Velvet Elvis - s/t (Enigma, 1988)

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' Purity Of Essence and The Smithereens' 2011 at a cut rate. Who knew that the third choice in the bag would become my favorite one of the trio?

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' Playback 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 Pleased To Meet Me 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").

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.

-Gunther 8544

Mudhoney - Superfuzz Bigmuff plus Early Singles (Sub Pop, 1990)

"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 really about, listen to Mudhoney's early recordings.

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, Superfuzz Bigmuff plus Early Singles 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!

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 Raw Power 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 ever. 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 sick!). Listening to these early tracks, one has to wonder why Arm is not recognized as an all-time great punk howler. His vocals are so 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.

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 Vanishing Point. 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 Superfuzz Bigmuff is where it all started - a perfect introduction not just to grunge rock but also to one of the most criminally unheralded bands of all-time.

-Josh Rutledge

The Figgs - Lo-Fi At Society High (Imago, 1994)

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.

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 Lo-Fi At Society High 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. Lo-Fi At Society High 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 enjoyed. And while it may be a little on the formulaic side (What great power pop album isn't?), 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 better records, there's just something about their early stuff that hits the sweet spot for me. Anytime I'm jonesing for classic Figgs, I go for Lo-Fi's punchy melodies and exhilarating hooks.

Nearly two decades later, it's the songs that make Lo-Fi 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 Lo-Fi'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.

After Imago Records folded in 1996, The Figgs landed at Capitol Records and issued the spectacular but overlooked Banda Macho. 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 1000 People Grinning, 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 Lo-Fi At Society High is your next stop. 

-Josh Rutledge

SUBSETS - Ape Facin' EP (Granado Records, 2013)

(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.

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.

(BOMB-002) will drop soon. Stock the shelter with Star-Kist. You've been warned.

-Gunther 8544

Monrovia - News EP (self-released, 2012)

 
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.

"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.

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").

"I've got 500 channels..." pitches the cable package on "Stand Up." You can keep your Kim Kardashian and Call Of Duty franchise (the Nickelback of video games?). I'll embrace Sarah Purcell and Activision cartridges. Take a hike, technology.

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.

-Gunther 8544

Satin Gum - LP2 (self-released, 2012)

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.

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."

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.

-Gunther 8544

The Manic Low - Songs For An Up Day (Moonlight Graham Records, 2012)

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 Dance With Me. 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. Beneath The Shadows 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 Change Today? 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.

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 Songs For An Up Day'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 Beneath The Shadows 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.

 Jack, I'll never refer to The Manic Low as T.M.L. You have my word on it.

-Gunther 8544

The Black Beauties - Catch A Beat (Full Breach Kicks, 2006)

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.

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' Amazing Graceless 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' Teen Bop Dream 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!"

You could've put The Joneses' handle on The Black Beauties' Catch A Beat, 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 The Great Twenty-Eight and Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers' L.A.M.F. 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").

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.

-Gunther 8544

HEAP- Live At Arlene's Grocery (Rave On Records, 2008)

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' Dressed To Kill or Cheap Trick's In Color (And In Black And White) than subject myself to their respective Alive and Budokan 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 Live Killers 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 The Living End 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 Candy Apple Grey, New Day Rising or Everything Falls Apart. Oops, forgot to mention Land Speed Record. 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.

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 Live At Arlene's Grocery 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."

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.

-Gunther 8544

The Mongrolls - Truth Or Dare (Hideout Records, 2011)

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!

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  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 Truth Or Dare) 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.

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!!!

-Gunther 8544

The Psychedelic Furs- Talk Talk Talk (Columbia Records, 1981)

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 how good this band was - especially in its early days. In an era in which so 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.

In contrast to the Furs' dense, brooding debut, Talk Talk Talk 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, Talk Talk Talk is as rocking as it is arty. And it is 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 little 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 force on Talk Talk Talk. 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!

Talk Talk Talk 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. Talk Talk Talk 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. Talk Talk Talk is where you have to start with The Psychedelic Furs.

-Josh Rutledge

Nine Pound Hammer- Hayseed Timebomb (Crypt Records, 1994)

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 Smokin' Taters! collection would've been blasting outta Mr. Hickey's beater.


For the Earl in all of us, Scott Luallen (vocals), Blaine Cartwright (guitar), Matt Bartholomy (bass) and Bill Waldron (drums) team up on Hayseed Timebomb 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.


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?

-Gunther 8544

Ruts- The Crack (Virgin, 1979)

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 ever, 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.

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, The Crack. 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! The Crack, 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.

The Crack 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 Look Sharp. 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. The Crack 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.

A mere ten months after the release of The Crack, 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 might 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 The Crack 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 The Crack. Bask in its greatness. What a band. What a fucking band!

-Josh Rutledge

The Crumbs - s/t (Lookout, 1997)

Earlier this year, Lookout Records (According to former boss Larry Livermore, the name was never intended to be written with an exclamation point) made the decision to cease operations. Though I'd paid scant attention to the imprint's later releases, it was still somewhat shocking to hear the news of Lookout's demise. Like Amphetamine Reptile, Junk, Pelado and others before it, so smothered another flame from what time has proven to be a productive '90s for likeminded labels. The first album I owned from Lookout was Screeching Weasel's Wiggle. A friend had picked up the disc for me as a belated birthday gift. The bratty vocals, cultural references and thoughtful lyrics laced their Chuck Taylors as tightly as the Ramones' most beloved pairs. Twenty years on (Where in the hell did the time go?), Wiggle remains one of the best punk rock platters of any era. In 1996, the same bud passed along a dubbed tape with The Mr. T Experience's Love Is Dead on side "B." (The Humpers' Positively Sick On 4th Street 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 Hey!" intake with the smoother hooks of power pop. I've got fond memories of Love Is Dead powering the cassette deck as my friend and I drove around aimlessly on Independence Day in search of a free cookout. We ended up at Kempsville Inn with a pitcher of Miller Lite (100% drank by yours truly), three plastic darts and an otherwise empty room. I'd dug The Queers' Killed By Death-compiled cuts like "At The Mall" and "I'm Useless" for a great while, but I only recently became a convert of their 'Mones-meets-Beach Boys proper catalog. With statements such as "Ursula Finally Has Tits" and "I Can't Stop Farting," 1993's Love Songs For The Retarded is a spirited celebration of eternal juvenile behavior. All of the aforementioned LPs are prime staples in the now-gone Lookout catalog. However, my favorite leather-jacketed lads from the label hail (Yeah, they're still making music!) from the decidedly non-rock outpost of Miami, F-L-A.

My first nibble on The Crumbs was on the shared space of a Stiff Pole Records 7-inch single with fellow Sunshine State roustabouts Pink Lincolns and Gotohells. "What Do They Know?" flew its Ramones flag high with a punchy patchwork stitched by snottiness and uptempo beats, but the threads of Aussie punk popes The Saints and '50s greaser rock also pledged allegiance. The Chris Bailey-esque snarl and the familiar Lower East Side trademarks shine their stripes even brighter on The Crumbs' self-titled effort. Around the time of the album's release, an Arizona trader sent me a tape containing a broadcast from the nearby college radio station. Finest 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 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 Bonnie in search of illicit substances. Indeed, the willing tag-along is "all shook up even more than Elvis allowed." "No Time" shares a title with a Saints song from (I'm) Stranded. Even with different lyrics, the feeling of being trapped by a Timex is most relative ("Are you stuck inside the classroom?/The teacher always putting you down/The bell never rings and the minutes go by too slow"). "Long 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 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 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 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 ("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/Drinking without paying 'til I fell on my face").

So long, Lookout Records. I'll still keep my eyes on you.

-Gunther 8544

The Jellybricks- Soapopera (Rite-Off, 1999)

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 Whole Lava Love 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) World Of Today 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. Super Tasty was the one I bit on BACK IN THE DAY (TM), but Revolution On Ice blows a bubble that's just as big. The prime artifact from the Planet visit, however, comes in the form of a wonderfully squishy slab based out of Harrisburg, PA.

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' Soapopera 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 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 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 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."

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 Soapopera at a volume exceeding a washer pumped by the blood of yearning hearts.

-Gunther 8544

Buzzcocks - Trade Test Transmissions (Castle Communications, 1993)

Luckily, I have seen these Mighty Men from Manchester twice on stages away from the Tidewater area.

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) Modern 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 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 Modern 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 Skin Alley zine. The dude was beaming all throughout the two-hour ride back to Virginia Beach!

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 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?

Here's the final bit from my review of the Buzzcocks' s/t disc that appeared on the long-gone Empty Wagon 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 (Trade Test Transmissions) 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.

In contrast, owning Trade Test Transmissions 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").

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!

-Gunther 8544

The Ergs- Dorkrockcorkrod (Whoa Oh Records, 2003)

To the best of my recollection, the most “contemporary” album I’ve ever reviewed for Dirty Sheets was Guitar Romantic by the Exploding Hearts. And that came out nine years ago. What’s my beef with modern 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 love, then it kind of makes sense that I’ve mostly stuck with older records. It takes time to really get to know 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.

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 Upstairs/Downstairs, there’s one album I always reach for when I’m craving “classic Ergs”: 2003’s Dorkrockcorkrod. 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 rock. And Dorkrockcorkrod is in my mind one of the landmark recordings in the history of the genre.

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 more than the sum of their parts! They were a true group- a dynamic and cohesive power trio who combined their complementary superpowers to create a singular force of awesomeness. Dorkrockcorkrod 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!

While The Ergs were far from creatively undemocratic (Schroeck and Keller both contributed songs to Dorkrockcorkrod), 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 Dorkrockcorkrod 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:

I'm so in love with you/
So I thought I'd try something new/
And write a silly song about just what your smile can do/
But it's just not working out/
And now I'm having my doubts/
It seems that broken hearted love songs are what I'm all about

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 fun 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 Dorkrockcorkrod: “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.”

The songs on Dorkrockcorkrod that are not 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 Dorkrockcorkrod – 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 Our Band Could Be Your Life, 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 Dorkrockcorkrod 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 eight years? Damn!

-Josh Rutledge

Jeff Dahl- Ultra Under (Triple X, 1991)

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 Ultra Under to acquaint itself with the deck of my Magnavox boombox. After the fourth or fifth 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 Ultra Under 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 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 Ultra Under in my amigo's rental car during his return to Tidewater.

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 We Have Come For Your Children (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.

Thank you for letting me share my thoughts. All 39 pennies' worth.

-Gunther 8544

The Ugly Beats - Motor! (Get Hip, 2010)

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.

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 Nuggets 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...

Oh, all taxi cabs in Austin are Cadillac Eldorado convertibles with "Hook 'em, Horns!" hood ornaments.

-Gunther 8544

The Star Spangles- Bazooka!!! (Capitol, 2003)

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 Every Day Is Saturday 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.

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' Bazooka!!! 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").

Stay tuned for my Labor Day story. It should be ready by Halloween. Or Thanksgiving. Or Christmas.

-Gunther 8544