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

The Suicide Commandos - Make A Record (Blank, 1978)

Common names are often shared by notable figures, but it's usually obvious which person is more known by the Average Joe. For example, John Smith was one of the Jamestown settlement's founders in 1607. Most folks know that his head was saved on the chopping block by Pocahontas, but are you aware it was Smith who gave the New England region its name? In the same part of the United States 375 years later, John Smith, a kicker for the NFL's Patriots, scored the only points in a 3-0 victory over the Miami Dolphins as time expired. The contest would later be coined the Snowplow Game. OK, John Smith was an easy pick. Hell, it's used on samples of credit cards. What about a handle like Adrian Peterson? Oddly, the APs to whom I'm referring are employed by the National Football League and play similar positions. The one starting for the Minnesota Vikings is a Pro Bowl running back who holds the single-game record for rushing yards (296). On the Chicago Bears, AP might as well be in the WPP. Switching sports, Chris Osgood has hoisted the Stanley Cup three times as an ace goaltender for the Detroit Red Wings. Back to Minneapolis, Chris Osgood is held in high regard as a founding father of that city's punk rock history. Feel sorry for Osgood, because his band's tag is also upstaged. Suicide Commando, AKA Johan Von Roy, is an electro-industrial musician from Belgium with 5,245 fans on Facebook. Headed by CO, The Suicide Commandos have 106 FBers singing their praises.

Make it 107. Joined by Steve Almaas (bass/vocals) and Dave Ahl (drums/vocals), Chris Osgood (guitar/vocals) put forth two singles ("Monster Au-Go-Go" and "Match/Mismatch") in 1976. The following year, SC recorded Make A Record's fifteen tracks at Sound 80 Studios in Minneapolis. Memorable gigs at the hometown Longhorn Bar led to several cross-country tours. A fruitful friendship with Pere Ubu blossomed for SC in January 1978, when the newly constructed Blank Records released both bands' debut albums simultaneously. If this ain't an art-punk's wet dream, call me Colin Newman with a towel.

Speaking of Wire, that UK band's 1977 masterwork is a towering template for Make A Record. Indeed, SC's song lengths (often under two minutes), jittery vocals, and jagged musicianship tap heavily on the fabric. Though Minutemen and Urinals backers would be quick to debate, Make A Record is arguably the best salute of Pink Flag that's been done by an American band. Please don't think I'm calling SC a tribute act, though. Chris Osgood's massive riffing suggests a duel between Chuck Berry and Johnny Ramone on a stage blanketed in nerve gas. Also, a sonic kinship with fellow Midwesterners Devo and the aforementioned Pere Ubu keeps SC's passport tucked away in Ahl's drum case.

DA's sticks pound the snare, but your previously distant roommate Charisse is busy "Attacking The Beat." Because you've never seen her moving in a club before, the vision of the "Little Petite One" in a short skirt compels you to join the lovely Latina on the floor. Dancing in the dark? On the ceiling? For you, Charisse, I'd feign fandom of Bjork and Lionel Richie. To impress the lady, you glue the clippings of your gray hair onto your face. Talking in an accent similar to the man from the Dos Equis adverts, you tell Charisse about the thirst for her tongue in your mouth. Unfortunately, she bites off your nose and spits it into a beer glass. Discussing reattachment surgery with "Mr. Dr.", he lets you live. Why? So you can pay the bill. Sense of smell regained, you exit the love nest and find the wispy woman at the stove tackling tofu, tuna, and taco sauce. The lunch shows Charisse cares a lot, but you think she's "Semi-Smart." More proof of a sliced IQ is given, when "She" tries to convince you that one of The Monkees is named Peter Dork. Charisse's sweet love (juice) offsets her lack of music trivia, so you go back to kissing her (lips). The morning after, she leaves you with nothing but a plate of dirt. It's better than the tofu taco salad, for sure. Still, you miss the one who's done you wrong and wonder if Charisse has heard this song. Walking away from the abandonment, you see a thing that makes you frown. It is Charisse's nightgown. Neither black nor brown, the memory of her makes you drown. You're left with no choice but to "Burn It Down." That goes double for the apartment. Luckily, the fire station is across the street.

The Suicide Commandos. A band by any similar name...

-Gunther 8544

The Pagans- Shit Street (Crypt Records, 2001)

“The Pagans were as unwrought, impudent and gnarly a buncha rock'n'roll bedlamites as America's ever spewed outta its queasy underbelly."
-Mark Trehus

Of all the “classic” punk bands, The Pagans are perhaps the most under-appreciated. Never able to get a proper album out during their first incarnation, the red-hot Cleveland foursome nonetheless amassed enough killer material between 1977 and ’79 to allow for the legendary posthumous compilation Buried Alive. Even more definitive, the Crypt Records issue Shit Street compiles the entirety of the original Pagans’ studio cuts with a 13-song live set from August of ’79. If your list of top-tier class of ’77 bands doesn’t include The Pagans, you ought to give Shit Street a listen and get your pen and paper ready. You may need to do some revising.

Unlike many of their contemporaries who formed in the wake of Sex Pistols hysteria and more or less copied the formula, The Pagans were making punk rock music before anyone knew what to call it. The Hudson brothers had been playing in bands together since 1974, years before “Anarchy in the UK” was even conceived. Perhaps they were influenced by the true first punk song, “I Got a Right”. More likely they were influenced by Cleveland, Ohio in the mid-1970s - a crumbling blue collar city on the verge of bankruptcy, ridden with a perennially losing baseball team. Most likely they were influenced by extremely large quantities of drugs and alcohol. Whatever the case, the resulting music was on fire. As snotty as their fellow Clevelanders the Dead Boys, no less unsavory than those rotten Pistols, as sonically destructive as Iggy and the Stooges, and more lunkheaded than the Ramones and Dictators combined, The Pagans were the archetypical first wave punk band. And although their influence on modern-day sub-genres such as “punk rock n’ roll”, “garage punk”, and “snot-punk” is unmistakable, there has never really been another band that sounded quite like The Pagans.

Shit Street has all the songs you know (or ought to know!): both sides of the “Street Where Nobody Lives”/ “What’s This Shit Called Love” 45 from ’78 (one of the greatest punk singles EVER!), the gloriously awfully-recorded 1977 classic “Six and Change”, the blistering, demented “Eyes of Satan”, the Denny Carlton penned shaker “Boy Can I Dance Good”, the Cleveland manifestos “Dead End America” and “I Juvenile”, and the tasteless proto speed punk of “She’s a Cadaver” (surely the Angry Samoans were fans!). And although a handful of the studio tracks were either too hastily recorded or simply not as inspired, the best stuff here absolutely kills. From the very opening notes of “What’s This Shit Called Love”, you know you’re hearing something extraordinary, Tim Allee’s thick, stabbing bass lines and Brian Hudson’s abusive drumming laying the ground for Mike Metoff’s guitars, which growl like alien destruction machines. And then in comes Mike Hudson with his powerful, wailing vocals, and forget about it! Try to name some punk singers better than Mike Hudson. Come on, try! You won’t get very far.

The live cuts capture The Pagans in their natural habitat, the fabled dive Pirate’s Cove, and give you a tiny taste of what it would have been like to have caught these guys in their prime, when they gigged relentlessly, drank heavily, fought internally, trashed hotel rooms, and delivered the goods on-stage to the delight or horror of whomever happened to show up that night, their raw, streetwise brand of rock n’ roll arriving at least a decade too soon for any kind of recognition from the “respectable” world. And once Cheetah Chrome and Jimmy Zero join the fellas on stage for bang-up renditions of “It’s All Over Now” and “Search and Destroy”, you’re gonna wish so badly that you had been there! The Pagans were soon to break up, and they'd come back to life a few years later and turn out the not-unworthy Pink Album. But come on, man. There's nothing like early Pagans.

Welcome to Punk 101, kids. I assume you've all bought the first four Ramones albums and burned your blink-182 t-shirts. Very good. A's for all of you! Your next assignment: start listening to The Pagans.

-Josh Rutledge

The Prostitutes - discography CD (Pelado Records, 2000)

The mid-to-late '90s was one of the greatest-ever eras for punk rock music. Sure, this was a time when an incredible volume of absolutely terrible bands sprung forth out of garages and basements the world over, the hidden path to the underground having been blown wide open in previous years by the likes of Nirvana and Green Day. Punk bands were everywhere, and they couldn’t all be awesome. But with the bad came the good, and boy were there ever some great punk bands circa ’96-00! And in this age when groups like The Humpers, Stitches, U.S. Bombs, Teengenerate, New Bomb Turks, The Rip Offs, The Queers, and Swingin Utters were at their best and mightiest, one little band from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania ruled over all: the fuckin’ Prostitutes!

Amidst the vast and incessant shitstorm of uninspired revivalists, generic thrashers, banal bar bands, pointless imitators, cartoonish Mohicans, talentless noise-spewers, drunk-punk retreads, Warped Tour whack-offs, wannabe rock stars, washed-up oldtimers, third-rate Ramones clones, clichéd sleaze-rawkers, fashion-happy mediocrities, straight-edge grunters, riot grrl screechers, nu-skate wastes, prettyboy posers, pseudo scumbags, suburban skankers, post-grunge opportunists, Epitaph hacks, retooled headbangers, p.c. crust-slingers, and intolerable emo wankers that passed for “punk rock” music in the 1990s, a select few bands left behind recorded legacies comparable to the all-time punk greats’. One such band was The Prostitutes, who set the standard for obnoxious/trashy/“snotty” punk rock in the late ‘90s. They were the most compelling and authentically degenerate band of their time and style. Their music was unabashedly primitive yet seemingly inspired by a rare, twisted genius. No punk rock n’ roll group since has even come close to topping the ‘tutes.

Hailing from the festering environs of Harrisburg (perhaps the only state capitol in the U.S. that can rightfully be called a “dead-end town”), the Prostitutes lived their music and affected no pose. They were chemical-abusing, people-hating, fast-living, going-nowhere miscreants who played music that was real, raw, dangerous, and true. They were poster children for a generation of failures and fuck-ups left behind by the American dream. They were holdovers from the pre-’94 era of punk, when calling yourself “punk rock” was tantamount to commercial suicide and a sure pathway to disrepute and societal rejection. Songs about heroin, hangovers, and extreme family dysfunction reflected their true experiences - not some put-on notion of what punk music was “supposed” to be. At a time when much of the burgeoning “underground” rock of the day seemed tailored for the approval of the good-looking, mall-shopping masses, the ‘tutes made music that spoke to the damaged souls who roamed the dive bars, meth labs, and halfway houses of downtrodden America.

The Prostitutes were the archetypical snot-punk band of their day, but their peculiar brand of deviant rock n’ roll was not traceable to any obvious influences. The Pagans and G.G. Allin & the Jabbers were probably their primary precursors, but one is just as likely to hear traces of Crime pugnacity or Humpers swagger in now-classic songs like “Rock N’ Roll Outbreak” and “Suburban Trash”. Songs like “Rich Spoiled Brat” and “Fashion Victim” burned with a smoldering intensity that recalled the hottest and fiercest of the early LA punk bands. But unlike so many of their contemporaries, the ‘tutes didn’t sound like they were imitating other bands. Punk rock for them was not an easily-copied musical formula but rather a base outlet for the expression of boredom, despair, unsavory thoughts, and misanthropic rage. This was a group that oozed fuck-off attitude of the nastiest variety. But attitude was just part of the equation. They had the chops too. Singer Kevin McGovern was probably the greatest punk vocalist of his day, his voice raspy, enraged, and full of genuine madness. Behind him wailed a trashy, brilliantly-crude rock n’ roll band, a reprobate wrecking crew that handled those essential three chords as if they were grenades that needed to do some damage in a hurry. And although the ‘tutes’ music wasn’t the least bit “pop”, it did exude a supreme tunefulness in the grand tradition of the best '70s punk. It’s hard to find punk tunes catchier or more memorable than “Suicide Is Fun” or “I’m Tired”.

Lyrically, the Prostitutes were keenly attuned to the debauched, drug-addled realties of life on the wrong side of the tracks. With black humor and a perverse intelligence, McGovern snarled like the poet laureate of suburbia’s seedy underbelly, songs like “Living Wreck” and “No Good” quickly turning into anthems for outcasts, dropouts, and derelicts everywhere. Choice lines from “Rock N’ Roll Outbreak” (“You look real ugly tonight/at least you’re doing something right”), “Suicide Is Fun” (“And then when she slashed her wrists on Wednesday night/That’s when I knew that she was out of sight”), and “Teenage Girls” (“I hear teenage girls like to be alone/I hear communists like to sit by the phone/I know they like everything I am/Give me action, put a bullet in my head”) demonstrate the sick brilliance working inside McGovern’s mind. 1997’s Can’t Teach Kids Responsibility, the band’s first LP, is full of songs articulating the frustrations of a messed-up pariah embittered by the phoniness of society and doomed to a life of alienation and drug abuse. “I’m just a fuck-up/in a fucked-up world,” McGovern sings on “Living Wreck”, and no punk lyric has ever been more honest or accurate. Throughout the album, he sinks his skewers into oppressive authority figures, poser punks, and the small-minded assholes next door, his supply of venom seemingly inexhaustible. “22”, released in 1998, is a definitive statement of youthful disaffection, made all the more convincing by McGovern’s choleric vocal delivery. “I’m 22 with nothing to do,” he cries. “I’m surrounded all day by people like you!” Coming from a lesser singer, such sentiment may have seemed trite. Coming from McGovern, it’s a stinging indictment of a hollow, conformist society. An essential Prostitutes track, “22” is a musical firebomb hurled at respectable America.

The original Prostitutes’ recordings are now out-of-print and probably difficult to obtain, but I’d urge the uninitiated to make the effort. The best place to start would be the discography CD released by Pelado Records in 2000, which collects all the band’s singles, the entirety of Can’t Teach Kids Responsibility, and two cuts from the first Pelado comp (one of which is the must-have “Suicide Is Fun”), all recorded between 1995 and 1997, that classic period of the punk revival. In addition to his incredible Inversions project, McGovern has revived The Prostitutes a number of times with new band mates, and the current, Los Angeles based incarnation released a new album a couple years back called Kill Them Before They Eat.

So many punk bands in the ’90s were transparently formulaic, their music mere imitations of yesteryear’s greats, their songs lacking the urgency and conviction that are supposed to define punk. The music of the Prostitutes, on the other hand, was anything but a copy of other
bands’ genius. It was more like a compulsion, a destructive mission born out of the deepest, darkest place in man’s soul. More so than any of their contemporaries, the ‘tutes were convincing. Reckless, ornery, and defiantly radio-unfriendly, they embodied Pelado’s “punk rock that’s real” ethos. Sure: no band’s music can destroy the fabric of society or cause physical harm to the world’s collective douche bags, dickheads, posers, and phonies. But I love to hear groups that play like they’re single-handedly capable of obliterating everything and everyone they hate, solely through the power and fury of their music.

And that, in a nutshell, is why The Prostitutes ruled.

-Josh Rutledge