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