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

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