickies as much as David Bowie in his early days. Plus, we all know the man's no stranger to applying makeup.<br face="arial"><br face="arial">OK, cancel some of what I said above. <em>Songs Of Praise</em> has been in my stash for over fifteen years, and this is the first time I've really studied the lyrics. Behind the cloud of cosmetics is a band who really gives a damn. Didn't mean to imply otherwise. Onward...<br face="arial"><br face="arial">"I Don't Wanna Die For England" makes a terse, anti-war statement of not wanting to "hear the bugle call." "Sensitive" adds more heft to the Robert Smith theory ("If I say something wrong/You might start to cry/I don't wanna get you down/Don't wanna make you cry"). "Viva La Revolution" has the empowering lines ("Long live the people/Long live the scheme/Long live our hopes/Long live the dream") and endless title chants to join Jimmy Pursey and his "Borstal Breakout." Individuality is ironically endorsed in "Just Like Me." In lieu of my retraction, there are plenty of party favors. A former friend of mine once termed Pete "Dee" Davison's stringing on "Peculiar Music" as "Egyptian guitar." Well, the reissue of <em>Songs Of Praise</em> is on Cleopatra...Pete's bro, "Kid Dee," adds a lead vocal to his drumsticks on "Mary Whitehouse" and spouts about "pornography on the BBC." "Get Adicted" is a rousing recruiting pitch and a band theme song all in one. The last dance is saved for "Tango" ("We drank champagne/We danced again/We had laughter/And then after...").<br face="arial"><br face="arial">I once saw Ozzy Osbourne wearing an Adicts T-shirt in a magazine. What would be the ratio from London oddsmakers that he's actually heard the band? 666:1, most likely.<br face="arial"><br face="arial">-Gunther 8544 </span>Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-41545788922644585952011-05-27T08:07:00.000-07:002011-05-27T08:59:48.950-07:00The Outfield - Bangin' (Columbia, 1987)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxPCsWZ-RT9ZY9LEl42zr2csBbdwIDbfyYHRRA1302N06lnydUkFdLTIoQW9mVCfp5Gmi0srn9VrWFGcaQ7pNTOr-0LSWOpWGT5lHJg-a_taYYsVXLDr7KuxPbs_fZgbnDXKWxlXqG1O-/s1600/outfield.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611413017899293970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxPCsWZ-RT9ZY9LEl42zr2csBbdwIDbfyYHRRA1302N06lnydUkFdLTIoQW9mVCfp5Gmi0srn9VrWFGcaQ7pNTOr-0LSWOpWGT5lHJg-a_taYYsVXLDr7KuxPbs_fZgbnDXKWxlXqG1O-/s320/outfield.jpg" border="0" /></a> Comparing these English popsters' first two full-length slabs to Baltimore Oriole outfielders, <em>Play Deep</em> is to Adam Jones as <em>Bangin'</em> is to Nick Markakis. It's a push, really. Both residents of 2110 Eutaw Street have been putting up big numbers during the O's' current five-game winning streak. Likewise, the albums' lineup cards are inked with cut after cut of undeniable catchiness. Historians might argue that <em>Play Deep</em> enjoyed more success between the lines of radio airplay and fielded a Hall of Fame pop gem ("Your Love") with a hook more irresistible than an Earl Weaver opportunity to swear at an ump. <em>Bangin'</em> sent one single to the plate ("Since You've Been Gone"), but the other nine potential All-Stars weren't even given the chance to aim for the fences. If only there'd been a better manager...<br /><br />Two of the reasons why <em>Dirty Sheets</em> exists: During Josh's days as skipper for the still-missed <em>Now Wave Magazine</em>, we exchanged numerous e-mails concerning music, sports and food -- a practice still continued on the walls of Facecrack and in other dugouts. One of the inquiries posed to Lord Rutledge: "What do you think of The Outfield?" His response: "They're great wimpy pop!" The banter hadn't been intended as a litmus test for a future DS teammate, but I now smile at the scouting report on what constituted "good" and "bad" music. My "Thrift Scores" piece in Holly Womack's <em>Fresh Rag</em> 'zine circa 2002 also served as Triple-A training for DS. In the review of The Outfield's debut disc, I wrote: "You might think I regard <em>Play Deep</em> as one of the finest one-through-nine-inning collections of WRV T-shirt rock in the record books. You'd be correct in your analysis there, southpaw." Stealing another base from FR: "A swing to the warning track demonstrates (The Outfield) have an MLB-level of craftsmanship akin to first-stringers The Police and Big Country." Go ahead and add Journey's double-play duo of "Stone In Love" and "Anytime" to the squad. Send aging "stars" "Don't Stop Believin'" and "Open Arms" to the showers.<br /><br />Nine years later, <em>Bangin'</em> is worthy of an examination by the Veterans Committee. "Since You've Been Gone" smears the dirt of denial ("An' I know you're coming back") on the cleats of intense loneliness. If this had been struck by The Police, they would've slammed a four-bagger. "Moving Targets" has Johnny Marr-like jangle behind the plate in spots, even though it lacks Morrissey-style lyrical pitches from the mound. "Playground" swings its lumber with monkey-bar guitars and see-saw drums a la <em>Play Deep</em>'s "All My Love" and "Say It Isn't So." Joe DiMaggio would've respected the "This isn't meant to be a backseat love affair" line in the near-power pop "Better Than Nothing," but I'm not so sure about Phil Rizzuto and Meat Loaf.<br /><br />Calling <em>Bangin' </em>"a bat out of hell" would be a misnomer. All the same, the grip feels pretty good.<br /><br />-Gunther 8544Rutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7963041442206141631.post-80489846317202703192011-05-25T08:00:00.000-07:002011-05-25T08:07:13.679-07:00Rick Springfield- Working Class Dog (RCA, 1981)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqcFnkt5Vk6dR9bCG4UZHR6nWEVDr4gQ7eJQXF6ktBdY2-RULhpJCQd7su4fNdW2YN6fbAuxnbh-QQdUGXoot-_h4MyMdIcC7Gr-z_J9tMZZmJ6mlW94C24QZ_N0w03r2B_Qih6D_GsyP/s1600/rick.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610669016726784562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqcFnkt5Vk6dR9bCG4UZHR6nWEVDr4gQ7eJQXF6ktBdY2-RULhpJCQd7su4fNdW2YN6fbAuxnbh-QQdUGXoot-_h4MyMdIcC7Gr-z_J9tMZZmJ6mlW94C24QZ_N0w03r2B_Qih6D_GsyP/s320/rick.jpg" border="0" /></a> The mainstream “pop-rock” genre of music has never gotten much respect from the critical establishment. If you record a catchy little pop song on shitty equipment and sell five hundred copies to your cult following, the critics will call you an “artist”. If you record a catchy little pop song on top-of-the-line equipment and sell five million copies to soccer moms and 12-year-old girls, the critics will call you a hack. Well <em>fuck</em> that! Great music is great music! It’s really freaking <em>hard</em> to write a simple three minute pop song! Anyone who can do it brilliantly and consistently gets mad respect in my book. If you think Rick Springfield was just some pretty boy soap star who made records because he could, you’re in need of some serious learnin’! Gather ‘round, ye uninformed, and dig what I’ve got to tell you! Rick Springfield was an <em>artist</em>, and <em>Working Class Dog</em> is the greatest pop-rock album of all-time. Believe it!<br /><br />True enough: at the time of its release, <em>Working Class Dog</em> seemed an unlikely candidate for enduring artistic significance. Springfield, who’d scored a top 20 hit as a teen idol pop star with 1972’s “Speak to the Sky”, had transitioned to acting after a suspected payola scandal involving his label Capitol had caused many radio stations to boycott his music. He starred as “himself” on the Saturday morning cartoon <em>Mission: Magic!</em> and later played Dr. Noah Drake on the hit soap <em>General Hospital</em>. But <em>Working Class Dog</em> was no opportunistic cash-in. Springfield, in fact, had already finished the album before he took the soap role. That his new-found stardom opened a few doors is hard to dispute. But even harder to dispute is that the music was more than worthy. From the jump, <em>Working Class Dog</em> comes off like an album that was <em>made </em>for the radio. And if you don’t think that’s a compliment, you know nothing about power pop music. Imbuing crunchy, high energy guitar rock with ringing melodies and razor-sharp hooks, opening track “Love Is Alright Tonite” just <em>sounds</em> like a hit. And it was – reaching the U.S. top 20 in late ’81. It was preceded there by two top tens off the same album – the Sammy Hagar penned “I’ve Done Everything For You” (#8) and the #1 smash “Jessie’s Girl”. The latter may be the greatest radio rock song ever recorded, and today it remains a staple of “classic” rock formats. In this current era in which commercial success is equated with well-honed mediocrity and soulless pandering to market demographics, the brilliance of Springfield’s artistry may be lost on most. But it’s not lost on <em>me</em>. Never one to underestimate the importance of a pleasing melody and a stick-in-your-head chorus, I consider the man an all-time great in his field. <br /><br />It seems unnecessary to elaborate on “Jessie’s Girl”. Anyone with taste will concur that it’s the Mona Lisa of pop-rock songs and the <em>Citizen Kane</em> of top 40 hits. I saw Springfield debut it on the TV program <em>Solid Gold</em>, and it was truly a life-changing experience. The chorus knocked my socks off, and the guitar bridge was epic! I had my mom take me to the record store the next day, and home I went with the “Jessie’s Girl” 45 (Had this series of events never transpired, surely I’d now be a gaming enthusiast or antique collector instead of a music blogger). When a full LP arrived a few weeks later, it was no letdown. Co-produced by industry titan Keith Olsen (Fleetwood Mac, Grateful Dead) and featuring the work of seasoned session players like Robben Ford (George Harrison, Joni Mitchell) and Neil Giraldo (Pat Benatar), <em>Working Class Dog</em> was a polished product in all the best ways. But it was the <em>songs </em>that stood out the most. Springfield wasn’t trying to change the world or revolutionize music, but he sure knew what mattered to people. Who couldn’t relate to songs about broken hearts, unrequited love, and the escape from mundane frustrations afforded by a hot date on Friday night? Not unlike ‘70s acts such as The Babys or even the great Cheap Trick, Springfield achieved a blissful marriage between high-powered arena rock and carefully crafted, melody-driven pop. Fun, energetic, and expertly targeted towards the lovelorn adolescent in all of us, his songs embody the spirit of the early ‘80s in a purely good way. And although Springfield’s romantic frustrations were not as convincing as those of a less photogenic contemporary like Joe Jackson, you just couldn’t hold his good looks against him. <em>So what</em> if he’d banged six chicks since lunchtime? When he got up on stage and sang “Jessie’s Girl”, we didn’t doubt for a second that he felt our pain! He was one of us – singing about the girls he couldn’t have and doing it better than it had ever been done. And the girls, they loved him even more than we fellas did.<br /><br /><em>Working Class Dog</em> is by no means 100 percent filler-free (few albums of the time were!). But its best tracks are sheer perfection, and even its cheesy moments are not without a certain charm. Lesser known songs such as “Hole in My Heart” and the reggae inflected “Everybody’s Girl” probably <em>could have</em> been hits, while the main departure from the three-minute pop formula, album closer “Inside Silvia”, is oddly trippy yet quite beautiful. Springfield’s songwriting acumen, while surely the vital cog, is just one part of the awesomeness. The man’s vocal chops deserve equal billing, and they especially shine on his impassioned interpretation of Hagar’s “I’ve Done Everything For You”. The world may have first perceived of Rick Springfield as an actor who could sing, but three songs into <em>Working Class Dog</em>, you realized it was the other way around. If you somehow still pegged him for a flash-in-the-pan, another <em>thirteen</em> Top 40 hits over the next seven years would ultimately prove you way wrong.<br /><br />Perhaps what I love best about <em>Working Class Dog</em> is that it both typifies and transcends its era. When you put the album on, it’s like you’re traveling back in time. It just <em>feels</em> like the early ‘80s, in all the best ways. It transports you to a more innocent age – when young couples didn’t “hook up” but actually went on <em>dates</em>, <em>The Greatest American Hero</em> was killing the Nielsen ratings, and “gaming” meant you went to the mall arcade and fed quarters into the Donkey Kong machine. But whereas most popular recordings from the same period succeed as nostalgia pieces, <em>Working Class Dog</em> just plain succeeds. Like anything well-constructed, its superb songs and indelible melodies have held up over the long haul. The likes of “I’ve Done Everything for You” and “Love Is Alright Tonite” sound as alive and infectious now as they did the day the album was released. Compared to “classic” power pop acts like 20/20, the Plimsouls, and the like, Rick Springfield surely polished and “mainstreamed” the three-minute pop medium for a mass audience. But that’s not always a <em>bad</em> thing. Some music is just meant to be massive. Can you imagine “Jessie’s Girl” as an obscure “cult” hit that only hipsters bought? The mere thought throws me into a near depression. A great pop song that doesn’t get radio airplay is like the proverbial tree falling with no one around to hear it. For a number of years in the early ‘80s, Rick Springfield gave the masses great pop songs. And the masses loved it. Dude gets <em>my</em> Rock and Roll Hall of Fame vote!<br /><br />-Josh RutledgeRutledgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01382107844935918403noreply@blogger.com7