Dwarves - Blood Guts & Pussy (Sub Pop, 1990)

“I wanna get fucked in the back seat of my car."

Those words were magical (yeah, I said it) as they came pouring into my ears at age fifteen through my Walkman. And I didn’t even drive or fuck at that time! After hearing something this amazing, I just had to go see them open for Soul Asylum in a couple of days. Two songs, instruments thrown down, and off the stage they went! And so my love affair with The Dwarves began.

Blood Guts & Pussy: Exactly what do you make of a title like that, and can you even begin to imagine what would come out of such fine fellows who would name an album that? Pure genius is what I think! I compare it to a horror movie when it comes to the timing: anything over an hour and a half is shit.

With just over thirteen minutes, you get right to the point. All fucking around here, literally! “Motherfucker” gives tribute (you can say) to The Trashmen’s "Surfin’ Bird' ("What’s the word?/I’m a motherfucker/Papa-ooma-mow-mow").

Does anyone remember Rhonda's "Up All Night" on the weekends on USA? That's when they would play the “Drug Store” video flashing different drugs and crowd shots for one of your more memorable tunes, 'cause it’s slow enough for you to understand what Blag’s saying.

Nothing before this could compare to The Dwarves. You may claim punk rock ’77 and the Sex Pistols and blah blah blah….But this was different. With the album cover of bloodied, naked women and midgets, they had come to take those three chords of punk and crank them up. With drums pounding with a purpose to destroy. With simple guitar riffs to make you need that drug that was The Dwarves. With words that you would never utter in front of your mother. Summoning tales of drugs, sex, STDs, nuns, girls, and don’t forget about Astroboy! It was their credo: Fuck you up and get high!

Blag Dhalia is quite possibly one of the best front men in the business. Not a large man, but he will beat the crap out of anyone who dares challenge him. His always sidekick, Hewhocannotbenamed, adorned in jock-strap and wrestling mask, provides powerful stage presence without ever speaking a word by just showing you his ball sack! However, under that mask lies a professor who happens to be rather laid back. Yeah, Hewho, I just blew your cover!

This is pure-on hate fuck rock-n-roll! The kind where you would walk out of the show bleeding, bruised, and exhilarated! Listening to it now while writing this makes me want to go outside and punch one of the hipsters outside my house in the face! In my pajamas, no less! At thirty-four, it still instills the same feelings that it did when I was fifteen. I guess I never grew up, or this album is just that great. This is why I will always love you, Blag! My Dwarves tattoo is my testament to why I refuse to grow up and will always be right up front, yelling every word right along with you!

-Angie Granado-Wehrle

Afghan Whigs - Gentlemen (Elektra, 1993)

At seventeen, you think you know everything there is to know about love, heartbreak, and the matters that come in between. Little did I know that some scrawny white boy from Cincinnati could write an album that would explain so much more about how people could tear each other apart in relationships.

The Afghan Whigs were the first band ever signed to Sub Pop from outside Seattle. Their major label debut on Elektra Records marked the beginning of their turn from grunge/rock Midwestern bar band to a new sound that was more rooted in soul, R & B, and raw emotions. Although Congregation was a gateway album to this sound, Gentlemen put that final touch on their change into soul singers, particularly those from the heart.

Emotions abound on this album, whether it's the part of a jilted lover, a cruel battle/relationship that is constantly beginning and ending, a domineering control freak who insists that all actions are in his favor and you are against him, or a tortured soul who will crawl back to you no matter what the cost to forsake all others until his next trick on the sly.

The album reads out perfectly as a diary/story, starting out with its swagger. Showing off as a man who is, above all, a ladies man who can crush you with the power of his cunning wit, oozing lines such as, "I've got a dick for a brain/And my brain is gonna sell my ass to you." Seriously, could any woman resist a man with confidence like that who would have the guts to say that to her?

After a few tracks such as these, Gentlemen turns to the heartbreak, and when this man sings of such, it brings any woman to her knees, taking a man back no matter how dirty the deed done the night before ("If I inflict the pain, then, baby, only I can comfort you"). How perfect! How perfectly evil! To only think what may have happened to inflict those words to another...

The amazing and talented Marcy Mays from Scrawl steps in the main role for "My Curse" and perfectly kills the song as if it were written for her. Perfect in a way to show a woman with the prowess of a man who deserves the agony that she has been given ("Temptation come not from hell, but from above"). When the Whigs' Greg Dulli goes back and does this, it just doesn't do justice in the same way as Mays does.

Of course when you depart into soul, you're going to cover a sweet slow jam from the '70s, and this is what AW do here with Tyrone Davis's "I Keep Coming Back." Dulli croons the magic pleas of a confused man ("I wanna go away/But, honey, I just can't stay/See, I'm your fool/I lost my cool/And I wouldn't lie/But I lay down and cry").

As I think back years later to when Gentlemen came out, I still sit and listen to the perfect melodies that carry these stories. But I also try to think about where that man was at in his own head and heart when he had to sing what he had to say. I have heard the stories of an ending relationship and impressing a "working woman" while wasted out of his mind when he sang half of these tracks at Ardent Studios in Memphis. However it got out, this album will always stick in my mind as the man who broke my heart and crawled back on his knees to me, with the devil in tow, to only do it all over again.

-Angie Granado-Wehrle

The Lurkers - Greatest Hit: Last Will And Testament (Beggars Banquet, 1980)

My initial introduction to these suburbanites from London wasn't through a proper album or singles compilation. An old bud from college had picked up The Lurkers' Greatest Hits Live as an alternate choice via mail order from the Get Hip catalog. The year on the release read 1990. By this point, only bassist Arturo Bassick remained from the '70s glory days. Other members such as vocalist Howard Wall and gas-station-named drummer Esso had long abandoned the punk scene for pursuits like proper dress and steady employment. With Bassick and a bunch of scabs in tow, I was concerned that GHL would paint The Lurkers in the nastiest shade of fecal matter imaginable. Any poop-smeared fears were overcome after the first few chords.

Blending the carefree fun of the Ramones with the earnest chants of Sham 69, The Lurkers '90 instantly made me a true believer. After securing a dubbed tape for myself, I took the C-90 home and popped it in the deck for the first of at least 125 spins. On every play, Bassick's rapport with a rowdy audience elicited hearty laughter. Threatening free-jazz improvisations after someone in the crowd called The Lurkers "shallow"! Dedicating "Just Thirteen" to Bill Wyman! Thanking the 34th member of the band's fan club! To this day, I posit GHL on the short list of must-hear live albums. How do the original studio slabs compare, you ask?


Collecting twelve tracks from the first two LPs (Fulham Fallout [1978] and God's Lonely Men [1979]) and adding six cuts from the 45s, Greatest Hit has Jimmy Buffett-like laughs with its title, but serious students of punk rock know many of these songs by heart. Nigel Moore plucks the bass on most of the selections, but Bassick provides the thump on two of The Lurkers' most crucial A-sides. As the front slice of the first release on the Beggars Banquet label, "Shadow" is a three-layer cake of loss, jealousy and revenge. Not enjoying the sight of his former girlfriend flaunting the affections and riches of a new lover, the jilted John crumbles the good-bye letter and enlists help from a pistol-packing mama ("Jenny said she'd lend me her gun/She knows I'm not well/Then I'll shoot that boy in the legs/When he comes to ring your bell"). Emptying the chamber on an unlucky bloke gives our hero time to place a M4W personal ad in a specialty mag. Though it would be nice to report of a coupling with a lass as sweet as Kate Winslet's character in "The Holiday," John's blind dates star in a fictional film entitled "Freak Show." Perhaps a blurb in a different publication is in order, since the 1977 version of Craigslist UK isn't working for him on Friday nights ("Always out with terminal cases/I don't remember their rotten faces"). John wants to drown some sorrows in a pool of brown ale, but his name is mud throughout the local pubs and hostelries. Should he sip amidst the snickers or drink at home? The poor guy "Ain't Got A Clue," so extend a surprise invitation to a night out with the lads. Well, look who's back on the block? "Jenny," with her hazel eyes and slow dances, fires Cupid's arrows into John's wide-targeted heart. However, a murder involving a knife is pinned upon her. What's up with this girl and weapons? Pete Stride consoles John with a blanket of Thunders-style guitar, but our man still can't put his arms around the memories of better days. Over time, John heals the wound caused by Jenny's prison term by falling for a woman in the free world. Wanting to be a hero who shines in her eyes, he adopts a humbling "I Don't Need To Tell Her" strategy. Still, John has enough hidden hubris to think he's gonna get first prize. Failing to win even a bronze-medal kiss from Jenny's potential replacement, J-Man develops a taste for abusive substances. Whiskey and gin are old hat. Heroin does not fit into the budget. Thus, "Cyanide" becomes the best way for John to get his kicks. If the U.K. Subs-sounding beats come across as rough, imagine the state of our man's nasal passages. John's end is drawing near, so he tells no one in particular to "Take Me Back To Babylon." His plan for a return to the basics is uncomplicated ("Soon, I'll listen to the radio/Guess I'll go out and watch a show/ I'll have fun, if we live off the land/When I say, "Can I give you a hand?' ").


From the 35th member of your fan club, thank you for not improvising.

-Gunther 8544

The Nomads - Showdown! (1981-1993) [SFTRI, 1994]

Sweden's government is way cooler than our government.

I make this astounding statement because The Nomads' 1995 tour was sponsored by the cultural department of their homeland. Apparently, Swedish working musicians get grants to do overseas tours with the intent of spreading their country's culture. Ironically, The Nomads' stock-in-trade is shit-hot cover versions of mostly American rock 'n' roll artists. That's not to say their influence hasn't touched many draped in the Stars 'N' Stripes. Without The Nomads' early championing of Northwest garage gods The Sonics, would Dave Crider have formed the Mono Men and started Estrus Records? Were it not for their laudable 1984 album Outburst, would Third Bardo's "I'm Five Years Ahead Of My Time" continue to be referenced as a lost '60s classic 25 years down the line? If you take away The Nomads' identifying label, would the drummer from Dead Moon have a T-shirt to wear? Yes or no, these Swedes deserve scads of credit for knowing rock 'n' roll's deep history. Even in 2010, most American bands are too clueless to repeat it.

Think Vampire Weekend would bite the neck of something as scrumptious as The Dictators' "The Next Big Thing"? Leave it to the boys in blue 'n' yellow capes to draw blood with sharpened incisors. Substituting the original's wrasslin'-inspired boast for the intro from Aerosmith's "Back In The Saddle" might seem like the worst trade since the Red Sox's Ruth-fer-junk swap with the Bronx Bombers, but the simple-yet-powerful main riff of the song is wisely untouched. Via a subtle lyric change, The Nomads' signature mark is left on the flesh ("I knocked 'em dead in Dallas/Didn't know we were Swedes"). Back in Beantown, I've always dug the Toxic Twins' treatment of the old barnyard favorite "Milk Cow Blues", because it simultaneously respects tradition and makes its own kind of trouble. Whereas Aero's take mixes harmonicas and heavy metal, The Nomads meld occasionally droning vocals a la The Fall's Mark E. Smith with fuzzy guitar tones. Help! Bessie's udders are sore! If there's ever been a more apt pairing of underdog mentality, it's a band called The Zeros and a tune entitled "Wimp." The L.A. punkers' weight-training program contains enough of a pop supplement to compare their presses to the Ramones' efforts. The Swedes' turn at the bar has them screaming, "MORE WEIGHT!" Heavier than The Hellacopters and Entombed combined, The Nomads' record lift qualifies 'em for the finals of World's Strongest Band. Minor Threat's surprisingly jangly rendition of The Standells' "Sometimes Good Guys Don't Wear White" versus the Swedes' reverent run-through? While both attorneys can make strong cases for their clients, this judge bangs the gavel in favor of MT. One question: Upon hearing "Good Guys" for the first time, did Ian MacKaye get himself a crew cut? Link Wray's "Fire And Brimstone" is a track from his 1970 gospel album. Gee-Zuz, what does the praise band at Wray's church sound like? The Nomads' reading comes across like a John Doe/Exene pet project. Haunting stuff. Bend the guitars a little more, and Aussie noisemakers The Scientists would enjoy their time at the pulpit. From a country that once owned our white-wigged ancestors, England gave birth to a god known on a first-name basis as Lemmy. He wrote a song called "Motorhead," which would later become his band's handle. The lyrics of said composition are difficult to completely understand, but the Swedes' hoe-down version clears up much of the haze. I'm able to hear something about a "stick of gum" and a "parallelogram." Cool. When not on tour, Lemmy (AKA God) likes to sit at a bar in Los Angeles and play tabletop trivia games. Unless his drink is being refreshed, God is not to be bothered.

The Nomads' own material such as "Surfin' In The Bars" (one of the best tunes Radio Birdman never wrote), "Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls" (featuring Johnny Thunders himself), "Lowdown Shakin' Chills," "Knowledge Comes With Death's Release" and "Real Gone Lover" is also worthy of being covered by like-minded outfits in the present day. Still, if you're looking to hire a band whose set list is as hard-hitting as the jukebox rotation at Blondie's Bar None in Virginia Beach, keep your jones away from the snack bar and send these Swedes plane tickets.

Not to worry, Sweden's cultural department will reimburse the airfare.
-Gunther 8544

The Alarm- Declaration (IRS Records, 1984)

With hair bigger than Bono’s ego and an anthemic, socially aware repertoire, The Alarm never really escaped the shadow of Clash and U2 comparisons. But unlike their Irish counterparts who merely thought their music had the power to alter the course of human history, this Welsh foursome was the legit heir to Strummer and company’s warrior legacy. Declaration, The Alarm’s full-length debut, was largely comprised of singles recorded throughout the band’s infancy, and as such it burns with youthful idealism and a bold purpose bordering on pretension. Every song comes off like an intended anthem – the barnstorming set list closer that incites an engrossed crowd to go home and change the world, to overcome the forces that oppress by any means necessary. Such aspirations would be hard to stomach…if the songs weren’t so freaking good! Who can manage to listen to “Sixty Eight Guns” and not want to immediately run out into the street and start kicking the oppressors’ asses? Not I! With its rousing chorus and indelible melody, it’s not just a call to arms – it’s a great, even classic, rock n’ roll song.

Originally a punk band out of Rhyl, Wales called Seventeen, The Alarm adopted a new moniker to go with an evolved sound and a more pronounced political angle. But while the Top 20 U.K. hit “Sixty Eight Guns” is an obvious nod to punk’s high-powered indignation, much of the album favors an acoustic/folk approach that’s more Dylan than Clash, more Woody Guthrie than The Jam. “Blaze of Glory” demonstrates that you don’t need high voltage to make a soaring anthem, while “Tell Me” improves immensely upon the early U2 blueprint. And the songs that rock really rock. “Where Were You Hiding When the Storm Broke?” is like “Sixty Eight Guns” V.2; “Marching On” is pure jangly adrenaline. These anthems, while vague about specific social ills, call for a collective fight against all that ails the world. Lyrics about fighting the good fight and standing up against the powers-that-be abound - and with music this convincing, who could possibly resist joining The Alarm’s army? Sign me up now! I’ll grab my hairspray, cowboy boots, and weapon stockpile and meet you at the town square. Who are we fighting? Does it really matter?!

I’ve never been able to forgive U2 for its grandiose self-righteousness, yet the very same qualities about The Alarm have always struck me as endearing. Maybe that’s because U2 never delivered a song as genuinely rousing and triumphant as “Sixty Eight Guns”. Or maybe it’s because The Alarm came off more like soldiers on the street than bloated messiah figures casting judgment from pearly thrones. The best “socially conscious” rock bands are the ones who’d be equally awesome if they were singing about girls or Twinkies instead – the ones who understand that great tunes will outlive even the most pressing social issues. Declaration, for all its naiveté and wanna-be magnitude, could be thoroughly enjoyed even by someone who didn’t understand a word of English. While far from flawless, it’s a terrific, exciting rock album that sounds surprisingly undated today. Buy it, blast it, viva la revolution!

-Josh Rutledge

"Sixty Eight Guns" video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=apERyZlTUZU

Compulsion - Comforter (Interscope, 1994)

To the members of Compulsion,

Thank you for making my first appearance at Lynnhaven Mall in over five years an enjoyable one. Last time 'round, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a Wherehouse Music store closing. Dude, all CDs were marked down to 90%! A band you guys probably influenced, Ash, had a two-disc anthology with A- and B-sides priced at $2.99! Other extractions on the dig included nuggets from Superdrag, UFO and Elliott Smith. Not a bad haul, huh? Several weeks ago, I planted my shovel at fye -- which is now upstairs near the food court. A fellow treasure hunter had already combed through the soil. In his hands were 15-20 discs with unidentifiable markings. Any fear of true gold being in the pile was mitigated, when the misguided man asked an employee for the whereabouts of The Doors' Waiting For The Sun. As the automaton was button-mashing, the paunchy pursuer spat, "Elektra Records, 1968. I could do your job!" Son, how about doing some shopping for shirts first? Unsightly portions of your navel and belly fur were more exposed than Janet Jackson's tweat at a halftime show. That Ben-from-"Grizzly Adams" look might play well for the bear hunters at The In-Between bar in Kempsville, but the mixed crowd inside a retail establishment prefers the innocuousness of Winnie The Pooh. Also, please try to curb the A.M. alcohol intake. Goddamn, you reeked like Mad Jack's whiskey flask! Finally, learn to control your snoring-while-standing breath volume. This can be accomplished in one of two ways: 1)yoga or 2)suicide. See you in 2015. Or not.

Sorry, Compulsion, for straying from the subject. You will get my full attention in the next paragraph, OK? Have y'all ever heard of Idlewild? They are also a band you guys probably influenced. I love their album The Remote Part, but the latter-day release with white lettering and red background was middling. Thus, it was placed back in the dusty bins near Billy Idol's lame-ass Whiplash Smile. If only Sid were still around to kick him in the gums... Besides Comforter, the other CD in my wheelbarrow was a 17-song collection from the Suburbs. Familiar with 'em? They were a pretty cool art-punk outfit from Minneapolis. Imagine Bryan Ferry collaborating with Wire. That's the sort of find where if I don't get it now, I won't see the damn thing for another ten years. Definitely worth $3.99 for "Love Is The Law" alone -- which was once featured on an episode of "Roseanne."

I'll work my way around the table from the left. Josephmary on lead vocals? Garret Lee on guitar and backing vocals? Sid Rainey on bass? Jan-Willem Alkema on drums? It's a pleasure to meet you all. I understand Compulsion were part of a UK movement called the "New Wave Of New Wave." Among your contemporaries in the fold were These Animal Men, S*M*A*S*H and Elastica. To be frank and a furter, I'm only cognizant of the latter act. However, if y'all were collectively responsible for nuking the likes of Happy Mondays, Pop Will Eat Itself, Jesus Jones, Ned's Atomic Dustbin and EMF (They're crumbelievable!), then the ales are on me. After 20 or so spins of Comforter on the not-quite-gentle cycle, I hereby declare Compulsion to be the Kings Of The NWONW! Elastica will remain the Queens, if that's OK with you. Musically, y'all conjure up many of the qualities that made millions of punkers and plebes alike fall in love with Nirvana. Passionate screams. Expert stick work. Bend-yer-brain lyrics. I also detect a quirky bent which tips its silly headgear to Surfer Rosa/Doolittle-era Pixies. Are y'all into field hockey players? There were rumors. Ride the tiger, River Euphrates! Staying in the Boston area, artful touches a la Mission Of Burma can often be felt in the song structure and phrasing. I'm sure you agree "Academy Fight Song" and "...Revolver" are two of the greatest anthems ever. If not, stay just as far from me... Just joking! Man, I tried fanning you dudes on Facebook, but my search for a page came up drier than yours truly at a pool party. Should I enter "Compulsion UK"? Or "Compulsion - band"? Or do you have an ironic listing such as "We Who Hate Compulsion"? Talk to me, brougham!

Speaking of the social network filled with folks you barely talk to in the real world, I posted the opening lines of "Rapejacket" on my wall ("Tom's in the bathroom/Trying to end his life/Sue's in the kitchen/Hiding all the knives"). The only person to reply was my bud Josh -- who assists me in the effort to rewrite the Trouser Press Record Guide. Of course, any album that commences with those lyrics is off to an awesome start. 'Tis a shame the guy in the song is suicidal and uncomfortable in his own skin. What kind of jacket is it? Leather? "Miami Vice"? Denim? "Thriller"? Am I crazy to think that "Delivery" could be a '90s take of the Sex Pistols' "Bodies"? I mean, child abandonment is really the same as abortion, right? When you bellow, "Time will never destroy your heart," let's hope the message applies to both mother AND child. Have you ever seen "Hoarders" on A & E? At least seven people I've encountered in my life could be on that show. The sponges-for-hands paranoiac in "Domestique," however, would be the star of an alternate program called "Bleachers" ("Disinfect/Every thing/Look at that!/It's in the kitchen!/It's in the bathroom!/My kids will get it!"). Were you on an REM kick during the session for "I Am John's Brain" ("Inventing enemies/Dying by degrees/Make the children weep/Millions are asleep/Elevated creep/Feel addiction seep/Harbour of the dead/Nestled in your head")? Just wondering. Count me as a fellow fan. Damn, Burma would love to claim "Oh My Fool Life" as a track on any of their recent recordings. You could loan the instrumental midsection to Sonic Youth, also. Favorite part: "I saw a robbery once. I was a witness/Somebody called the police. They said, 'Who did this?'/And I described them so well, in about a minute/The way they looked at me then, you'd think I did it". Lastly, did you really cause a disturbance on "Air-Raid For The Neighbours"? One generation's ear candy is another's discord ("You'll be safer in the cellar/Underground, my dear/We will come back in the morning/When we know it's clear"). I'm on both sides of the fence, actually. If it's rock, I'll say, "Turn it up!" If it's rap, I'll say, "Turn it off!"

Farewell, Kings!

Your pal,
-Gunther 8544

The Donnas- self-titled (Super*Teem! Records, 1997)

Having made for themselves a long and highly successful career out of reviving the tried-and-true stylings of KISS and the Crue, The Donnas have almost made us forget about their brief role as the nubile faces of Darin Raffaelli’s girl group aspirations. In fact, there is a large percentage of the band’s current fan base that would probably have the bad taste to not even like the first Donnas album. Written, produced, and perhaps even largely performed by Raffaelli, The Donnas was the most talked-about punk rock LP of 1997, and probably rates as the greatest Ramones rip-off album ever issued.

The concept was simple yet brilliant: re-do the first Ramones LP as if it had been written for The Shangri-Las, and have the guy from Supercharger record it on a basement four track. This magical convergence of all things awesome (‘90s No Cal garage punk, ‘60s girl groups, and of course, The Ramones) was too true to miss, and this semi-mythical band came off as the baddest of bad-ass girl gangs. You couldn’t help wanting it to be real - that these four gals really were ruling school at Palo Alto Senior High in their matching black t-shirts - huffing inhalants, smoking cheeba, and stealing other girls’ boyfriends, sometimes by violent means. Girls wanted to be them, and guys wanted to fuck them (it was the bass player I was after). Yet novelty was only a small part of the equation. Raffaelli, a premiere rock n’ roll tunesmith (Shame on you if you don't own any Supercharger music!), penned an incredible batch of songs for his jailbait proteges. And lead singer Brett “Donna A.” Anderson delivered the material with a just-right mix of libidinous gusto and teenage boredom. 13 years after this album’s release, songs like “Let’s Go Mano!”, “Get Rid of that Girl”, and “Huff All Night” are as ultra-fun and irresistible as ever, buoyed by delightfully primitive three-chord riffing and delinquent-cheerleader backing vocals. And as a textbook slice of girl group greatness, “I’m Gonna Make Him Mine (Tonight)” genuinely ranks right up there with the very best offerings of Spector or Morton.

Vaulted to underground fame thanks to this release, The Donnas signed to Lookout! Records and freely indulged their fondness for throwback metal. The rest is history, and for better or worse the “real” Donnas were an entirely different group from the one Raffaelli immortalized on wax (as they’ve shown us time and time again, they really can play!). But so what? The band liked these old tunes well enough to re-record a few of them for their recent best-of collection, so it’s not like they’re running from the legacy. And whether you consider it a true Donnas album or a mainly a Darin Raffaelli solo project, The Donnas is sheer rock n’ roll perfection.

-Josh Rutledge