Buzzcocks - Trade Test Transmissions (Castle Communications, 1993)

Luckily, I have seen these Mighty Men from Manchester twice on stages away from the Tidewater area.

The first fix was at a now-defunct dive called Twister's in Richmond, VA. Touring with the Lunachicks and Down By Law as part of a package deal for Go-Kart Records in 1999, the Buzzcocks were actively promoting their fairly recent (and Miami Dolphins-hued) Modern album. Dismissing the 'Chicks as "punk rock for girls in gas station shirts" and DBL as "sounds for skater shits," my fair-weather friend jOhn A. and I turned our heads and spent the duration of the support acts' set time chatting with a cool couple from Carolina (North division). Most exchanges were of the "I wish the Buzzcocks would hurry up and play already!" variety. After the genie's grant, Pete Shelley and Steve Diggle -- two of UK punk's songwriting masterminds -- were joined on Twister's platform by Tony Barber (bass) and Phillip Barker (drums). Hearing '70s gems like "Ever Fallen In Love?" and "Autonomy" (their most metallic track?) in the flesh more than made up for the eternal wait outside and obvious questions from panhandlers. Cuts from Modern such as "Soul On A Rock" and "Speed Of Life" added just as much wind to the Twister's cyclone. Post-gig, jOhn, the Carolina duo and I complimented the 'Cocks on the execution of old and new favorites. In return, we were given access to the band's spacious tour bus. I mostly conversed with the driver and someone from the Buzzcocks' camp, but jOhn got a 30-minute audience with Shelley. My friend fired away with the burning questions, and Pete seemed genuinely taken with jOhn's humorous satire via his Skin Alley zine. The dude was beaming all throughout the two-hour ride back to Virginia Beach!

In 2003, the 'Cocks made a stop at the legendary Cat's Cradle in Chapel Hill, NC (the only show I've caught outside Virginia's borders, save for a boss blues band in B-More whose name escapes me). New tunes like "Jerk," "Friends" and "Sick City Sometimes" made the self-titled effort another winner, but the totality of the CC experience lacked the magic that'd been pulled from Twister's hat four years prior. Still, I held Shelley's Sprite bottle while he was signing something, drank three quick PBRs, ate tasty pizza from the kick-ass parlor next door and heard Donnie Iris' "Ah! Leah!" for the first time in nearly 20 years. Not bad for an "off" night, huh?

Here's the final bit from my review of the Buzzcocks' s/t disc that appeared on the long-gone Empty Wagon site: "It's amazing that Shelley and Diggle were once at a dilapidated shopping center on Newtown and Baker Road in Virginia Beach." That club in the blighted part of town was called Outer Limits and had played host to other top tourers like drivin n' cryin' and The Posies. Like a lugnut, I declined jOhn's invitation to witness Shelley and Diggle perform numbers from their well-received 1993 comeback wax (Trade Test Transmissions) at OL. Maybe I was too busy hanging out with the Touch Tone crew at Summer's Past or some other watering hole in hopes of being the rebound for a lonely lady, but missing the Buzzcocks in VB was akin to air-balling a free throw from three feet.

In contrast, owning Trade Test Transmissions is like jamming all of Vince Carter's dunks in that famed All-Star contest in a single attempt. Gripping a well-worn subject on the hardwood, "Palm Of Your Hand" manages to keep its dribble inbounds with cheeky cleverness ("Executive attention, yes, the kind that relieves/You've got the instruments of pleasure at the end of your sleeves"). Like a baller braggin' 'bout his PPG prowess, "Do It" scores twos and threes "like the river fills the sea," but the star calls a 20-second timeout with emotional pondering ("My only consolation/Is that someday you'll care/Perverse sophistication/You won't get far if you're going nowhere"). "Isolation" is blessed with a killer hook (shot) and Reggie Miller's touch when left alone at the perimeter ("There's an empty space where nothing grows/There is no life for the rose/Only a shadow in my heart"). Were it not for the lockout that's threatening to deep-six the entire 2011-12 NBA season, LeBron and Kobe could use the title cut's opening tip ("Turn the television on/You've been reading too long") in a promo piece and leave the teachings of sincerity and sarcasm to bonafide instructors. Perhaps only Bill Walton amongst hoopsters past and present would be able to pass the classic-rock reference of "Innocent" while trapped in the paint ("Even though you're not my mom/I've got to get my washing done"). "Last To Know" rewards with something greater than the Larry O'Brien trophy in June ("I came into your room while you were sleeping/And tip-toed to the bottom of your bed/I held my breath so I could hear you breathing/Love's such a sweet thing").

The first time Bob Mould saw the Buzzcocks, Pete Shelley shouted the chord changes of various songs to him. Talk about an assist that's greater than any of Magic Johnson's spectacular dishes!

-Gunther 8544

The Ergs- Dorkrockcorkrod (Whoa Oh Records, 2003)

To the best of my recollection, the most “contemporary” album I’ve ever reviewed for Dirty Sheets was Guitar Romantic by the Exploding Hearts. And that came out nine years ago. What’s my beef with modern music? I don’t know. If it’s an unwritten rule that the records we write about here should be ones we truly and deeply love, then it kind of makes sense that I’ve mostly stuck with older records. It takes time to really get to know an album. A relationship between man and music must be properly cultivated. Notoriously prone to rash judgments about music, I have been known to pan albums that I later loved. And I have been known to praise albums that I never listened to again. But if I’m reviewing it here, it might as well be written in stone. So then: in the year 2011, it seems safe to finally write about my favorite band of the 2000s, The Ergs.

South Amboy, New Jersey’s Ergs, in their eight-year career, put out two albums, several EPs, and over ten thousand singles. And while I’ll maintain that The Ergs did not hit their absolute peak until they recorded their final LP Upstairs/Downstairs, there’s one album I always reach for when I’m craving “classic Ergs”: 2003’s Dorkrockcorkrod. As a style of music, “pop-punk” is not exactly most people’s favorite. But if every pop-punk band sounded like The Ergs, it would be a different story. While the typical pop-punk band of their day was like a second-rate Screeching Weasel or a third-rate Ramones, The Ergs were more akin to The Descendents with jazz inflections, hardcore tendencies, comedic undercurrents, an air of geek chic, and a whiff of Jersey. Neither wimpy nor formulaic nor lyrically clichéd, the music of The Ergs proved that pop-punk could rock. And Dorkrockcorkrod is in my mind one of the landmark recordings in the history of the genre.

Individually, the members of The Ergs are among my favorite musicians of recent memory. Joe Keller (now killing it with the Night Birds) is still one of my two favorite bass players in punk rock. Mike Yannich, in my mind, is one of the most gifted pop songwriters of his generation. He’s also one hell of a drummer. And Jeff Schroeck is a truly brilliant guitarist. Yet somehow, with all that incredible talent, The Ergs managed to be even more than the sum of their parts! They were a true group- a dynamic and cohesive power trio who combined their complementary superpowers to create a singular force of awesomeness. Dorkrockcorkrod achieves a sound that all pop-punk groups should aspire to: powerful and aggressive, with guitars and drums pushed so high in the mix that you could close your eyes and swear the band was right there in the room with you. Credit must go to producer Chris “Gobo” Pierce for knowing how a punk rock record was supposed to sound. Equal credit must go to the band for its formidable chops and undeniable chemistry. With nods not just to The Descendents but also The Minutemen, Replacements, Black Flag, Husker Du, Green Day, Elvis Costello, and The Zombies, this is an album far removed from the banality of cookie cutter pop-punk. Rife with obscure pop culture references, smart-guy witticisms, rollercoaster tempo shifts, and Ginsu-sharp hooks, it’s an album that delights even after a hundred spins. I should know!

While The Ergs were far from creatively undemocratic (Schroeck and Keller both contributed songs to Dorkrockcorkrod), Yannich was no doubt the band’s “star”. When you think of The Ergs, you probably think of Mikey Erg and his “brokenhearted love songs”. On Dorkrockcorkrod he keeps ‘em coming, even as he pokes fun at himself for doing so. “Pray for Rain”, perhaps the greatest Ergs song ever, opens with these lines:

I'm so in love with you/
So I thought I'd try something new/
And write a silly song about just what your smile can do/
But it's just not working out/
And now I'm having my doubts/
It seems that broken hearted love songs are what I'm all about

Funny stuff for sure, but in typical Mikey Erg fashion it absolutely tears your heart out. In the same manner, songs like “Saturday Night Crap-O-Rama”, “Everything Falls Apart (And More)”, and “Most Violent Rap Group” channel one young man’s excruciating heartache into music that’s emotionally charged yet incredibly fun listen to. “Pray for Rain”, for all the anguish it unleashes, is an utterly triumphant number, and one of the all-time great tracks to air-drum to while you’re operating a motor vehicle. You just can’t help pumping your fist and shouting along to that chorus: “And I!/Could write you the perfect song!” You don’t want to wish relationship woes on anyone, but if there’s a silver lining to Mikey Erg’s bad luck in love circa the early 2000s, it would be brilliant songs like this one. And the album is full of them! In the liner notes, my old friend Lew Houston perfectly sums up the thematic scope of Dorkrockcorkrod: “This is an album about girls, and showers, and new beginnings, and globes, and vampires. That leaves 12 songs about girls. A concept of sorts. Not a very complex one, but one nonetheless.”

The songs on Dorkrockcorkrod that are not about girls are no less essential to the flow and feel of this pop-punk classic. Joe Keller’s “Extra Medium” is like a “Turn on the News” for the Internet generation (“Please don’t turn on the TV/Or open the paper/’Cause the chances of tragedy/Are now part of the weather”). Jeff Schroeck takes the mic for his contributions “Fish Bulb” and “I Feel Better Tonight”, switching things up with his blunt vocal delivery and provocatively vague lyrics. And leave it to the Ergs to go ultra-obscure in cover song selection, having a go at “Vampire Party” by the Paul Roessler/Mike Watt collaboration Crimony. As a whole, it’s hard to find fault with Dorkrockcorkrod – every detour into hardcore thrash or experimental jazz doubling back to snappy power pop (“Rod Argent”) or hard-charging melodic punk (“180 Degree Emotional Ollie”). The general vibe is fast and fun, but it’s the variety that carries the day. It’s as if your favorite early ‘80s “post-hardcore” group stepped out of the pages of Our Band Could Be Your Life, hopped a time machine to 2002, and decided to show the pop-punk scene what it had been missing. The Ergs would go on to make much more great music, and individually they’ve carried on in terrific bands like Black Wine and the aforementioned Night Birds. But Dorkrockcorkrod was something special, and will likely forever remain my favorite thing that any of these three men have ever played on. Has it really been eight years? Damn!

-Josh Rutledge

Jeff Dahl- Ultra Under (Triple X, 1991)

Thirty-nine cents! It's tough finding a goddamn Snickers bar for less than that amount of lint-covered coins, but spotting arguably Dahl's best album on tape in Camelot Music's cheapo bins inside Virginia Beach's Lynnhaven Mall circa 1995 surely satisfied (albeit temporarily) my ears' hunger for fresh sounds. Judging by the thick nest of frizz on the cover (Mark Bolan with a perm from Hell's hairdresser?), the sleeveless Stooges tee, a dedication to Stiv Bators and song titles like "Junkies Deserve To Die" and "Mick & Keith Killed Brian," I was readily eager for Ultra Under to acquaint itself with the deck of my Magnavox boombox. After the fourth or fifth complete rotation of Dahl's promising platter, I made the following mental declaration: "Man, this dude's like Iggy Pop and Johnny Thunders rolled into one human being!" Indeed, Dahl's shoveling The Stooges' "Dirt" was so spot-on, my New Jersey-based friend (who'd acquire Ultra Under on CD within a week after wearing out the dubbed copy) thought it was Mr. Iguana himself. Said bud also gave high marks to the take of The Runaways' "Cherry Bomb," for it served as a template for Dahl's oft-girly vocalisms. Remember The Sweet's version of "Reflections"? Same shit, different era. It was the opening whine ("Touchy, Touchy Baby") that initially impressed us the most, however. Personally, I dig lots of '80s hair bands (as recipients of my grit comps would confirm), but this wild child sipped its glam formula with punk rather than metal. Because Dahl spat out lines in the same way a toddler extracts Cheerios ("So many questions got you on the spot/You don't bother to answer/Just give it up/Plain as day, but she can't see/Just shrug your shoulders/Ah, c'est la vie"), we sang along to Ultra Under in my amigo's rental car during his return to Tidewater.

Mr. New Jersey is no longer a friend of mine (100% his fault, but whatever...), but Jeff Dahl can still be counted upon whenever a rock 'n' roll jolt is necessary to power bleak days and nights. Recounting the true story of a horrible night amidst the '70s punk scene in Los Angeles, "Elks Lodge Riot" puts you in the middle of the chaos ("Flying vultures overhead/Tracking my every move/Sirens running thru the streets/Sets such a dangerous mood"). An absolutely stinging guitar riff from Chemical People's Jaime Pina (shades of Cheetah Chrome) heightens the tension. Dunno what kind of household Dahl grew up in, but "God Don't Care" is an answer-back redolent of many an artist a la Jim Carroll and Patti Smith ("Take it any way you want/It ain't blasphemy/If you sell your soul, baby, you ain't free/Put all you've got in the collection plate/Yeah, you can buy salvation if it ain't too late"). "Somebody" and "Pretty Blonde Hair" (another Pina lead!) are apt tributes to Stiv, as both throw flames with the white-hot intensity of the cookers on We Have Come For Your Children (the BETTER of the two Dead Boys albums!). Sparse piano and voice could be the stuff of your mom's favorite Jeff Dahl composition ("Just Amazin'"), though the tale of succumbing to addiction keeps it out of the recital realm. Elton's preferred instrument is also utilized on "Chemical Eyeballs," which blinks with a mid-tempo groove reminiscent of primo Bowie and Mott The Hoople.

Thank you for letting me share my thoughts. All 39 pennies' worth.

-Gunther 8544

The Ugly Beats - Motor! (Get Hip, 2010)

Austin, TX? I've never visited the city, but that doesn't mean I can't make assumptions about the place. For the friends I may or may not have from the Lone Star State, please take any generalizations with a sip of Shiner Bock and a forkful of juicy steak. If my perceptions on the quirky college town were 100% truthful, I'd be on the next Amtrak departing from the Bad Newz terminal. Off the train, here's what I noticed during my imagined trip. Barbecue beef brisket is consumed for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Every person you meet is in a band of some merit. The ratio of record stores to Walgreens locations is 15:1. All street signs are adorned with "Keep Austin Weird" bumper stickers. Every person you meet has taken a ride in one of Billy Gibbons' classic cars. There's a taping of "Austin City Limits" around the clock. Every person you meet has experienced one of Daniel Johnston's freakouts in the flesh. Police officers here are much friendlier than in other parts of the state. Every person you meet claims to have attended every SXSW Festival and whines about it being cooler when there was less hype. More than twenty must-see shows happen nightly. Girls wearing long dresses and multiple bracelets exclaim, "I bet you're wondering how someone can be a vegan in a state where beef is what's for dinner!" Every person you meet has a story about eating dinner at Roky Erickson's house and taking bong hits with him afterwards.

Dreams and glass pipes extinguished, The Ugly Beats REALLY are a prime cut of contemporary garage rock 'n' roll from the same butcher's rack as earlier Get Hip beef slabs like The Cynics, Sons Of Hercules, Stump Wizards, Steel Miners on down. A suit holding a snifter might accuse the menu that's the liner notes of being self-serving, but those who lament the closing of The Grate Steak in Nawfuck wish they could still cook their own meat. With dry rubs from the early Beatles, Byrds and a host of seasonings found on the Nuggets box set, TUB are a well-done hunk of heifer that's grilled to my satisfaction. "Through You" and "Bee Line" sear like the Lyres' Mono Mann at his most manic, courtesy of the uptempo, organ-driven beats and howling vocals. "Don't Go" tenderizes a la the Fab Four's "Love Me Do" with the same plea for affection, but the sweet intones of a female accompanist hasten the USDA stamp of approval. "All Comes Back" simmers in the jangle that Peter Buck borrowed from Roger McGuinn, while the voice liberally blends in the unique style of another REM member. "You'll Forget" is a regional take on an old Neil Diamond B-side recipe, and the heavier approach raises the temperature just a tad. "Funny Girl" brings Babs to mind in a titular sense, but her Noo Yawk ass ain't anywhere near the kitchen. Someone should check to see if Linda Ronstadt is back there. She's one hot pepper, and if there's one thing that Texas loves...

Oh, all taxi cabs in Austin are Cadillac Eldorado convertibles with "Hook 'em, Horns!" hood ornaments.

-Gunther 8544

The Star Spangles- Bazooka!!! (Capitol, 2003)

More than baseball, hot dogs and apple pie combined, procrastination is America's favorite pastime. Which is the reason why this review wasn't submitted to Dirty Sheets in time for a themed piece on Independence Day. On July 4, 2011, my lovable laughing stocks from Crab Town were defeathered by the Texas Rangers sans Cordell Walker, a Ball Park frank was replaced by a Chicken BLT with sweet potato fries at Ruby Tuesday and the usual sweet treat was benched in favor of several pieces of Ferrero Rocher candy. The digital vinyl spun on my Facecrack wall didn't necessarily uphold the Stars 'N' Stripes tradition, either. Kate Smith, Lee Greenwood and Bruce Springsteen? Those old standbys might've been on your flag-draped granpappy's phonograph, but I chose to blow out the candles on Old Glory's birthday cake with some lesser-heard gems that smear the same shades of red, white and blue frosting. If Lady Liberty holding her flaming torch symbolizes freedom, then her NYC homeboys The Dictators are emblematic of the freedom to rock 'n' roll. Name a band from China or Cuba. I sure as hell can't. Their version of "America The Beautiful" (from the Every Day Is Saturday odds 'n' ends collection) expresses its loyalty with brash vocals, loud guitars and skipped stanzas. At a shade under three minutes, it's also a tribute to the short attention spans of our nation's citizens. Salute! Formed on a military base in Europe, America proffered an overseas take on "California rock" thousands of miles away from The Golden State. Still, "Sandman" is "Top Gun" before Tom Cruise. Prominent mentions of aircraft ("All the planes have been grounded") and alcohol ("We ain't had no time to drink that beer") would be welcome in any at-ease watering hole from Oceana to Oceanside. American Heartbreak paid lip service to Finnish transplants Hanoi Rocks with a cool reading of "Rebel On The Run." Could you imagine Michael Monroe and the boys moving to North Korea instead of Los Angeles and releasing album after album of top-shelf glam rock? It's a good example of the "Great American Melting Pot" that's versed in the "Schoolhouse Rock" bit. Lastly, I selected another Noo Yawk group who might be one of the few to have graced the stages of Chicho's in Virginia Beach (on 9/10/01 -- think about that date for a minute) and the Ed Sullivan Theater.

I don't know what David Letterman does with all the CDs he gets from musical guests on his talk show, but I'd like to think The Star Spangles' Bazooka!!! was the soundtrack to more than one backstage soiree with several fresh-faced CBS interns. The juxtaposition of Johnny Thunders-like sleaze with Paul Westerberg's corn-fed sensibilities suggests that the Indiana-raised host kindly asked his tryster for permission to drop the Worldwide Pants. Faulty wiring is the thread to many a relationship. Via a measure to curb arson-laced arguments, "Which Of The Two Of Us Is Gonna Burn This House Down?" (Ain't that a mouthful, Dave?) is up to code with the Dalmatians and their handlers ("Because the best thing to do for fire prevention week/Is if me and you just not speak"). Moving to a different breed of dog, track 8's opening lines flame like Michael Bolton driving a jacked NYC ladder truck in reverse ("If we can't be lovers/We can't be friends"). Later lyrics are sure to strangle the poodle with a hose ("Maybe I'll call you if I need a meal/Maybe I'll ball you if I need a cheap steal"). Fueled by a Steve Jones-style guitar octane, "I Don't Wanna Be Crazy Anymore" pays at the pumps and confesses on a cat-clawed couch ("I'm public enemy in my hometown/Parents tell their kids not to say my name out loud"). Prescribed medications in effect, "The Party" favors a less toxic approach to having a good time ("Fill the beer can with Coca-Cola/Makes you feel like a rock 'n' roller"). In the right frame of mind to meet a possible better half, perhaps the appreciative "Angela" will be the one you get to know away from the stage ("She's got my posters up on the wall/She used a box of tacks to make sure it just don't fall/And when I stare into that space/I will always see her face").

Stay tuned for my Labor Day story. It should be ready by Halloween. Or Thanksgiving. Or Christmas.

-Gunther 8544

The Subhumans- Incorrect Thoughts (Friends Records, 1980)

When I think of all-time-great first wave punk bands that nobody ever talks about, the original Subhumans are among the first that come to mind. While the majority of punk rock fans are far more familiar with the later, vastly inferior U.K. Subhumans, it was the Canadian Subhumans that made some of the finest and most ferocious punk rock to come out of North America in the late 1970s. Respect!

Often compared to Vancouver’s other classic early punk group, D.O.A., The Subhumans were similar for good reason. Singer Brian “Wimpy-Roy” Goble and original drummer Ken “Dimwit” Montgomery were in The Skulls with D.O.A. singer Joey Shithead. The Skulls then splintered into two bands. D.O.A. and The Subhumans frequently played shows together and shared passionately strong opinions on socio-political matters. If both bands sounded kind of the same, that was strictly a blessing to the punk world. What could be better than a great political-minded punk band from Vancouver? How about two great political-minded punk bands from Vancouver? And as in-your-face as Shithead and company were in espousing their world views in song, the boldly anarchistic Subhumans took it to another level entirely! Incorrect Thoughts, the band’s 1980 debut album, relentlessly attacks on musical and lyrical fronts from the first raging strains of “Big Picture” to the final note of that tender love ballad “Let’s Go Down to Hollywood (& Shoot People)”. This is angry, explosive music that goes for the kill and never lets up. If you took the righteous indignation of The Clash, multiplied it by 100, and set it aflame on a runaway train, you’d get the seething ferocity of “The Scheme” or “Death to the Sickoids” (the band’s debut single from ‘78, ragingly reprised here). In essence, this is hardcore punk before the term really existed. Yet because it’s some of earliest hardcore known to man, it’s got just as much in common with ‘77 punk rock as it does with ‘82 hardcore. Basically it’s rock n’ roll played louder, faster, and way more angrily than it ever had been played before, and in these blazing tunes you can hear an affinity for everyone from the Avengers to The Ramones.

Like D.O.A., the Subhumans were propelled by one of the hottest & tightest rhythm sections of their time. And although Montgomery (older brother of Chuck Biscuits) did leave the band in 1979, replacement drummer Jim Imagawa was no downgrade. Imagawa and bassist Gerry “Useless” Hannah set a breakneck pace on Incorrect Thoughts, while Mike “Normal” Graham unleashes a righteous blend of melodic leads and heavy, scorching guitar. On lead vocals, Goble atones for a lack of a traditionally good singing voice with passion, conviction, and the sheer force to move mountains. The man sounds flat-out pissed, and he’s got a lot to say! While the term “anarchist punk” would be sullied in the ensuing years by several generations of really awful bands, what you hear on Incorrect Thoughts is some of the best music ever. It’s aggressive and hard-hitting, no doubt, but at the same time you’re pumping your fist, singing along, and itching to get out there and wage war against the powers that be! Whether he’s railing against new wave rock (“The Scheme”), bully jocks (“Greaser Boy”), poser punks (“Dead at Birth”), brainless sheep (“Model of Stupidity”), the mass media (“Death to the Sickoids”), or the forces that oppress (“Big Picture”), he’s at 11+ on an anger scale of 1 to 10. And the band behind him is bringing it hard! It may strike some of us as odd that the new wave bands we music geeks now romanticize are the object of derision in “The Scheme” (Goble did most definitely not get The Knack!). But there’s just no denying that it’s one of the greatest punk rock songs of the early ‘80s.

“Big Picture” opens the album with a proverbial bang. Hot on its heels are the classic anthems “We‘re Alive” and “Firing Squad”. At that point a lesser band might have shot its wad. But The Subhumans are just getting started, and the action doesn’t really hit its peak until midway through the album. The all-time classic “Death to the Sickoids”, the furious call-to-arms “New Order”, the satirical & metal-tinged “Slave to My Dick”, and the melodic sing-along “Greaser Boy” are four of the best songs the band ever did. They spearhead the album’s inspired back half, which seems to be gaining momentum even as closing track “Let’s Go Down to Hollywood (& Shoot People)” eases off the gas pedal a tad. What a rush! If you need a musical recording to get you fired up, or if you’re in a foul mood and crave some good old angry punk rock, this is the album you want! If punk rock music is about saying “Fuck you!” via song, then this is one of the punkest records ever made.

If you were actually there to see The Subhumans circa 1980-81, what an experience that must have been! Those were wild times, with many shows literally culminating in riots. The band gigged throughout Western Canada and the U.S. West Coast, playing with kindred spirits the Dead Kennedys as well as Husker Du, Black Flag, Bad Brains, X, and Minor Threat. Even after Hannah and Graham left the band in 1981, reinforcements were brought in and a second album was recorded for release on SST Records. By the time it came out, however, Goble had left to play bass for D.O.A. and the Subhumans were no more. Hannah would gain notoriety in 1983 for his role in the bombings of an environmentally unfriendly hydroelectric substation on Vancouver Island and a missile manufacturing plant near Toronto. He served five years in prison. Dormant since 1982, The Subhumans reformed in 1995 with Hannah and Goble on board for a Canadian tour. And in 2005, the band reformed for the long haul with Graham back on guitar and SNFU’s Jon Card taking over on drums. They put out a new LP in 2006 and last year re-recorded Incorrect Thoughts in its entirety due to a contractual inability to re-release the original album. I have not heard the new version, Same Thoughts, Different Day. But come on: if you’re gonna get Incorrect Thoughts, accept no imitations. Find the original album! A classic of hardcore punk and one of the best punk LPs of the early ‘80s, period, it’s worth tracking down. And if you don’t feel bad about screwing the band out of royalties, the CD Presents reissue adds two bonus tracks and comes with quite the nice booklet. Talk about a moral dilemma!

-Josh Rutledge

Parasites- Punch Lines (Shredder, 1993)

For a man of 40, I’ve had a relatively small number of “favorite bands” in my lifetime. When I was 10, my favorite band was AC/DC. At 15, I was rockin’ with Dokken. At 21, I was all about Nirvana. The lengthiest favorite band reign of my lifetime belongs to the Dimestore Haloes, who were “my” group from 1998 until they disbanded at some undetermined point in the early to mid 2000s. The title has remained vacant ever since. In between, there were others like Judas Priest (my seventh grade year) and Bad Religion (the year after college). And I’ll never forget those years – circa ’96-’97 – when the Parasites were my #1.

Along with Screeching Weasel, The Queers, the Beatnik Termites, Green Day, and the Mr. T. Experience, the Parasites were the cream of the crop of ‘90s pop-punk. Originally formed in New Jersey in 1985, the Parasites became more or less a one-man show when Dave “Nikki Parasite” MacKenzie relocated to Berkeley, California in the early ‘90s. Working with a revolving door of supporting players, MacKenzie recorded two albums for the indie imprint Shredder: Punch Lines and Pair. The latter was primarily comprised of songs that had originally appeared on the band’s 1990 debut Pair of Sides. For years, I insisted that the punkier Pair was by far the superior album. Although I liked Punch Lines, I contended that it was “overproduced” and sounded “like an Elton John record”. It’s easy for me to understand why I felt that way then. I was a young man – 25, 26 years of age. I was a dyed in the wool “punk rocker” with a closet full of Clash t-shirts and a bedroom floor littered with Maximum Rocknroll back issues. Punch Lines, for all of its merits, did not deliver the buzzsaw guitars and stripped-to-the-bones simplicity I craved in pop-punk music. But as the years passed and I came to value musical substance over musical style, I completely fell in love with Punch Lines. It’s not even close – Punch Lines is the best Parasites album, and to boot one of the ten greatest pop-punk albums of all-time.

Perhaps because MacKenzie played everything but drums on the album, Punch Lines has the feel of a solo record. Although the obvious influences (Descendents, Buzzcocks) contribute to the general musical approach, the album is the distinctive work of a truly unique artist. True enough: MacKenzie has always been a genre traditionalist, and no one is better at crafting simple, catchy pop-punk songs. But no other pop-punk album has ever sounded quite like Punch Lines, which derives its character from MacKenzie’s plaintive vocals and brilliantly heartrending lyrics. If Punch Lines really is a concept album, the concept is not hard to grasp: love’s a bitch! The man once told me that he wrote songs because it was a lot cheaper than paying a therapist to listen to his problems. And judging by the lyrical tone of Punch Lines, he must have suffered through some serious relationship woes prior to writing these songs. I had suffered through some serious relationship woes of my own around the time I bought the album, so it’s easy to see why Punch Lines connected with me. The record affirmed my views on love – and probably influenced them going forward.

While typical pop-punk music of the day addressed the ups and downs of teenage romance, Parasites songs spoke of far more complicated adult love. Punch Lines recounts the less pleasant aspects of grown-up relationships: the inevitable dysfunction and subsequent betrayals, the torture of loving someone who doesn’t love you back, the neurotic over-analysis of what went wrong, the dark cloud of obsession looming over new love, the agony of loss and the hole it creates in your heart, the bitter realization that what started out so promising could have ended in heartbreak and despair, and through it all, the optimism to believe that no matter how many times love fucks you over, it’s going to finally work out next time. By turns pitch dark (“Dead Roses”), hopeful (“When I’m Here With You”), cathartic (“Letdown”), stalkerish (“I’m Gonna Make You Love Me”), bitter (“I Don’t Believe You”), and bizarrely upbeat (“Crazy”), the relationship theme plays out with all the poignancy, humor, and high drama of a cinematic love story. If they ever make a Broadway musical out of Punch Lines, I’m first in line for tickets.

Perhaps a fair criticism of Punch Lines would be that its best tracks outshine the rest. The funny, self deprecating “Young and Stupid” is just about the greatest pop-punk tune there’s ever been. And album opener “Crazy” is simply an extraordinary song – a touching tale of two very imperfect individuals who nonetheless make a perfect match (“I met you in emergency/You rolled right by on your way back from shock therapy/I knew that you were meant for me/I loved the way you moved/Even though you moved involuntarily”). Also meriting classic status in the annals of pop-punk is the peppy and impossibly catchy “When I’m Here With You”. But while the rest of the album may suffer slightly by comparison, it's still really freaking good. The likes of “Someday”, “The Next Time”, and “Nothing At All” are solid tunes on their own and crucial components of the album as a whole. And “Letdown”, for all of its dragging instrumental bloat, is the epic closer the album needs. While not quite a “happy” ending, the song brings closure to the artist’s suffering. A page is turned, and our protagonist lives to love another day.

The optimist in me was sometimes tempted to re-program the CD so that it would end happily with “Crazy”. But deep down I knew it was pointless. Punch Lines is supposed to be a bummer – the kind of record you listen to when you’re going through some major shit and need company for your misery. You listen to this guy spill his guts about how much his love life sucks, and it makes you feel better. The album sure got me through some rough times. Today at a considerably happier point in my life, I hope to never again require its consolation. But Punch Lines will always be a favorite of mine. The 25-year-old me may have been mostly full of shit, but he had fine taste in music.

-Josh Rutledge