The Troggs- The Best of The Troggs: The Millennium Collection (Island/Mercury, 2004)

The 20th Century Masters compilations put out by the Universal Music Group, while never close to comprehensive, are affordable and usually spot-on in their track selection. If you’re looking for ace B-sides or obscure album cuts that could have been hits, forget it. But if you just want the best-known songs of, say, Chuck Berry, The Jackson Five, or even Night Ranger, you could do a lot worse. One band that was perfect for this series was The Troggs, who could never beat contemporaries like The Who or Kinks if you compared their best 20 or 30 or 40 songs. But if you just go by their best ten songs, The Troggs were probably as good as any ‘60s band besides the Beatles and Stones. Lean and mean at just 11 tracks, and largely comprised of the group’s incredible run of UK hit singles from 1966-67, this particular best-of supports my argument that The Troggs are one of the most underrated rock n’ roll bands of all-time.

The Troggs formed in 1965 in the southern England town of Andover. Fronted by Reg Presley, notorious for his primal vocal style but highly underrated as a songwriter, the band was reputed to play a live cover of “You Really Got Me” that was even better than the original. A demo of this cover landed in the hands of Larry Page, who was managing the Kinks. A year later, Page, no longer working with The Kinks, would sign on to manage The Troggs. Page had produced some demos for The Kinks during their 1965 American tour, and this experience would allow him to make the most of The Troggs’ affinity for “You Really Got Me”. Serving as band manager and record producer for The Troggs, Page helped fashion the band’s raw, crunching guitar sound, which was somewhat of an anomaly in 1966, when mainstream rock was shifting away from the simplicity of the British Invasion and moving towards psychedelic and baroque pop complexities. The band was two years behind the times, and it must have seemed more like 20 given how quickly music was changing. In spite of that or maybe because of that, The Troggs would dominate the pop charts that year, hitting the UK top ten four times and scoring #1 singles on both sides of the pond.

“Wild Thing”, composed by American songwriter Chip Taylor (Angelina Jolie’s uncle!), had flopped for The Wild Ones in 1965. But a year later The Troggs made it their own, turning it into a thumping masterpiece of fuzzed-out three-chord rock n’ roll, replete with an ocarina solo and perhaps the heaviest guitars ever heard on record at the time. Having missed with their debut single “Lost Girl”, The Troggs would suffer no such letdown this time around. “Wild Thing” shot to #1 in the States, and peaked at #2 in the UK. And they were just getting started! Followup “With a Girl Like You”, an upbeat British Invasion throwback, topped the UK charts. The brazenly sexual proto-punker “I Can’t Control Myself” was another UK smash, going all the way to #2. And to close out 1966, The Troggs would once more crack the Top Ten with “Any Way That You Want Me”. In ’67, the band struck again with “Give It To Me” (#12 UK) and the eerie, brilliant Stones rip-off “Night of the Long Grass” (#17). Branching out from their garage/British Invasion signature style, the group really hit the jackpot with the ballad “Love Is All Around”. Hitting the airwaves at the height of flower power, this pretty number made the top ten in the UK and the US. It was the band’s last big hit (although they’d continue to make records for years!), and probably rates historically as the very first “power ballad”.

Like any good Troggs comp does, The Best of The Troggs corrects the American misperception of the band as a “two hit wonder”. It includes all seven of the band’s ’66-’67 chart smashes, plus the killer B-sides “From Home” (the flip to “Wild Thing”) and “I Want You” (the flip to “With a Girl Like You”). The only truly essential song missing is the band’s ferocious version of the garage rock standard “I Can Only Give You Everything”, left off in favor of the ballads “Little Girl” and “You Can Cry If You Want To”. The rock guy in me could do without any of the ballads, and would prefer another early B-side like “Gonna Make You” or the proto-glam of 1970’s “Lover”. But come on – you can’t properly represent The Troggs without including the ballads (Just ask REM!). And the ones here (especially “You Can Cry If You Want To”, later covered beautifully by The Muffs) are pretty fantastic as far as ballads go, their overt sappiness matched by truly magnificent melodies.

The Troggs may not have had the sheer quantity of great tunes to rival the A-listers of ‘60s British rock, nor did they have the underground “garage” cred of American acts like The Sonics and Standells. But if you asked me to name the one band from the ‘60s that sounded the most like punk rock, I’d say The Troggs. If “You Really Got Me” is the root of all proto-punk, then “Wild Thing” and “I Can’t Control Myself” took it a step further. The Troggs didn’t invent rock n’ roll, but probably played it more primitively and salaciously than any band had thought to before. The MC5 were huge fans, and even covered “I Want You” on Kick Out The Jams. That the group took to a three-chord “caveman rock” ethos at a time when every other band out there was trying to be “progressive” was not lost on Troggs fans The Ramones, who’d do the very same thing a decade later, forever changing music in the process. But while it’s very easy to get lost in the “importance” of The Troggs, this was not one of those “critics’ bands” that you appreciate for its influence but hate to actually listen to! The Best of The Troggs, or any Troggs comp for that matter, is an absolute treat for the ears. Take in its well-selected blend of pounding proto-punk, sunny British Invasion pop, and top-notch ballads, and within the hour you may find yourself lobbying to get The Troggs in the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame!

-Josh Rutledge

The Spits - s/t (Nickel And Dime, 2001)

Being married to a wonderful Big Beautiful Woman is something I wouldn't trade for every great album in the world. Can T. Rex's The Slider compare to a shared meal of mini cheeseburgers with my sweetie? Get that thought outta the Buick, MacKane! Is KISS' Dressed To Kill better than the sight of my baby in a summer dress? Take that suggestion on a permanent getaway, Ace! Jeff Dahl's Ultra Under versus wrapping my sleepyhead under the covers? Go dig Iggy's dirt, dude! Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation or the girl of my dreams who's a daily reality? Carry yourself back to the sprawl, Kim! Is The Feelies' Only Life more important than our promise to love each other for life? Not on Lou's cursor, Glenn Mercer! The best thing about my wife? She lets me keep the music in a spare bedroom! Kids? To us, that's a punk band from Belgium. Too many of my friends' better(?) halves have forced their mates into arrangements of dumping their collections in dark storage
units. If your woman resembles the Christine character from CBS' "Yes, Dear", please go along with her Jack Rabbit request. Sure, being apart from treasured vinyl sucks harder than Les Claypool's band, but the trade-off's tremendous. "Christine's" shiny hair will feel softer in your hands than a clean copy of Underwater Moonlight. Her lips and tongue will amaze in ways greater than hearing Exile On Main Street on a $30,000 turntable. Conversely, if you're constantly hen-pecked by a fowl creature who could double as Marcy D'Arcy's twin parakeet, take your records and run, Jefferson! Go to Peg. Go to Kelly. Go to the nudie bar. Be like Steve and leave that dirty bird in her nest. Let the scrawny sparrow lose another wedding ring down Zorro's pants. Frankly, Jefferson, Marcy ain't worth ostrich spit.

Talking saliva, Seattle's The Spits would have nary a problem with using the Space Needle to poke out Ms. D'Arcy's eyeballs. If your ears weren't filled with a sticky lubricant that the keyboard robot (labeled R2 WD40 in the pic I've got) uses to refresh rusty parts, perhaps they'd hear nods to the Ramones, Screamers, and Black Randy And The Metrosquad. However, lifts from punk legends are only part of the story. Remember 24-7 Spyz? No? Well, leave it to The Spits to jog your memory back to 1989. Under the handle 24-7 Spits, they use dreadlocks, shorts, and shoe polish as means of paying tribute to the thrash-funk gods. If Nell Carter were alive today, she would smack every member of The Spits. Or sit on them. Perhaps she REALLY wanted to hear "Grandma Dynamite"! Given that break, the band would modify Nell's ass prints into mohawks, fake mustaches, sunglasses, and sleeveless denim vests. Two cast members of "Reno 911" are smiling and offering their services as seamstresses. Every band needs one. Ask Elton. When asked by an interviewer whom he'd turn into a robot, guitarist Sean said, "My ex-girlfriend. If I could turn her into a robot so I could reprogram her to say stupid shit when I wanted to hear it instead of when I didn't want to hear it." On why he doesn't skate, the robot replied, "I weigh five tons. It's kinda hard to stay on a board. I keep breaking them." Regarding relations with a band mate's ex-girlfriend, bassist Aaron said, "Yeah. I slept with one of Sean's ex-girlfriends. Knowingly. She wasn't really a girlfriend, though. More like a fuck buddy. So I've dipped the familiar, yeah."

At Norcom High School in Portsmouth, VA, the "Dropout" rate far exceeds the statewide average. To combat this, the lowest grade a student can receive on a quiz or test is 50. In band classes at the school, songs write themselves without the handling of instruments. The Spits are insanely jealous. At one point in 1986, all I wanted from my mom was money for a Hosoi skateboard. She wouldn't give it to me. These days, I only "SK8" with my nephew's finger toys. While attending Churchland Junior High School, a classmate of mine misplaced his retainer in the lunchroom's trash. Shortly afterward, he 86'd himself. Had the boy had more forgiving parents, he wouldn't have had to "Die Die Die." I greatly miss my "Black Kar." It was a 1987 Chrysler New Yorker. It had a sunroof. It had an Intellivision-like voice module that said things like, "Your fuel is low." It was a babe magnet. Betty White will be hosting an NBC program this "Saturday Nite." Betcha two dollars there'll be a "Golden Girls"-related skit. There should be more information about Rue McClanahan in the papers and magazines. I'm sure you agree with me on this. Studies show that more people fret over losing their "Remote Kontrol" than losing touch with a friend or loved one. I've watched a total of roughly five minutes of "Grey's Anatomy." The scene I saw was lesbian in nature. It was sorta hot. When my wife's not in the room, I become "Tired And Lonely." It sucks hugging a pillow and pretending it's a woman. "I H8 Pussies"? You gay? You ball? You rode the pie? "Suzy's Face" is the one Joe Namath wanted to kiss. Don't blame him, but I'm more of a Shelley Smith/Linda Cohn kinda guy.

Let me take this opportunity to express my gratitude for the many blissful years of matrimony. I love you, random issue of Over 40 magazine (pages 56-61)!

-Gunther 8544

Kix- self-titled (Atlantic Records, 1981)

“They were a band that was ripped to shreds on Beavis and Butthead at the height of grunge pc overkill, yet still managed to nail the number 5 spot with their debut album in Chuck Eddy's obviously inconsistent book Stairway To Hell - The 500 Best Heavy Metal Albums In The Universe. The book is inconsistent, of course, because KIX should have been higher on the fucking list!”
-Adam Turkel

Kix’s debut is not only one of the most underrated hard rock albums of its time but also one of the most unique recordings to ever be lumped into the “hair metal” category. Surely informed by the obvious forebears (AC/DC, Zeppelin, Priest) but also strongly influenced by early Cheap Trick, the New York Dolls, and the burgeoning new wave pop movement, Kix infused smarts, humor, and lots of pop hooks into the hard rock form. Based out of Hagerstown, Maryland, the group gigged the mid-Atlantic relentlessly in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, its live show so dynamic and entertaining that a few kids from Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania sought to copy it to a T. Those kids were Bret Michaels, Rikki “Rockett” Ream, and Bobby “Dall” Kuykendall, who would proceed to “borrow” Kix’s look and moves, form a band called Paris, relocate to California, re-name themselves Poison (which happens to be a Kix song title…Hmmm), and make millions doing an inferior version of the act that had so enthralled them. So not only do we have Kix to thank for indirectly begetting quality TV like Rock of Love Bus, but also we have the band’s music to enjoy. Unlike so much of what was passed off as “metal” in the big label money-grab of the 1980s, Kix still sounds great when you put it on!

So big was the underground buzz on the hard-touring Kix that the group not only secured a major label deal but also had the opportunity to work with Tom Allom, who’d produced Judas Priest’s British Steel and Def Leppard’s On Through the Night (and sound engineered all the early Black Sabbath LPs). And while it wouldn’t be accurate to list Kix as one of Allom’s signature jobs, the production does beef up the band’s pop leanings. It does sound a little like Allom was trying to jam these square pegs from Maryland into the round hole of British metal, but the band’s quirks shine through anyway. “Atomic Bombs” kicks off with amped-up, wall-shaking power chords; but just when you’re ready to start banging your head, the song quickly transforms into something that could have been an In Color B-side! Like his contemporary Tom Keifer, Steve Whiteman could really fucking sing, his voice a powerhouse blend of Robert Plant and Robin Zander, his style cheeky and sly like Bon Scott. With Whiteman’s voice, and a fine slate of songs largely penned by bassist Donnie Purnell, Kix had the stuff to be a different kind of band. And Kix is a different kind of record! From the slamming adrenaline rush of “Kix Are for Kids” to the pure new wave of “Heartache” to the almost-punk of “The Kid” to the epic storytelling of the classic rock staple (well, it is my hometown!) “Yeah Yeah Yeah”, Kix is all over the place here, in an entirely good way! “Contrary Mary” sounds like The Knack covering The Beatles with AC/DC’s Young brothers sitting in on guitar. “The Itch” is completely stupid, perhaps even moronic, yet so fun and wildly infectious that it implores you to push the repeat button. Could all of this killer material have benefited from a slightly less "metal" production? Perhaps. But who cares?!

Kix, in spite of finding itself smack dab in the midst of pop metal’s commercial blowup, was never quite photogenic or pandering enough to cash in. Legendary is the tale of the band going out to California and having to open for Poison, watching in disbelief as the crowd went wild for this crap band that had cloned their act down to the letter. Label pressure for a “hit” record led to slightly ill-fated tweaks like the use of “professional” songwriters on 1983’s new wavey Cool Kids, the enlistment of cheesy hair metal producer Beau Hill for 1985’s Midnight Dynamite, and the 1988 release of the horrific power ballad “Don’t Close Your Eyes”(a #11 chart hit my senior year of high school!). Yet in spite of its employer’s relentless attempts to turn the band into a saleable hair band cartoon, Kix managed to make one good album after another, its talent and hard rock authenticity impossible to subdue. The strong sales of Blow My Fuse (#46 Billboard) and Hot Wire (#67, in spite of coming out just as Nirvana was delivering glam metal’s death blow) may have ultimately rewarded the folks at Atlantic, but to its credit the band never veered from its blend of classic hard rock and new wavey pop. You can spin the roulette wheel of Kix titles, and anywhere you land, you’ll win. But the place to start is the first album. Just ask Chuck Eddy!

-Josh Rutledge

Cock Sparrer- Shock Troops (Razor Records, 1983)

Cock Sparrer’s Shock Troops was probably the first great ’77-style punk album that wasn’t made in the '70s. It arrived, in fact, a full six years after 1977, and by then all the first wave greats had either broken up, changed their sound, or simply started to suck. Punk music, so fantastic in its early years, had taken a very wrong turn. Hardcore and anarcho-punk were taking over. Melody was suddenly out of vogue. The rockin’ influence of the Stooges and New York Dolls was barely detectable in the happening punk sounds of the day. New bands were aping The Exploited; old ones were experimenting with new wave or things far worse than that (see “Clash, The”). It would be a massive understatement to say that 1983 was not one of punk rock’s greatest years.

Cock Sparrer, if it had been commercially successful the first time around, surely would have gone down the same road its contemporaries traversed: one or two good albums, one or two somewhat shitty albums, and then some unfortunate foray into post-punk or dub or goth or metal or blue-eyed soul. But luckily for us, Cock Sparrer failed miserably in the '70s. Its two singles on Decca Records sold about 12 copies combined. The group recorded a full-length album that no one had any particular interest in releasing (it would remain unheard for almost 20 years!). Having been slugging it out since its mid- '70s origins as a Small Faces influenced pub rock band, Cock Sparrer had had enough and called it quits in 1980.

Then, in an odd occurrence, the burgeoning Oi! movement took a liking to Cock Sparrer’s working class punk sound (most notably, “Sunday Stripper” appeared on Oi! The Album). Suddenly, there was a “market” for Cock Sparrer. The band reformed in 1981 and returned with a vengeance, its formerly glam/rock tinged style now evolved into straight-up powerhouse punk. One year later, the group released its classic single “England Belongs To Me”. Unlike the two Decca releases, this single was not met with indifference. It garnered a lot of attention, some of it negative (the British press took it upon itself to point fingers at the band when certain unsavory elements of the right wing co-opted this catchy, patriotic number). B-side “Argy Bargy” was a beast of a tune as well, and there was no stopping Cock Sparrer at this point. Having escaped a certain decline by sitting out much of the late '70s and early '80s, the band was ready in 1983 to deliver a classic 1977 punk LP.

And what an LP it was! With its sing-along choruses, boisterous Brit-accented vocals, and proud working class bent, Shock Troops would prove to be a standard-bearer for the street punk/Oi! sub-genre. But its moderate tempos, Buzzcock-ian guitar leads, and melodic style were throwbacks to punk’s first wave, songs like “Where Are They Now”, “Riot Squad”, and “Take ‘Em All” arriving just in time to assuage the thousands of earaches brought on by punk’s new breed. The disillusionment of “Where Are They Now” (“Six years on/and they've all gone/Now it's all turned sour”) may be social and political in nature, but it could just as easily be musical. Yes, indeed, it had all gone sour, the great, fiery idealism of, say, Stiff Little Fingers, The Clash, or Chelsea already a distant memory, replaced by the tuneless monotony of hardcore and thrash. But Cock Sparrer had arrived to take punk back to where it had come from, armed with big, catchy anthems and melodies equal to the message. After a couple of spins through the aforementioned tracks or equally ace tunes like “Working” and “I Got Your Number”, you could easily assume that Shock Troops is not a studio album, but rather a best-of collection! “England Belongs To Me” (not included on initial pressings but present on any version of Shock Troops you’ll find) is not remotely fascist – if only “America the Beautiful” were as catchy and inspiring!

Cock Sparrer would release another fine album, Runnin’ Riot in ’84, before calling it quits in the wake of so much misplaced negative media attention. But since the mid-'90s, the band’s been going strong non-stop (the most recent long player Here We Stand is probably the group’s best in decades), with original members Colin McFaull, Steve Burgess, Steve Bruce, and Mickey Beaufoy all remaining on board. But really, the ONLY Cock Sparrer title you need is Shock Troops. No fan of ’77 punk (or good music, period) should be without it. It’s one of those discs you can put on, and no matter who’s with you, people are gonna be like, “Hell yeah! Shock Troops!” Song after song, you just can't help singing along and pumping your fist, your soul stirred to go out and kick some ass! It’s very easy to abuse the term “classic” while writing about music, but in this case it’s no stretch. If you’re trying to name all the no-doubt-about-it classic punk albums, Shock Troops HAS to be one of ‘em!

-Josh Rutledge

Turbonegro- Apocalypse Dudes (Sympathy for the Record Industry, 1999)

There are exactly ten opinions that are so universal and indisputable that they can officially be considered facts. They are:
1. More cushion is most definitely better for the pushin’.
2. Mike Ditka is God.
3. Dick York was the better Darrin.
4. O.J. did it.
5. Virginia is for lovers
6. Cheerleading is not a sport.
7. If you want to be the man, you have to beat the man.
8. Kmart sucks.
9. Burger King should never have changed its fries.
10. Apocalypse Dudes by Turbonegro is the greatest album of all-time.

While the first nine items require no elaboration, it is necessary to categorize the two types of individuals who might dispute #10.

First, there are those who’ve never had the pleasure of hearing Apocalypse Dudes. These people are merely unfortunate, not personally flawed. They may be partially at fault for ignoring the recommendations of others or failing to investigate any music outside of the ten songs in the current Top 40. But in most cases, they can be saved. They can go out and buy Apocalypse Dudes, discover its joys, and go on to live a happy and fulfilling life. In some rare cases, an intervention is required and a friend or family member will have to buy the album for them, and perhaps even physically force them to listen to it. Even when that happens, the results are generally positive.

Far more doomed is the second category of unbelievers: those who know well of Apocalypse Dudes but nonetheless dispute its preeminent place in the annals of recorded music. Some of these people have suffered significant head injuries at some point in life; others were subjected to soul-scarring traumas such as extended encounters with circus clowns or Hoarders marathons on A & E. And then there are those who lack either a sense of humor or good taste in music, both of which are prerequisites for the proper appreciation of any Turbonegro album. The non-fan of Turbonegro is generally a sorry sort - the kind of person who scares children, regularly uses the word “cunt”, and masturbates to pictures of Ann Coulter. In many cases, he’s beyond helping. The only hope for this individual lies in a rigorous program of therapy, diet, hair care, excessive drinking, sword fighting, heavy weightlifting in the company of homosexuals, and multiple long weekends spent listening to the Dictators, Ramones, Alice Cooper, the Stooges, and KISS.

What can we say about Apocalypse Dudes but that it rocks like no album has ever rocked? Somehow no band prior had managed to combine the distinct ingredients of first wave punk, glam metal, and 1970s guitar hero hard rock – or if it had been done, it had never been done so awesomely! Imagine if Spinal Tap had listened to punk rock, received from the rock gods the talent for immortal songwriting, and taken their guitar wanking to an even higher level. Then they would have sounded like Turbonegro! Yet for all of its over-the-top flair, absurdist humor, and homoerotic posturing, Apocalypse Dudes is not a joke album. This band – Oslo, Norway’s greatest contribution to world culture – was more than just a gag. Behind the schtick were absolutely incredible songs full of melody and hooks. From the epic prog metal send-up “Age of Pamparius” through the thunderous anthem “Rock Against Ass” to the not-so-subtle “Good Head”, the material is as impressive as anything ever heard on a hard rock album. Laugh all you want at a song title like “Rendezvous with Anus”, but can you argue that it’s not a perfect rock song?

Rather than a parody of cock rock’s worst excesses, Apocalypse Dudes was an improvement on the form – what you would get from taking the silliest music known to man and somehow making it awesome. From open to close, this album aspires to nothing besides rocking to the maximum, and that it does. Everything is big: big hooks, big production, big guitars, big drums, big vocals. Euroboy, with his perfect fusion of the technical skills of Van Halen/Malmsteen and the soul of Johnny Thunders, may be our generation’s greatest guitar hero. On vocals, Hank Von Helvete is like Alice Cooper, Iggy Pop, and Rob Halford all rolled into one. It’s amusing, maybe even gimmicky, that the group’s dressed in sailor hats and matching denim, that they have really awesome mustaches and would like you to believe that they spend their spare time trawling for hot men to fuck. But take away all of that, and you still have the greatest album of all-time.

So of course, once you’ve recorded the greatest album of all-time, are you not doomed to spend the rest of your career disappointing your fans? Yes and no. Granted: Turbonegro will NEVER make a greater album than Apocalypse Dudes. The circumstances that led to the conception and recording of this masterpiece were once-in-a-lifetime type stuff, a rare convergence of pure talent with divine intervention and a determined vision to do something that had never been done before. That said, there is no such thing as a bad Turbonegro album. You can lay down $20 for a copy of Party Animals or Scandinavian Leather and know that you'll get your money's worth for sure.

But for a copy of Apocalypse Dudes, you could not be blamed for selling your soul.

-Josh Rutledge

The Bobbyteens - Not So Sweet (Estrus/Screaming Apple, 2000)

Crossing lo-fi trash punk with ‘60s girl group melodrama, the poppy Glitter/Gilder side of glam rock, and the super-slutty bomp-bah-bomp of Nikki and the Corvettes, The Bobbyteens were, on paper, the perfect rock n’ roll band. And on record, they were even better! Powered by wonderfully sloppy musicianship and the strong pipes of the very sexy Tina Lucchesi, The Bobbyteens were one of the best bands of that great garage/punk scene circa the late ‘90s/early ‘00s.

Having already delivered a fantastic debut LP and a number of killer singles in the late ‘90s (“Firecracker” still makes my list of the 20 greatest rock n’ roll songs EVER!), the Bobbyteens kicked off the 2000’s with their best album, Not So Sweet. A full ten years later, I don’t find myself regretting a single word of the acclaim I heaped upon this title when it first came out. Instead, it seems I may have not praised it enough! I should have promised purchasers an enhanced sexual prowess and guaranteed fortunes. I should have warned people that if they didn’t buy the album, bad things would happen. Clearly, we can now look back and attribute historic ills such as The Iraq War, the rise of reality TV, SARS, tramp stamps, Paris Hilton, meth addiction, Dr. Phil, Nickelback, ironic trucker hats, texting, Hurricane Katrina, Miley Cyrus, and the Great Recession to the sparse sales of Not So Sweet. Shame on all of you!

Like The Donnas, the Bobbyteens were initially assembled by Darrin Raffaelli. Unlike The Donnas, the Bobbyteens actually got better after severing ties with Raffaelli. A virtual all-star team of ‘90s San Fran/Oakland garage punk (Lucchesi was in the Trashwomen and Count Backwurds; bassist Danielle Pimm had played with the Trashwomen, Count Backwurds, and Brentwoods; guitarist Lisa Schenberg was formerly in the Spastics; and Russell Quan had drummed for the Mummies, Phantom Surfers, and Count Backwurds), the Bobbyteens hardly needed a mentor. Not So Sweet is the poppiest and “cleanest” sounding item in the band’s catalog (hence its release on the German power pop imprint Screaming Apple), but if you’re expecting slickness or refined musicality, you’re barking up the wrong tree! This is primitive, 4/4 rock n’ roll – fun and catchy and amateurish in all the best ways. This is what The Runaways could have sounded like if they’d thrown out the metal influence and fed themselves a steady diet of Ramones and Dictators.

It all kicks off with “Liquid Love”, one of the least subtle sex songs ever penned. With the tone clearly established, the album unfolds as expected, with more odes to scoring with boys (“Blind Date”) and the joys of low-brow culture (“Late Nite TV”), moments redolent of the Shangri-Las (“Do You Want Me”), and cover selections appealing to both our basest instincts and the music geek in all of us (The Rubber City Rebels’ “Young and Dumb” and the Hershel Almond doo wop oldie “Let’s Get It On”). Not So Sweet is nothing revolutionary or unique, but it’s an absolute blast and a must-own for anyone who proclaims to love rock n’ roll. Quan, in his own way, is probably as great of a drummer as Keith Moon or Neil Peart, and Lucchesi’s powerhouse vocals really soar on numbers like “I’m Alright”.

The Bobbyteens would strike again in 2004 with another great effort, Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’, which turned out to be their last album. If you have any taste in music at all, you ought to go buy EVERYTHING the Bobbyteens ever did! Spend as much money as you have to! You won’t be disappointed! Unless, of course, your idea of “rock n’ roll” is Daughtry, Kings of Leon, or Vampire Weekend. In that event, I’m going to blame you in advance for the next decade’s worst atrocities: asteroid collisions, dog flu, the Iran/Israel Nuke Fest ‘13, the Jonas Brothers emo album, Martian invasion, the McDonald’s McLiverwurst, All About Steve II, the ill-fated thawing of Ted Williams’s head, the complete obliteration of California, two Dallas Cowboys Super Bowl wins, and the election of Sarah Palin. Rock on!

-Josh Rutledge

Ritchie Valens- self-titled (Del-Fi Records, 1959)

If all he had been was the first Chicano rock n’ roll star, Ritchie Valens would already be a massive figure in music. If all he had been remembered for was his tragic death in the plane crash that also killed Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens would already be an immortal figure in rock n’ roll. But Ritchie Valens was far more than the answer to a couple of trivia questions. Ritchie Valens was one of the greatest rock n’ rollers of the 1950s, one of the most glistening stars of that most golden age. And although his lifetime’s recordings were laid down in less than one year, he managed to leave behind more great music than most artists could produce in decades. Ritchie Valens, not issued until a month after the rocker’s death, is a terrific, exhilarating rock n’ roll album. If there’s anything lacking about it, it’s that it only hints at what could have been had this 17-year-old boy not departed this world too soon. But sadly, there’s no helping that. And the bottom line is that just for the classic singles alone, Ritchie Valens is one of the most essential rock n’ roll albums EVER.

Richard Valenzuela was a high school student living in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley in May 1958 when he auditioned for Bob Keane, a producer and record label owner who’d already struck it big with Sam Cooke. Keane, who was looking for artists for his new label Del-Fi, had been tipped off to Valenzuela, the “Little Richard of the Valley”, and caught one of his live shows at a movie theater in San Fernando. Keane signed the teen to Del-Fi, and Ritchie Valens was born. By July, Valens was recording songs at Hollywood’s famed Gold Star Studio, working with the best session band money could buy. Backing Valens were the likes of Earl Palmer (drummer for Little Richard AND Fats Domino - now in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame), Carol Kaye (who’d later make herself a legend playing bass on classic songs like the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations”, the Monkees’ “I’m a Believer”, and the Grass Roots’ “Midnight Confessions”), and Renee Hall (a frequent bandmate of Palmer’s whose six-string Danelectro bass would give “La Bamba” its distinctively thick bottom end). Recorded first were the hard-hitting Valens original “Come On, Let’s Go” and the Leiber & Stoller number “Framed” (a 1954 hit for The Robins). Issued within days of its recording, the “Come On, Let’s Go” single was a big hit, reaching #42 on the charts, and by the fall Valens had quit high school to concentrate on his career. In the latter months of 1958, he would appear twice on American Bandstand, shoot a scene for Alan Freed’s film Go Johnny Go! (doing the sizzling Little Richard rip-off “Ooh! My Head!”), and record the rest of his debut album. He’d also reach staggering heights of success with his second 45, “Donna” b/w “La Bamba”. Both sides would chart – “Donna” going all the way to #2, and “La Bamba” peaking at #22.

Much is known about the death of Ritchie Valens on February 3, 1959 – the day the music died. What’s not as universally acknowledged, some 51 years later, is how bad-ass Valens’s music still sounds! If Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and Little Richard were the top tier of ‘50s rock n’ roll, Valens is right there at the head of the second tier, and his influence on what was to come in rock is without question. With its aggressive instrumentation, hard-driving beat, and gloriously raucous guitar solo, Valens's rock n' roll interpretation of the Mexican folk tune “La Bamba” may have been the first “garage rock” single. John Lennon admitted that “La Bamba” was a massive influence on the Beatles’ guitar-heavy version of “Twist and Shout”. Jimmy Page once offered, "Valens was my first guitar hero and I played that bridge to 'La Bamba' a thousand times." And no less than an authority than Lester Bangs traced the existence of punk rock all the way back to Valens:

"Just consider Valens's three-chord mariachi square-up [on 'La Bamba'] in the light of 'Louie, Louie' by The Kingsmen, then 'You Really Got Me' by The Kinks, and then 'No Fun' by The Stooges, then 'Blitzkrieg Bop' by The Ramones, and finally note that 'Blitzkrieg Bop' by The Ramones sounds a lot like 'La Bamba.' Twenty years of rock and roll history in three chords played more primitively each time they are recycled."

Ritchie Valens is, of course, highlighted by “La Bamba” and the beautiful slow-dancer “Donna”, written about Valens’s real-life girlfriend (Bangs called it “one of the classic teen love ballads, one of the few which reaches through layers of maudlin sentiment to give you the true and unmistakable sensation of what it may have been like to be a teenager in that strange decade”). Hard to believe both songs were on the same single! “Ooh! My Head!” may be a copy of Little Richard’s “Ooh! My Soul!”, but regardless it was one of the hottest rock n’ roll tracks of the ‘50s, replete with throaty, soulful vocals and blistering guitar work. The smoking opening cut “That’s My Little Suzie” (a posthumous fourth chart hit for Valens) is less flagrantly Little Richard inspired, while “In a Turkish Town” is a surprisingly tender turn towards the crooner rock that was just coming into vogue at the time. Even some of the filler is choice stuff – you could not go wrong with covers of Robert and Johnny’s 1958 doo-wop hit “We Belong Together” or the Larry Williams classic “Bony Moronie”, especially given Valens’s impassioned treatment of the material.

Del-Fi would go on to release a second Valens LP, Ritchie, compiling the scraps of what remained from the young man’s recorded output. The album’s best tracks have made their way onto the host of Valens compilations that have seen the light of day over the decades, and truly one cannot go wrong with any Ritchie Valens collection. What’s wondrous is that Valens’s music was so uplifting, so spirited and exciting, that it obliterates the sadness of his life story. Listening to Ritchie Valens, you don’t dwell on the sadness of his early death or the tragedy of what music lost when he was killed. Instead, you’re filled with joy and hope by this incredible music - these raw, high energy tunes that can make a bad day good and a good day even better. If you can make it through “La Bamba” without wanting to get up and dance, you may need to check yourself for a pulse.

-Josh Rutledge