The Vapors - New Clear Days (Capitol Records, 1980)

I once wrote a short story about a woman who so vehemently objected to her significant other’s dismissal of The Vapors as a worthless one-hit-wonder that she literally murdered him. My own stance on the matter is only slightly less passionate. If I ever assembled a proverbial desert island disc list, New Clear Days would make the cut, along with AC/DC’s Let There Be Rock, The Clash’s London Calling, Material Issue’s first, and something by Husker Du. The hit, “Turning Japanese”, is well-known by all. If you don’t like it, there must be something fatally wrong with you. The rest of the songs stick to the same new wave pop template, and are every bit as good. Often categorized as one of the standards of the skinny tie power pop genre, New Clear Days is probably more similar to the early works of like-minded English groups like XTC and Squeeze.

As its title suggests, here was a song cycle about love and life set against a backdrop of impending nuclear annihilation – overtly political in spots and otherwise informed by the tenor of Cold War times. While many of the best tracks (“Waiting for the Weekend”, “Spring Collection”, “Somehow”) are simple variations on the songs-about-girls theme, few pop groups in 1980 were referencing military cease fires (“60 Second Interval”) or World War II politics (“Letter from Hiro”). The album’s best track, “News At Ten” is a social statement as pointed and literary as anything ever penned by Paul Weller (whose dad managed The Vapors!). And David Fenton’s lyrics to “Bunkers” read like something straight off the first Clash LP:

Government thugs keep me in for the week/

They call out the cops if I'm seen on the street/

It drives me spoolers in millions of ways/

I think I'll be a government thug one day/

Don't tell me in anger just tell me for real/

Why does everybody try to be a real big wheel/

It doesn't matter but if they live on the street/

With all these cowboys and bunkers and creeps

Fenton’s songwriting muse would turn darker and weirder on the band’s second LP Magnets (the most accessible song was an ode to suicide cult leader Jim Jones!), and the album didn’t even crack the top 100. And that was all for The Vapors. To his credit, Fenton never gave in to the temptation to "unretire" from the music business. He gave up recording and became a solicitor. There have been no half-assed Vapors reunions or warmed-over comeback albums mimicking the new wave glories of yesteryear. The band’s music remains in the early ‘80s, where it belongs, a cultural artifact as enduring and awesome as the Atari 2600, Billy Beer, and movies about truckers.

-Josh Rutledge

Blackfoot - Greatest Hits (Flashback, 2002)

Durabrand DVD players are pieces of trash. Even Fred Sanford wouldn't treasure them. The only reason I owned one in the first place was to access the 75 or so albums in my collection contained on the MP3 format. Music placed in the silver machine was readable, but many CDs had more pops and skips than the cast of Rice Krispies in a Double Dutch competition. Playing movies? Uh, hope you didn't have your popcorn ready. Less than three months from the box, the Durabrand rejected all of my film choices. Damn, I thought The Virginian-Pilot's Mal Vincent was a tough critic. In retrospect, I do agree with the player's coded hiss that said the Michael Jackson-like dance number at the end of "Slumdog Millionaire" cheapened an otherwise great picture. With the announcement from Wal-Mart recalling almost two million DVD players due to overheated circuit boards, the Durabrand's days of sucking down Junior Mints and taking notations in darkened theaters met their closing credits. Ushering the defective device to customer service, I took the $32 gift card and headed for the music section. My goal was to walk out of Wally World with five CDs. Molly Hatchet's classic debut for a fiver? Hell yeah, bounty hunter! Nuge's Free-For-All at the same price? No doubt, I'm whippin' it out! ZZ Top's Tres Hombres for siete dolares? Muchas gracias, Precious and Grace! The Fireman's Electric Arguments for nine bucks? Plug me in, Paul! The remaining coin was spent on a budget title that has enhanced my interest in a band I've always admired from a distance. Thank you, Durabrand, for closing the gap.

Blackfoot's core lineup of Rickey Medlocke (vocals, guitar), Charlie Hargrett (guitar), Greg T. Walker (bass) and Jakson Spires (drums) called the Southern rock mecca of Jacksonville, Florida home. Early efforts No Reservations (1975) and Flyin' High (1976) drew favorable comparisons to hometown buds Lynyrd Skynyrd (Medlocke and Walker had been in a nascent version of the band), but positive black ink in the magazines couldn't keep album sales from being red at the register. In 1979, Blackfoot released Strikes and finally landed a right hand with mainstream success. A pair of singles culled from the collection would yield the two cuts most identified with Medlocke and company. Per lyrics discussing the totality as a wandering musician ("Oh, it's my way of living and I can't change a thing") who copes with the hurt of a loved one left behind, "Highway Song" proved irresistible to devotees of Skynyrd's most enduring anthem. Reaching #26 on the Pop chart, Blackfoot captured a "Free Bird" of their very own, replete with equally chirpy guitar work. Ever wondered what it would be like to have a jam session with your grandfather? Well, Rickey Medlocke turned the trick on the follow-up hit "Train, Train." By penning the prose of a drifter who admits he's not good enough for his woman ("Get yourself a money man!") and blowing introductory harp with the force of a steaming locomotive, grandpa Shorty Medlocke was enthusiastically welcomed as guest conductor. Like ZZ Top's "Tush" and "La Grange," the heavy-for-the-genre guitar behavior garnered many ticket purchases from headbangers waiting in the station's lobby. Enough passengers boarded "Train, Train" to arrive at another destination in the Top 40. Would there be another stop?

Despite the derailment of the band's engine en route to Casey Kasem and Rick Dees' loaded terminals, the remaining cars on a track called Blackfoot's Greatest Hits are equally stocked with pretty ladies and powerful libations. If you like what bartender Bob Seger has been dispensing into your glasses all these years but wish he'd lay off the seltzer water as a pitcher topper, forgo the Silver Bullet and ask him to "Gimme, Gimme, Gimme" a shot of the hard stuff. Medlocke and Hargrett's aggressive axework turns the page on mellow and puzzles the patrons who want that old-time rock 'n' roll. When Rickey bellows the "Ain't got no money to buy me a beer" portion of the refrain, some straggler in a ZZ tee cracks open the tip jar and hands over the dough. Whatcha got to say 'bout it, Mr. Businessman? Seger's bites can also be felt on "Rattlesnake Rock 'N' Roller." While the GPS in his Chevy Tahoe points to the direction of Katmandu, Shorty Medlocke's brief banjo intro sticks its thumbtack on a map of Campbell County. Bob might work in a climb of Mount Everest during his vacay, but the boys in Blackfoot have simpler plans ("Well I'm a-headin' for the country/With the stars shinin' up above/Gonna do me some fishin'/Instead of just a-wishin' I was"). The thick-thighed chaquitas from Mexico who are "Too Hard To Handle" can be every bit as bawdy as Mountain's "Mississippi Queen." Choose to ignore the similarly sly precautions of AC/DC's "The Jack," and you could bring home a nasty souvenir ("Small time gambler lays down his money/To play some five-card stud/But the big time winner really was the loser/He caught a case of an unlucky love"). Lend me a few pennies for the jukebox, and I'll happily let Blackfoot throw them into Free's "Wishing Well." Medlocke's rich voice puts him in good stead with original throat Paul Rodgers. Quite possibly the only tune covered by both 'Foot AND The Mission U.K. Wait, did Rickey tackle Neil Young's "Like A Hurricane"? I'd sure as hell like to hear the result.

Uh-oh, my Durabrand TV set's on the fritz. I'm already planning my list for the next gift card. Any suggestions?
-Gunther 8544

Exploding Hearts- Guitar Romantic (Screaming Apple Records, 2002; Dirtnap Records, 2003)

I never was able to give the Exploding Hearts an unbiased review. First there was the initial hype, and then quickly came the tragedy. Under the heavy influence of both, I touted the Hearts’ recordings as not only some of the finest pieces of music ever released, but also as some of the greatest accomplishments in human history, ranking somewhere up there between the invention of the wheel and a cure for cancer. It’s been six years now since the world lost Adam Cox, Jeremy Gage, and Matt Fitzgerald, and the passing of time has done nothing to diminish the Hearts’ musical standing. Emotion no longer clouding my judgment, I coolly hail Guitar Romantic one of the greatest punk rock debut LPs ever.

That Guitar Romantic is far from perfect is one of its greatest charms. Like many of the great early punk debuts it resembles, it’s far from a polished product. The production is raw, almost demo-like. The musicianship is basic, even sloppy in spots. It just feels like classic '70s punk rock, and not just because the Hearts had the good sense to emulate all the right bands. Guitar Romantic sounds not like a pale imitation of the Undertones' or Boys' debuts, but rather like an album that easily could have come out that very same year. Little attempt is made to mask sources of inspiration – “I’m a Pretender” is unabashedly Jam-like; “Rumors in Town” sounds uncannily like Mick Jones fronted Clash. Yet the Hearts were very much their own band, thanks in no small part to the adolescent, lovelorn snarl of one Adam Cox. The kid was no crooner, but he was a dynamite punk singer, capable of imbuing the standard snot-nosed vocal style with the plaintive tinge of heartbreak. And with his passing, we lost an immensely talented lyricist. By turns funny (“And ya say you know what's best for me/Well if you got your way/I'd have a lobotomy”) and poignant ("Weeds have grown over our camp site/I know 'cause I sleep there every night/Without you"), his wordplay was wise beyond his years. And who else could have spun this tender yarn about co-dependent glue-sniffers in love?

We snuck rubber cement into the fair/

We rode all the rides, but you wanted to fly/

So you jumped off into the air/

The neon lights and cotton candy skies/

Couldn't bring you down from those highs/

Oh now, you're so sad, oh girl/

I see you talking to a squirrel/

Kissing its lips, why not mine?

If Guitar Romantic gets the obligatory A+ for style, it scores just as highly for overall quality. The songs, mostly co-written by indie rock n’ roll vagabond King Louie (Hearts fans should definitely seek out his 2007 solo effort Memphis Treet), blend pop hooks with buzzsaw guitars as well as any punk band save The Ramones. It’s not stretching it to call “I’m a Pretender” and “Jailbird” modern classics, and the same could be said of “Throwaway Style” and “Sleeping Aids and Razor Blades”. “Modern Kicks” boasts one of the all-time great punk riffs - and some epic guitar leads from Mr. Terry Six. Even the lesser, filler type songs, like the Boys-inspired rocker “Still Crazy”, are pretty damn good.

So maybe now, I finally give the Exploding Hearts their long-deserved fully unbiased review. Guitar Romantic, all these years later, sounds just as good to my ears. Give it a special place on your shelf next to your well-worn copies of In the City and Incredible Shrinking Dickies. It’s earned it.
-Josh Rutledge

The Venue - Mmhm! (Bella Union, 2002)

Upon receiving this compact disc, I immediately tore into it. Literally. Confused by the non-traditional packaging, I shredded the cover in bits and pieces until my failing paws were clutching the silver 'n' gold goodness of plasticity. Luckily, no audio damage was done to the twelve tracks from this youthful bunch (save for the grandfatherly figure holding a snare drum) of Swedish garage-rockers. Along with The Hives' Veni Vidi Vicious and The Soundtrack Of Our Lives' Origin Vol. 1 -- two other classics served up from the land of Bjorn Borg this decade -- The Venue's debut album hoists the blue 'n' yellow flag in the faces of rock 'n' roll cognoscenti throughout Scandinavia and beyond. Tapping from the same wells of their fellow countrymen (Beatles, Kinks, Zombies, Hollies, etc.), this listener's only course of action is to salute.

Speaking of national pride, Mmhm!'s lead-off title track was used as background music for the Swedish handball team's section of the national Sports TV annual review. Huh? With minor vocal inflections, the harmonica-driven raver kicks like an inebriated Pretty Things/Yardbirds practice session that's sure to motivate Sven Lastnameunknown and the other fellows in Beijing come August. "So Much Too Much" reveals how dedicated followers of fashion are faring these days ("Look at the diamond rings in her lips/And the one in her nose"). Don't know exactly "What's In His Head?", but swimming in the self-absorption are sticky Fab Four-ish choruses that impress with every stroke. "Deep-Fried Sinfulness" has a Marlboro-smoking DJ who can't stay confined to a studio. If the Hives-like power chords and carefree attitude are a barometer of his playlist, then I'll see him at the next live remote. Would somebody please fix the time machine in "Instant Pleasure"? I mean, the great hook around the 2:30 mark transports me to when the Stones were more pop 'n' jangle than rough 'n' tumble, but "1995, we're almost there" would mean enduring the likes of Dishwalla (the whitest band of all-time?) and Pearl Jam rip-offs for a second time in my existence. Moods for Mod-erns in "Sentimental Ode (O.D.)" include "sudden attacks of happiness." The scratchy vinyl tics and plenty of alcohol make life for commitment-phobes "too good to waste on thinking." "Love Monster" doesn't smear his lover with grease or EVOO (in case it's Rachael Ray), though he serenades his woman with enough fuzz to break up a drug ring.

Mmhm = Ymym. U figure it out.
- Gunther 8544

Galaxie 500 - Today (Aurora, 1988/Rough Trade, 1991/Rykodisc, 1997)

Like many college students seeking a respite from exhaustive studies, Dean Wareham (guitar, vocals), Damon Krukowski (drums) and Naomi Yang (bass) spent their formative years at Harvard University playing sloppy punk rock to drunk undergraduates. Conan O' Brien -- who'd dabbled in percussion long before enlisting E. Street drummer Max Weinberg to keep time for his late-night talk fest -- offered Krukowski the gently-used kit. Although Galaxie 500's light 'n' airy sound led many in the Boston scene to tag the group as "wimps," local radio grew fond of their demo tape. With producer Mark Kramer at the helm, the band realized a goal when the "Tugboat" b/w "King Of Spain" 45 hit the racks in 1988. Treating the vocals with tons of reverb and delivering the instrumentation in a soft-but-loud dynamic, Galaxie 500's A-side was an addictive slab of mopishness on par with the best of The Smiths. The words were simplistic ("I don't wanna stay at your party/I don't wanna talk with your friends/ I don't wanna vote for your president/I just wanna be your tugboat captain"), but the strum 'n' jangle and hypnotic traces proved irresistible to devotees of The Velvet Underground and Spacemen 3. On the flip, "King Of Spain" conveyed a state of dementia which ran counter to the gentle bed of musicianship.

Despite critical praise generated by the 45, only Slash stepped up to the plate in Galaxie 500's attempt to land a U.S. record deal. The label double-backed when the band adamantly refused to add a light show to the live set. Returning to their old home, Today was released in '88 on Aurora to well-deserved accolades. Three years later, Rough Trade reissued the album shortly before declaring bankruptcy. The band who'd caught nary a break severed when Wareham left to form Luna. Krukowski and Yang gained control of Galaxie 500's catalog by acquiring the masters at auction. Today saw a re-release in 1997 on Rykodisc. What Thurston Moore called his "favorite guitar record of 1988" would soon influence a new crop of noisemakers.

Besides the attendant cuts from the 45, Today flashes eight glimpses of VU-inspired beauty with the rough edges left intact. "Instrumental" is perhaps the best-known Galaxie tune, due to its placement in an Acura commercial. The free-form exhibition could've been performed by Reed, Cale, Morrison and Tucker at a Max's Kansas City after-party circa 1971. "Flowers" smell like they've been picked from a mental institution's gift shop. The seeds of lunacy and schizophrenia germinate in a climate-controlled greenhouse filled with mysterious whispers. If you're "Oblivious" to a love interest, he or she might crash a 1960s Ford in a driving rainstorm of indifference and lies. Thus, please invite your beau inside for an evening of bed activities and beverages. Polaroid has announced a halt on the production of instant cameras, so be hasty on snapping mental "Pictures" of colorful wishes involving the person closest to your heart. A Morse code transcription of Jonathan Richman's "Don't Let Our Youth Go To Waste" brings back "memories to rival Berlin in the '30s." When played backwards, the message says, "Fall Out Boy will be blamed for the fallout." Take shelter, Ashlee Simpson. Sometimes, you just wanna hang out in a "Parking Lot" to watch people fall apart. That's fine. However, your tingling fingers and shaking hands are the results of chemically-induced behavior. Whenever the "Temperature's Rising," call Mo Tucker at Wal-Mart and ask her for a cocktail of methadone and Sam's Choice cola. You should come down in no time. There's one more song to talk about, but "It's Getting Late."

Saying much more would be as dangerous as a blindfolded Nico pedaling a unicycle, so I'll leave you with this Galaxie 500 lyrical aside: "I'm hyperventilating."

- Gunther 8544

Sidewinders - Auntie Ramos' Pool Hall (Mammoth/RCA, 1990)

I've mentioned the influence of the defunct 92.1 WOFM on my tinnitus-coated ears in the past. The legendary station turned me on to staples such as Husker Du's Candy Apple Grey, Dinosaur Jr.'s Fossils, the Meat Puppets' No Strings Attached and Das Damen's Mousetrap. When either Al Mitchell, Sara Trexler or a janitor filling in for the evening spun the title track from the ' Winders' Witchdoctor, I instantly fell in love and asked for the cassette's ribbon in marriage the next day.

With acceptance of the proposal, the time was ripe to discover its family history. The ten-times-heavier-than-REM behavior of the initial wax had stolen my heart, of course. But the Neil Young-ish slo-burn of "What She Said" and a striking glance of Neil Diamond's "Solitary Man" appealed with the freshness of lunar turf marked upon by a third Neil. After taking one giant step to the music store, I caught the band's radio interview announcing a stop at the Peppermint Beach Club in Va. Beach. Unfortunately, I couldn't get out of asking consumers about cans of dry cat food. The following year, I met Bease -- the man who would pen a new name for me. Our discussions on music turned sour, when my new bud told me he'd seen the 'Winders at PBC. "Did they play 'Witchdoctor'?" I posed. "OH, YEAH!" Bease replied. Must've been a bad spell or something...

Housed at the intersection of Byrds Way and Crazy Horse Avenue in Tucson, AZ, Auntie Ramos' Pool Hall serves flowing beer, jangly guitars and gritty tales to its cue-wielding patrons. Opening break "We Don't Do That Anymore" explores the differences between settled-in adulthood and carefree adolescence. The lush in "Sara's Not Sober" attracts a gentleman's attention, though wanton lust is rejected in favor of getting to know her post-hangover ("If you're tryin' to hit on me/You might try a different strategy"). Loved ones of the deserter who wants to "Get Out Of That Town" plead with the U-Haul driver to double-back, for the intended destination "thinks it's Los Angeles." Love's "7 & 7 Is" has long been a popular bar order, but the ' Winders' sustained roll and added power to the '60s cocktail make for the definitive drink. Promises of flowers, lawn-mowing and shopping in "If I Can't Have You" are messages left on a "phone machine (that) knows me more than you." "Came On Like The Sun" is a shining light of a woman to a depressed drunk. Despite pawning jewelry and going on days-long benders, he's always welcomed back into her loving arms ("I say I'm coming home/All you ask is 'When?'/Strangest thing I've ever heard/Please say it again"). No chance of reunification for the two who have "Blood On Our Hands." Soon, the dude will be long-gone in his F-150, but not before a final contemplative drag ("I need another cigarette to figure out what to do/But maybe I'll just sit here and watch the sweat pour out of you").

At ARPH, many relationships are just scratches on the 8-ball. But as long as you have change for a buck, finding the right woman is as simple as a change in luck.
- Gunther 8544

Naked Raygun - Understand? (Caroline, 1989/Quarterstick, 1999)

Last week produced one of the oddest items I've ever taken home from a second-hand store. No, it wasn't Volume One of The Onion's Finest News Reporting collection with a strange insect glued to the first page. While the dead invertebrate and spoof articles under headings such as "Christ Returns To NBA," "Clinton Deploys Vowels To Bosnia" and "Area Bassist Fellated" were plenty peculiar, it was a clone version of my favorite board game that instantly brought to mind the consonants W, T and F. To my mind, SCRABBLE is a wonderfully constructed masterpiece which can be equally enjoyed by a ten-year-old tyke and his ten-years-shy-of-a-century great-grandfather. On the other hand, SCRAMBLE is a jumbled mess of a pastime that defecates all over SCRABBLE inventor Alfred Mosher Butts' original intentions. The saboteur's box art promises an interlocking board, sturdy tiles, a bag, score sheets, tile racks and a bonus "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" game. Unfortunately, the removal of plastic paints a much different portrait. A folded sheet of paper with the appropriate 225-squared design serves as the playing area. The tiles (English on one side, Arabic on the flip) have to be cut with scissors from a grid. Score sheets and the bag are nowhere in sight. The racks are made from hard plastic. Regis Philbin's baby is out with the bath water. All flaws understood, what makes SCRAMBLE most unplayable is the faulty number of tiles assigned to each letter. One blank? Less than twelve Es? Perhaps a "bingo" (when all seven tiles on the rack are used in a single turn, earning a 50-point bonus) in this pisstake is called a "bimbo." Hey, why not have twenty Qs? It would make sense to Shaquille O'Neal, at least. SHAQTUS!!! SHAQTASTIC!!! SHAQEDELIC!!! SHAQAZULU!!!

The languages spoken by Naked Raygun are much easier to translate. This Windy City quartet's past communications have included readings from the fake books of Stiff Little Fingers, Buzzcocks and Wire. An energetic mix of street punk with arty touches dictated early essentials such as "New Dreams," "Metastasis," "Soldier's Requiem," "Backlash Jack" and "Home Of The Brave." These compositions would later come to my attention via musical backtracking, but hearing the first cut from Understand? on 92.1 WOFM was more of a Rosetta Stone than the Spanish I'd been taught by an irrepressible instructor at Green Run High School. "Treason" perfectly conveys distrustful feelings of those in power ("In their faces I see lies/While they try to hide their eyes"). Endlessly questioning the world in which one inhabits, the position of governing your own affairs becomes top priority ("What I feel makes me alive/Goes beyond what they decide"). Jeff Pezzati's martial chants (enough "Whoas!" for a Misfits Fiend Club meeting in Lodi, NJ), John Haggerty's nervy guitar, Pierre Kezdy's thick bass and Eric Spicer's on-a-dime drumming launch the missile command with a 100,000 pound trackball. But there are more Scuds pointed in your direction. Ten-hut, soldier!

When the Delta Force imposes Americanization on little Spanish-speaking countries, the charge will not be led by a "Hips Swingin'" Southern boy with a curled lip. Instead, a muscular version of Peter Garrett (remember the bald-headed giant from Midnight Oil?) donned in Mad Max gear will perform the majority of the pelvis-grinding. Promising the nations in the takeover will "still have a bit of their own personality left," homegrown bananas are slated to join imported peanut butter in the form of sandwiches. How's that for diplomacy? A protestor from Honduras with the unusual code name of Skippy is not too happy being on the Dole, so he hides behind thick brush and starts humming a few bars of "The Sniper Song." But the cue-ball commander already has a rifle-toting GI stationed in a blind ("Peering down through my scope with an amoral code/The view is fantastic/From my aerie on high/I laugh at your pleading"). Finally fed up with their leader's halo for a hat, mutiny occurs when the Force peels off fatigues and tells "Garrett" there's been entirely "Too Much Of You" ("I see you think you're a savior/You think you're Jesus Christ/From what I've seen of our shepherds/Your type had best think twice/Your master plan to save me/Just doesn't suit me right"). "Wonder Beer" is the celebratory drink of choice, as the Force toasts cold ones with Skippy and the bunch. Though imbibing is as much of a daily exercise for these guys as push-ups, three acclaimed fitness coaches are sought to improve the regimen ("Drunk again - where is Lou Reed?/Come on, Iggy - tell me true/Wish Roy Orbison could tell me what to do").

Naked Raygun's SHAQFU is better than your SHAQFU. Understand, Grasshopper?
-Gunther 8544