Update! Feb 26.

Spiders & Snakes
Melodrama
Sansei Records
 
"I once loved you-'til you shot me down..."
  
Lizzie Grey is the consummate "Hollywood Rocks" cartoon character. He's gotta be pushin' fifty, and he's still out there, in his top-hat, on the Sunset Strip, passin' out fliers like it's 1983, again. His crazy vocals work best on the campier Alice Cooper/Sweet influenced material. If you're gonna cover the Sweet, though, you really do need a good three-part-harmony, including someone to hit the high, and mid-range parts, it can't all rest on one singer, who has a somewhat quirky voice, to begin with. Lizzie's a pretty outstanding guitar-player, he reminds you of an older Ricky Rat.

Everybody knows that he lead London for years, and that was the L.A. club band that spawned Nikki Sixx, Nadir D'Priest, Slash and Izzy, and Fred Coury, from Cinderella, as well as loads, and loads, of lesser-known "Hollywood Rocks" stars. His song, "Non-stop Rock" is more than a little corny-it sounds like a Revlon Red, or Gutter Cats reject. Something that was deemed too vapid by Queeny Blast Pop, or Pretty Boy Floyd. Their Little Richard cover suffers from painfully atrocious background vocals. Live-Spiders & Snakes can sound alot like the Muppets. Things don't really fully come to life on this performance DVD, until some younger dude named, Billy Fox, joins Spiders & Snakes on-stage, for a rousing rendition of Lizzie's most famous composition. People give me alot of grief, about being "stuck in the eighties", but they should get a dose of these guys! Billy Fox has loads of star-power, standing next to Lizzie, they almost got a Slash & Axl thing goin'. I've never previously heard of this Billy Fox guy, but he effortlessly moves, and wails, just like a young Sebastian Bach, or Vince Neil. I'm sure he gives Ralph from the Atomic Punks, and Jizzy Pearl a run for their money, in the throwback-rockstar of the Sunset Strip title-fight. I don't fancy myself a metal-head, at all, but if you are going to be a cock-rock headbanger, I hope you have both the pipes, and panache, of this Billy Fox kid! The sad part about this Grand Finale is how it kindof underscores how Lizzie maybe ought to just play guitar, and sing back-ups, and find himself a younger lead-singer! It makes you want to Google Billy Fox to find out more about whatever band he's in, and get them to submit their material for review! Mostly, this concert DVD works as a commercial-- reminding me 'how much I loved "Too Fast For Love".
You got to love Lizzie Grey, for being the heart and soul of never-say-die rock'n'roll dreamers, who dunno how to quit. He's like, the Patron Saint, of all us rockers who never made it, no matter how much we influenced people who did. The audio disc, "Melodrama", brims over with exhausted lyrical cliche's worthy of Dee Snider, Kevin DuBrow, or the guy from Autograph. He uses the phrase, "Born To Lose", twice in the first four songs. Maybe this was intended as a concept-album about watching all your friends make it big, and leaving you behind. I'm guessing old Lizzie's had to take more than a few positions as a telemarketing boiler-room supervisor, in between those "Public Enemy #1" royalty checks, and perhaps, that's where he does all his reminiscing about JFK, "the system" that's forever keeping all his ultra pop anthems from getting any radio play, and the whole Anti-Rock Conspiracy that Lizzie seems to imagine looking alot like the old Styx video for "Mr. Roboto". I share some of his heartbreak. We both saw alot of our closest associates rise to some level of acclaim, without sharing any of the spoils of their success with us. I can definitely relate to Lizzie's hurt, and incomprehension, frustration, and abandonment-issues! 'Thing it, some of his songs are so dated, they're actually hard to sit through, even once. I remember his experiments with trying to "modernize" in the early-90's, though, and the results were even more disastrous, so, hopefully, he'll always continue to write this kind of 70's rock-opera stuff, and it does have it's charm. He loves toying around with the old Tin Pan Alley song and dance shtick, ala McCartney, and when he occassionally writes a teenage anthem that works, it sounds more like seventies glitter, than eighties metal. Many of his power-ballads are just too generic, like someone with little-to-no lyrical ability trying to rewrite Ozzy's "Goodbye To Romance", or Dio's "Rainbow In The Dark".
"Shoot Me Down" has a winning Beatles/Cheap Trick hook, even if the words are again, a little played-out, but he poignantly throws the "Public Enemy #1" melody-line into the solo, and wins you over with his bittersweet lament, however cliche'. This poor guy is wracked with so much real pain, that one can't help but want to reach-out, and console him, somehow. He does "Yesterday's Hero", and the result is just heartbreaking. "We don't wanna be Yesterday's Heroes!" I feel ya, Lizzie! I really do! Lizzie does have alot of personality, and talent, and enthusiasm. If it's his intention to be the main attraction, and just avoid having to give up, and take some Regular Joe-job, he seems like he's already succeeding at that-with flying colors. If he still wants to make that really flawless rock'n'roll masterpiece that's eluded him all these years, he probably needs to work with some fresh blood, and consider allowing a younger vocalist to have some creative input. Then again, when he covers "Kicks", it's right within his range, and this studio version really does shine! "Another Lonely Day" will go on some compilation-tapes I make for people. I still remember reading an old Nikki Sixx interview in highschool, where he said he once wanted to name his band Christmas, and be like a glam-rock Beatles. You can often hear Lizzie Grey still struggling with that same old aspiration! Lizzie Grey is all-heart, and that's why he shouldn't envy any of his former peer's skateboard-clothing-lines, or trips to the plastic surgeon. Maybe he never got to be a millionaire, but the guys who did-just look at 'em-they almost all turned into complete assholes, forever glamorizing vehicular homicide, bribing the corrupt justice system, punching hookers, and heroin-chic. That's not stuff worth envying, really. "Dream Girl" is in the same exact vein as all his best stuff--anthemic, hopeful. His optimism and eternal faith are really touching. You can't help but like this cat. No matter how many times he grasps for the proverbial brass-ring, and falls short, he nurses the wounds by writing songs, puts on his top hat, and gets back up on the stage. "Ooh Ooh-All I Know Is I Wantcha", might be all he ultimately will ever need to know, really. No one understands what he's rattling-on about whenever he wants to be intellectual, or wax political, about nuking the sun,or whatever, but when he sticks to bubblegum, and rainbows, and neon lights, and warbling, bad-Badfinger piano ballads, he always wins us over, in the end, with some kindof adolescent sincerity, and comic book hero fortitude. Even after all these years of tears, he's goin' on with the show.
 
-PEPSI SHEEN 

The Hangmen
In the City
Acetate

Bryan Small & The Hangmen are the Witnesses For The Defense. Still scroungey, after all these years. Hard livin' street trash, just barely gettin' by, in that rat's nest apartment above the Mission.
Gettin' high, and daydreamin' in the A:M about all the lost loves, and dead friends, again. And you know what they say--that dreaming men are haunted men--big dreamers never sleep, no they don't. All those old records, traded for dollar bills, outta desperation, to that greedy, smirking, yuppie prick at the "rockabilly" record-store: Sea Hags, Only Ones, Uncle Sam, Johnny Thunders, even that Coma-Tones e.p.! It's all gone, now. Along with the red hollow body guitar 'his ex- girlfriend gave him, traded, in a short-sighted impulse, right after the break-up, for drinks, and less than half of one month's rent. Michael Rank-from Snatches Of Pink, was right, when he said it gets harder and harder, to come by suitable musicians to form rock groups with, as you get older. All your old cronies die-off, give up, get mercenary trying to go pro, or just drown sadly in their I-Me Ego-Shows, proudly dominating control of the channel-changer, alone. Meanwhile, the new people you encounter, most often, in emergency-rooms, bus-stations, and waiting in lines, at various government agencies, don't always appreciate the subtler nuances of art and poetry, cos they've all been force-fed a false bill-of-goods, their whole lives. Desperation makes us meaner, not stronger. Old habits die hard, but dreams die harder. You can't help but notice how all those people in the expensive cowboy shirts who liked Devil Dogs and Social Distortion so much, seem to own several souped-up automobiles, and their own homes, with all the fat cash they made off their tattoo shop, when they got out of rehab, supposedly, ten years ago. 'You wanna come over and look at his campy collection of imported religious trinkets, velvet paintings, and vintage jukeboxes? No, me, neither. 
    THE HANGMEN still make music for those of us who are too broke to even THINK ABOUT paying for new tattoos. On his last album for Acetate Records, "Metallic I.O.U.", Bryan Small covered the Lords Of The New Church classic, co-written with Tony James from Generation X, "Russian Roulette", and none other than the Great, Brian James, endorsed this band, on the promo-sticker. This time, he covers Stiv's "I Will Stay", and while I'm often particularly critical of groups who all-too-frequently, just desecrate Saint Stiv's songs; he does it justice, with as much soulful authority, as anyone, besides Michael Monroe. This e.p. was produced by the Poster-Boy Of Reformed Old Reprobates, Mike Ness, who seems a suitable sponsor for these still mangey Hangmen. Every last jack-ass who dyes their hair blue/black has a website, record deal, and hard-luck story, nowadays, but the HANGMEN still live and breathe dirty rock'n'roll. From the gutter, but more importantly, from the heart!
 
-PEPSI SHEEN

Armstrong
EP 2007
www.myspace.com/armstrongrocks

M-M-Mysterious, indeed...Armstrong's m-m-myspace page is in German, which isn't that helpful, unless you read German, which I don't. (My background is 3/4 German, but I don't speak a lick, unless you count "nein" and "sprechen sie Deutsch" and "achtung" and the names for the bean soup and weird biscuits that my Grandma used to make.) So, other than the fact that they are German and have recently switched their lineup around-the dude who used to be the drummer now does vocals-I can't really tell you anything about them. The EP doesn't have a title, and I can't find a record label anywhere. Ah well.  What I can tell you is that they have released a pretty decent rock record. It sounds vaguely 90s to me, although I can't put my finger on exactly who they remind me of. Maybe a little like early Stone Temple Pilots, minus the drugs and with a cute Falco-type accent. So, um, yeah, it's pretty good-not particularly mind-blowing, but pretty good basic rock and roll, maybe with an indie twist. This review is about as helpful as their myspace page. Sorry about that.

-Holly

Dropkick Murphys
The State of Massachusetts EP
Cooking Vinyl Ltd

I decided to listen to the new Dropkicks EP when I was hungover. Not deathly hungover-there was no danger of vomit-but lazily, lethargically hungover, with a slight dehydration cramp in my right calf. But I'll be damned if rollicking opener "The State of Massachusetts" didn't make me want to grab the almost-empty bottles from the counter, drain the dregs into a glass, slam it all back with a shudder, and then do a slam-dance jig. (I didn't, due mostly to the lethargic nature of the hangover, but I really really wanted to.) "The Thick Skin of Defiance" would have kept me dancing (had I actually been dancing) and "Breakdown" would have had me scrounging around in the back of the fridge, hoping for some leftover beer. And then, mercifully, "Forever" came on, a melancholy-but-hopeful ballad backed by haunting Celtic flutes-the exact sound of my hangover-so I stayed curled up on the couch. Lovely.

-Holly

Welcome To The Party, Traitor
Zodiac Records
 
Cocky street-rock, unlike anything else goin' on, in the mid-west. Luxury Pushers got way more in common with the harder-dged punk'n'roll from the Coasts, like say, Electric Frankenstein, or Scott "Deluxe" Drake's latest solo album on Rank Outsider Records, than they do with anything happenin' in their home state, the birth-place of the Pagans, and the Deadboys. Dayton, Ohio's resident glamour-punk, Jamie Holiday, has been corrupting the youth of Dayton since the late-80's in bands like Haunting Souls, and Mystery Addicts. He's gotta be in his forties by now, but he could easily pass for a twenty something, tattooed, emo-kid. While I can see how the "Loud, Fast Rules" punk-rock crowd's already embracing these guys, I suspect they'll also have alot of cross-over appeal with the sleaze-rock set. A heavy punk group for fans of gutter-glam like Vains Of Jenna, Lethal Fixx, Innocent Rosie, Dirty Penny, and Crash-Diet. This is a great sounding CD that packs a punch. Holiday and co. are putting the punk back into glamour punk. Luxury Pushers are comprised of several songwriters, but it definitely seems like I can appreciate Holiday's compositions like, "Just In It For The Fucking", and "Just Like Faye Dunaway", the most. I think these cats are goin' places, watch for 'em! Holiday has all the right stuff for rock stardom. Had Gilbey Clarke and Tommy Lee chosen him to front that TV rockgroup, instead of that Lucas Rossi Hot-Topic kid, maybe that band really could have gone super-nova. Good stuff. I fully expect these guys to blow-up big, on the strength of this audacious debut. More power to 'em!
 
www.luxurypushers.com
 
- Pepsi Sheen

Everybody Wants Some - The Van Halen Saga
by Ian Christe
 
"Millions of divorced kids listening to Van Halen in 1985 had just accepted that Mom and Dad weren't going to get back together, and now, they were expected to deal with David Lee Roth leaving Van Halen. For many, without David Lee Roth, there could be no Van Halen." (-Ian Christe)  I was one of those kids! Ian totally gets it! The only whiff I've had of Classic Van Halen in recent years was the fantastic, two-part DLR interview Popsmear ran a few years back, the wonderfully entertaining "Crazy From The Heat" autobiography, which has to be one of the best rock books ever, as good as something by Zodiac Mindwarp, or Hunter Thompson:Read-Out-Loud Good, and the two songs Roth wrote with the band for that awful Greatest Hits rip-off. Dave has always understood what we, the fans, wanted from him and the Van Halens. The above-quoted passage from this book really perfectly captures what it's been like, being a broken hearted devotee of Classic Van Halen, for all these years.  I loved his first solo e.p., "Eat 'Em & Smile", and bits and pieces, off all the Roth solo albums, ever since, but even the Diamond One has been unable to consistently deliver anything as Ace as, say, "Damn Good", or "Goin' Crazy". I would have appreciated more insight into why Roth was unable to keep the Yankee Rose band together. What was he paying those guys? WHY would Vai ever, ever work with Whitesnake, for any amount of money, whatsoever? I'm a die-hard David Lee Roth fan, so, this book concentrates way too much time on Van Hagar, and Gary Cherone, for my taste! I mean, who cares, really? What did those two ever have to do with CLASSIC VAN HALEN?  I understand that Sammy has his fans, and he's obviously, a very astute/oppurtunistic capitalist Name-Brand. Nice guy, or not, he's always seemed like a total hack, and a cheeseball, to me. I can see why he gets along so well with Ted Nugent!
It's been painful, and difficult, trying to ignore the Van Halen Brother's bitter, mean-spirited, soap-box/soap-opera, but I never realized, until I read this book, that Michael Anthony had such a beef with David. I always suspected the Brothers had forbidden him from associating with him, and I realize he sortof got a raw deal, by not being asked back, to participate in the reunion, but it does seem he prefers the company of the Red Rocker, anyway, so let them sell their Tequila & Hot Sauce, together. There's been so many rumours, false-starts, the hip replacement debacle, the Hall of Fame farce, golf, guitar-convention-ing, Gary Cherone. All that awful Van Hagar bullshit, but at the end of the day, we all WANTED to forgive all parties, involved. Just REUNITE Classic Van Halen. Don't we all wanna reunite our broken families? That old music sure feels like home to me. Now, it's finally happening, and I'm so alienated, I'm not really feeling part of it. First of all, there's no way I could afford concert tickets, or a fifty dollar t-shirt, so unless MTV has another Win A Lost Weekend With Van Halen Contest, this book, and my old VHS bootleg of the '83 US FESTIVAL, are as close as I'll probably get to it. Anyway, if you're a life-long Van Halen fan like me, you'll probably want this book. You can pick it up at your neighborhood bookstore, or by calling 1-800 225-5945. People have been telling me I need to "Get Over" the Van Halen break-up, for years. But for me, those early albums had it all, and said it all. They were the stuff of hope and dreams. They were the summer favorites we loved, the sunny essence of Americana, and the California Dream. As Roth once put-it, they were "Standing Guard At The Gates Of Dreams Worth Dying For". Those classic Van Halen records were our youth--before the trouble set in. The Good Times! God Bless old Van Halen. I hope they can all bravely carry forth, now, and find a way to make a new album, and that it's brilliant, and not trendy, or trying to be Pantera, or Nu Metal, or nothing like that, and that they all find some real peace, and carve out some kind of Hollywood happy ending. I'll be rootin' for 'em, anyway. "I still feel it, like the sun on my skin...."
 
-PEPSI SHEEN

Dangerous Woman:
The Graphic Biography of Emma Goldman by Sharon Rudahl
 
This outstanding and inspirational graphic-novel is available at your edgier college-town bookstores, or from www.thenewpress.com, on-line. "Red Emma" was a catalytic activist and revolutionary, who was relentlessly hounded by the government her whole life, for publically advocating worker's rights, women's rights, birth control, and resisting the draft in the World War 1 era. She founded an organization that evntually morphed into the modern ACLU, called the Free Speech League, and published her own underground news' zine, "Mother Earth", with proceeds from dances, speeches, plays, and donations. Emma Goldman was repeatedly imprisoned, and even deported, for demanding that human rights be respected by the ruling-class. She also supported the noble resistance against fascism in the Spanish Civil War, and wherever the military, monarchs, or corporate interests oppressed the meek, and powerless.
  
This book is of special value now, when the rightwing fear-mongers and propoganda-merchants monopolize our airwaves, and their corporate media giants like Rupert Mudoch, Clear Channel, and the Sinclair Broadcast Group only report "News" from the skewed perspective of the share-holding elite. That's why the independent media, and underground publishers are so important-they're the only ones discussing how the American government has rigged elections, drafted legislature making it legal to invade the privacy of it's own Citizens, neutered the Constitution, refused to impeach those who took the nation to war for profit, under false pretenses, tortures prisoners of war, violating the Geneva Convention, spies on and falsely imprisons it's own people, and illegally-installs, and props-up all these other tyrants, Banana- Republics, and puppet-regimes, like the Vicente Fox Mexican government, whose strong-arm federales recently assassinated an American independent-media journalist down there in broad day-light, who was filming the school-teacher's strike in Oaxaca, that the government put-down with M-16's. The current U.S. ambassador to Mexico is a Texas crony of the Bush gang, who helped the Mexican government with the cover-up, even asserting that those school-teachers, nuns, and peasants "Had It Comin'", for their acts of civil disobedience, and for helping this courageous documentary film-maker, Brad Will (R.I.P.), capture video footage of the Mexican dictator's death-squads and secret police who believe in squashing protests with police massacres. What Emma Goldman, Brad Will, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, and millions of equal rights seeking revolutionaries and social activists worldwide have demonstrated, is that resistance is never futile. Buy this book for a young member of your family, and do what you can to help support indy-media, and the cause of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness", even here, in the modern George Orwell Cop-Nation. As Joe Strummer sang, "It's up to you Not to heed the call-up/I don't wanna kill..."

Support the underground, share information, be the media.
 
www.friendsofbradwill.org
www.democracynow.org
 
-Paul Robeson

Snatches of Pink
Love is Dead
8th House

Like alot of you, I happened across this band's records at the college record store in the old days, and just thought they looked cool. A smart chick from Boston really hipped me to 'em, in like, I dunno--1990. Their stuff felt kinda collegey, a little folksy, but they always had this booze-fuelled, pounding, Stonesey side, so Y'know, I preferred the stuff that sounded like the Jesus & Mary Chain covering Aerosmith with real drums, to the more mellow-yellow, even countryish, R.E.M. like grooves. They were often compared to the Black Crowes-probably because of the sleight southern twangs and jangles, I guess--dunno, I'm not a big Black Crowes fan. I like maybe five of their songs-I bought this video of theirs at Wal-Mart, a few years back, and pawned it like, two days later: "Sometimes Salvation" can only take ya so far, really. I never heard any of the Clarissa stuff. I loved "Coral". Their documentary drags on way too long, unless you're in love with Michael Rank, or you're his Mom, or something, but hey, y'know,-so will this review... I do appreciate alot of the raunchy rehearsal space footage-good stuff. These guys can really play. Fuckin' BOSS rendition of Alice Cooper's "Billion Dollar Babies". All the Snatches alumni seem kinda, I dunno if bitter's the correct word, but at least kinda jaded and sour about their having received a bit of a raw deal from the record industry. That's doubtlessly true, but I dunno if they really ever penned that many snappy, upbeat, radio friendly pop-hits. Michael Rank is so humble, that it's almost suspicious at times, listening to him forever defrerring all praise, and heaping all credit on Andy and Sara, and really, all his band-mates, past, and present. I've been digging his shit for years, and I'm thrilled he's still around. He's always seemed like a good guy AND a true rocker--one of the hip few who really, obviously, "Get It".
   I've really loved his last three records. Alot of the more recent material has sounded kinda like if Jakob Dylan was really smacked-out, and jamming, loudly, with various members of Royal Trux, and the Bounty Hunters. Sara's brother, Dexter, played for Flat Duo Jets, the original two piece blues howlers all the come-latelys ripped-off. Speaking of howling the blues, think:the Scientists jamming with Fat Nancy on some Patti Smith cover. What if Joe Perry had joined the Gun Club? Hazy seventies hard rock, impressionistic suicide threats, drowsy mash-notes to idealized halluncinatory sylphs in dreamy gauze, probably the result of way too much cough syrup, cos it's way past last call, and the liquorstore was closed. Swagger with soul. We need alot more heart-felt rock from a real place, inside the artist. Even when you can't make out a word he bellows, it's always done with enough conviction, that you understand what it is the dude's transmitting. The big gripe I got with the poncey, pop-geek crowd, is you got all these guys wearing the right skinny tie, playing the correct model and vintage Telecasters, but while they're all thinkin' they're Eric Carmen, Pete Ham, or Brian Wilson, they're hardly ever even, like, Paul Collins, or Rick Springfield. For me, a part of Snatches Of Pink's charm is that they leave summa the bleeding echo, clanging, and bad notes, in-like the Hangmen, Lazy Cowgirls, or "Exile On Main Street". Michael Rank and company are righteously, more interested in soul, vibe, and atmosphere-conveying a real mood, than with being pitch-perfect show-pets, or Pro-Tools whiz-kids. I think that's the big difference between the pop camp and the rock camp. The pop camp feels compelled to meticulously recreate some formulaic studio gimmickry from another age, while the rock camp kinda wants to get on with it, and rock. I don't like everything air-brushed, and over-dubbed, and polished 'til there's no real, sloppy pain, or urgent expression of life, left in the music. Snatches Of Pink are a real rock band-like early Dogs D'Amour, or even, a ballsier-Thee Hypnotics. They always reach to express something original, inside the context of the Grand Tradition. Their music's even infected my literal dreams-Last night, I dreamt I took the Greyhound to visit them in North Carolina, but he was shacked-up in this old, haunted farm-house, and when we encountered these polter-geese, I was too breathless and terrified to speak. It was actually quite a spook-I woke up, praying. Their brand of textured blues-punk deserves to be blared at top-volume, but the other people I'm staying with would not appreciate them as much, although, I did notice this young infant was captivated, momentarily, by summa Monsieur Rank's acoustic crooning.
   There's not much modern music I really have any affinity for, these days. I wore the Dolls album out. I like the acid-punk revival of the Chesterfield Kings, and some honky-tonkin', outlaw country by Hank The Third, but this is one of the more dynamic Snatches Of Pink line-ups, to date. They got all the stuff, when it comes to raw, emotional, rock'n'roll that is just jonesing for love, bleeding all over the place. It does get unfocused, dank, and muddy, at times-I need a fix, cos I'm goin' down. It ain't all goodtime boogie, immaculate Rod Stewart shags, and Ronnie Wood cigarette gesturing, there is also alot of sadness in these cuts-they get stifling-like old perspiration, in smelley buildings full of mouldy books, dried-out art supplies, and piles of flannel shirts, and cordouroys that haven't been washed, in probably decades. This record reminds me of being holed-up for months in a musty squat, back in the midwest. It was a cavernous, pitch-black, old pool-hall, that was my old band's flop-house/H.Q., on and off, for a number of years. I stayed there when the luck was bad, but didn't always enjoy the company of the small-town perverts, homocidal rednecks, and a dude that just inhaled way too much of whatever chemicals the U.S. was using in the first Gulf War.  We were all still drinkin' in those days, and we had electricity, and a roof, so hell--we still thought we were kings. I was goin' through one of my annual break-ups, and sometimes, when we played music loud enough through the p.a. our guitarist bought with his crazy-check, and the amp he stole from a famous garage-rock band; the reverb, itself, seemed to help medicate my jagged nerves, and tired bones. I'd just drench myself in feedback, and lose myself in drunken delirium. None of the barflies or hangers-on, could really hear me sing, which was probably just as well, I was mostly moanin', I suppose, but that was summa the most authentic sound we ever found, too. All that seemingly held me up, back then, was the music-when you even lose that, the dream, the life, you're really, really fucked. You start fading quick. Believe me. Back then, We still purged and howled all night long to the bewilderment of the crack-heads and sub-welfare zombies. Eventually, we'd make bed-rolls on the pool tables, and crash all day. I liked the darkness of the place, but not the filthy funk and mildew, that came from it being right on the river, and having flooded many times. Plus, it was nestled amidst a string of little old man bars that had been exclusively inhabited by grizzled, unwashed generations of hideous halfway-house no-hopers, and used, toothless women, smoking Menthol. All the drunks like me, who were so down on their luck, they had no place to bathe other than the filthy, diseased river. We lived like dogs, and begged for food. The charismatic drummer was in-hiding from his drug-dealer. I brought this blonde bombshell home from the bar in the nearby college town, one night, and she was rightfully frightened. We just ended up sleeping in each other's arms, like traumatized little kids.  Ahhhh...the good old days. Calling somebody on a pay-phone who don't wanna hear from you. Les Damnes de la Terre. "Lookin' for a home, in every face I see..."
 
   .....I dug this cat from day one-in the late eighties, Rank looked like a dreadlocked, punk-rock, Michael Hutchence on a bad bender, 'dressed like a poor man's Andy McCoy, and slinked around like Keith Richards. He's always had "that thing", in spades, but in recent years, his music has just taken on this weight I can really identify with. I think he's tired in his soul, like I am, sometimes. He has my full support. Salude!
 
-Pepsi Sheen 

A Fistful of Rock N Roll-Volume 13
Steel Cage Records

This latest fistful holds 53 songs by 53 bands-that’s a lot of rock and roll, man. (And since the songs are divided into two discs, we’re actually double-fisting, which is pretty okay with me.) If you’re a fan of sleaze-rock (and since you’re here, I’m assuming that you are), you’re going to love this compilation, from the trash rock of my hometown’s Red Light Rippers to the metal girl-punk of Detroit’s Broadzilla to the French-glam shot of Sparkling Bombs to a bunch of Scandinavian garage-punk bands to everyone’s favourite Israeli cock rockers, The Genders, and their cunt-licking, head-receiving friend, Horatio (man, do I dig that song). Forget fistful of rock and roll; this is a double-fistful of party. So call some friends, crank the volume, pound these motherfuckers back, and wait for the cops to show up.    

-Holly

Gypsy Pistoleros
Para Siempre
Bad Reputation

So these dudes -  skinny, chain-smoking Brit-Spaniard sleaze-beasts - were at Rocklahoma last year, and I didn't include them in my report on the three-day long debacle in Classic Rock magazine. So, I think they're pissed at me about it, and want to stove my brains in with a pint glass or something. At least, that's what I've heard.  But I wasn't even there when they played, I was outside, ankle deep in the mud, waiting for a backstage pass that took hours to procure. Obviously, my pain and suffering over that long and winding festival, from the sunburn and fatigue to…well, watching three days' worth of aging hairspray bands, offered them no solace. So, hopefully, the following will patch things up, and we can all move on:

Para Siempere is a thrill-a-minute collection of melodic eye-patch swagger that smells of exotic spices and forbidden concubines. The Gypsy Pistoleros sound like Hanoi Rocks, if Hanoi Rocks were sultans and snakecharmers. The Pistoleros' bilingual tongues are as smooth and fluid as their easy-sleazy guitar riffs and their scarf-waving Big Hooks. Now that Hardcore Superstar and the Backyard Babies have traveled even further down the Bon Jovi path, seems obvious to this old salt that the Pistoleros are the new sleaze-bags du jour. Try  the plastic-fantastic majesty of Jet, Jet, Jet Boyz or the hand-clapping gutter-glam of What's It Like To Be A Girl In the House of 1,000 Dolls? for proof. Nothin' left to do, really, except to find the biggest hoop earring your lobe will endure and join the mad gypsy dance.

-Sleaze

Below: What Sleaze missed.  

The Joneses
Keeping Up With The Joneses
Full Breach Kicks

"Any time I meet another punk rocker who's a Joneses fan, I know I’ve found a true friend. I buy him a couple of drinks, compliment him on his Babysitters tattoos, and maybe even pay for his lap dance if I'm feeling really generous. The Joneses' standing as minor legends of rock n' roll is a secret shared by a select few, and perhaps it's meant to stay that way.” – Josh Rutledge, Now Wave, from the album's liner notes

I'm not sure how or if this reissue will change their standing as one of rock n' roll's best kept footnote secrets, so perhaps the question still needs to be asked: Do you know The Joneses? The history of these Hollywood punks is long, sordid, and worth reading, which you can do elsewhere on this site so we won’t go into it here, but Full Breach is doing its best to make sure their accomplishments as unsung junkie heroes of cowboy glam get a few more minutes of worthy fame. All original songs from the 1986 seminal and influential Keeping Up With... have been re-mastered, and a finer collection of dirt and sparkle you could not find. Despite their legacy as those guys who sung Pillbox, this was their magnum opus. There’s as much blood, sweat, and tears on these songs as there are genuine, sleazy licks. The Joneses were criminals in every sense of the word, street trash with an affinity for The New York Dolls, Aerosmith, Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, and Hank Williams, who would go on to influence bands like Guns N Roses, The Hangmen, American Heartbreak, and countless others. Only they'd never really receive the credit they deserved because they were caught in a world where brilliance, taste, and hard living were often overshadowed by money and fake handshakes. So, if you don't know The Joneses, you ought to, and this is the perfect place to start.

-Hero

Hell Dormer
Space Age Rocket Rage
www.helldormer.com

The first track, Blackline Fever, starts out EXACTLY like Ace of Spades and yet Hell Dormer doesn't sound like Motorhead that much at all, really. But they do sound like a pack of angry, drunk dogs at times, so I guess they’re on the right track. The rest of the time they sound like shifty, night-stalking Norwegians who knock over tombstones for fun, which means it’s all shouting and chanting and black and white punk n' roll riffs. Who they had to strangle to get their New York street sound is anyone's guess, but this shit reeks of desperation. I guess dudes in Norway are desperate too. Anyway, Space Age Rocket Rage is kinda dumb, kinda numb, and takes a special breed. You know how it goes.

-Hero

No Compromise
Grog Recordings

Adolescent punk n’ roll all the way from Norway, made by dudes with names like Dick Haffy, Slow Eddie, Bongo Bastard, and Jack Feedback who get wasted a lot and won’t hesitate to pick their nose and wipe it on you. It’s like Lemmy fronting the Dead Boys, or Stiv fronting Motorhead, and is what happens when Norwegian kids spend their time listening to more Turbonegro than Immortal, and are willing to go out into the sunlight every now and then to hassle old ladies and businessmen.

-Hero

Room Full of Sinners
Locomotive

New Yawk metal supergroup featuring Overkill screecher the Blitz, Hades axe-hero Dan Lorenzo, and, you know, couple other dudes. Any band fronted by Bobby Ellsworth is going to have a certain will-to-provoke, and The Cursed is no exception. It’s obnoxious and dirty and sounds like it’s been crawling around in black muck. The riffs sound almost prehistoric, borne of Sabbath and British Steel, forged on iron crucifixes and horse-pills. The songs slither and splatter in equal doses, from the castle-storming riffarama of Queen of the Drown (with sax solo!) to the classic NY sleaze of opener Sweeter. With Lorenzo and Ellsworth on deck, the Cursed can’t help but echo their 80’s career-makers here and there, but for the most part, this really does sound like a bloody new beast, and anybody craving a fully-fanged blast of black leather Frankenstein metal is encouraged to check this creep-fest out.

-Sleaze

Lead vocalist, SILVER STEFF, is the spittin' image of a younger Joe "I'm 42 and under-rated" LeSte.  They got the skull scarf on the microphone-stand. They got a headband. They got the big SILVER DIRT logo on a backdrop behind 'em. They rented-out a club, and y'know--rocked. It just never goes anywhere, they do a Stones cover. Silver Steff does the usual hairband arena-rock in-between-song-banter. Are you ready to party? Are you havin' a good time?
   This is pretty decent, up-tempo, sleazy hard rock. Guitarist Dirty Lyo  is pretty good but they'd benefit from adding a second guitarist. I like these guys okay-you will, too-especially if you dig stuff like THE BLESSINGS, JET, BEAUTIFUL CREATURES, and BACKYARD BABIES. Myself, I've just been so immersed in this glam and sleaze scene for so long, that you really gotta be exceptional, in some way, for me to fully endorse you. SILVER DIRT lack a certain X factor. They're better than Hinder, or Avenged Sevenfold, but they're not even in the same league as Silver, or Stereo Junks, from Finland, if that tells you anything. Here's why. They need to work on their songwriting, no more shit about silver wings or angels. That shit was done by Slaughter, for God's sake. It's tired, played-out, cliche'. They need to take some risks. All the technical elements are in place. Everybody's competent at what they do, they're all proficient musicians. This is a good band. They're just faceless, their songs aren't special. Dirty Lyo is really handy with all the choice Jimmy Page licks, but is rock'n'roll supposed to be this safe, undistinguishable, polished, predictable? Their Iggy cover's like a handful of vicodin. At their best, and I'm really laboring to be more generous here, they might remind some of Cheap & Nasty, but there's zero danger. You can't fault these four for lacking anything-except something to say-and maybe the fire to fully commit. To be original, emotional, express themselves, discover something, reveal themselves, reach for something beyond going through the motions. Be bold. Fuck up. Do anything from the heart. If you like your porridge not too cold, not too hot, not too angry, not too sad, not too stylish, not too heartfelt...Farmboys in the American midwest, who liked Danger Danger and Sweet F.A. and Firehouse and Whitesnake in the 80's might bite.
   I just wish they'd push the boundaries more, be passionate, make a statement. I fully understand the need for these bands to post this lukewarm review on their website, so their friends can attack the reviewer, but why go to all the trouble of releasing a DVD, if you're gonna be interchangeable with a million eighties cover's bands? I feel like Simon Cowell, but I say, "pass"...
 
-Pepsi Sheen

Utilizing the considerable DIY power of ink-stamps and plain-white digipaks, the Taints have managed to take a reasonably modern artifact - the CD - and make it look primitive and old and shabby. And that's pretty awesome. Inside, well, same deal. Recorded in two days in some dank shack and fueled by corn liquor sold in an alley by a one-eyed amputee (ok, I made 10% of that up, but the rest is true), Wanna Kill! Kill! Kill! is a collection of dirty, depressed, and thoroughly out-of-it garage rock gunk that makes your ears feel clogged and twists your stomach into hard knots. The raggedy-assed one-two punch of Drunk Tonight and Mistress Alcohol says it all, really. Authentically hell bound puke-rock from New Bedford, Massachusetts, the rust and murder capital of wherever the fuck that is.

-Sleaze


Ignitor
Road of Bones
Cruz Del Sure Music

I just found out that Erika Tandy, Ignitor's resident Halford-with-tits, is no longer in the band, which totally sucks because, well…because she sounds just like Halford, man. And that's half the battle when it comes to metal, I say. Or it helps, anyway. It also helps when you have Joe Petagno do your cover artwork. Anyway, despite grazing in Austin, Texas, Ignitor is pure NWOBHM through and through, with the chugging riffs and studs and leather and flying V's and all that - think Priest, Maiden, Accept, Primal Fear, etc. If and when they're big enough, I reckon they'll have a giant Sphinx or Stonehenge on stage with them. But they'll need to get out of Austin in order for that to happen and move to, like, fucking Germany or Italy. Oh, and get Erika back, unless Halford has some spare time.

-Hero

Deville
Come Heavy Sleep
Buzzville

I am tempted to throw the title of their record back at 'em. If anything's gonna put me to sleep at high volume, it’s yet another Scandinavian stoner rock band. But I dunno, the vox have a nice phelgmy cheech-wizard feel, the guitars spiral halfway to the moon, and the fellas remember to throw in a chorus here and there. So, it's definitely good. It's just not any different from the zillion other similarly themed albums you’ve heard over the past decade from Sleep or Dozer or Sea of Green or Nova Driver or...you get the picture. The navel-gazing hold-outs at Stonerrock.com will surely ferret out the minute Kyuss/ Sir Lord Baltimore splices that keep this thing together, but I am personally dying - fuckin’ dying - for the Swedes and the Norwegians and perhaps even the Swiss to find some new musical obsession beyond Sabbath and Satan. Yacht rock, anyone?

Sorry for this, Deville. You really do rock. It's just this job, man. It gets to you sometimes.

-Sleaze

Hollywood
Girl? + 2  7” 45rpm
Big Neck

Head-splitting scuzz from Baltimore. Not the good part of Baltimore, either. The part where wild dogs run through the streets and people have sex in bowling alleys. Three songs, don’t know what they’re about because it’s all loud antics and mumbling, but there’s something in there about “faggots” and “turning tricks” and mebbe “meal worms”. Could be anything. All I know is that all three tracks here are many wobbly miles above the usual garage rock bullshit that comes my way. These fuckers sound like they’re in it for real. It’s like Poison 13 and Pussy Galore in a prison-style shank-fight. Makes me wanna bathe in blood or something. Awesome, and on purple wax, no less.

PS Check out their Myspace page for what I think is a song about kidnapping Ione Skye. Baltimore makes people crazy.

-Sleaze 

Beggars Ball
1321
Beggars Ball

As supposed saviors of sunset sleaze, Beggars Ball are worthy of the Sons of Guns honors bestowed upon them, and just to spite sanctimonious suppositions and shed the star shine of 2006’s Fight the Town, they’ve kranked it up even higher on 1321. It’s all about doom and boom now, and with the highball intensity of COC and Crank County Daredevils searing away like a cigarette on skin, there’s as much deep groove and skull crushing here (“Helluvaride”) as there is whiskey riffs and snakeskin swagger (“Binge” and Burnout”). What I’m meaning to say is that it’s a monster, Jack, and as addictive as porn and chewing tobacco. Beggars Ball even include acoustic versions of five of the six tracks on this one, which are just as badass, and a cover of “Simple Man,” because they want to make sure you’re left completely and utterly fried when it’s done spinning. And you will be, trust me. Also, the song “Dragpipe,” with its “Locomotive” sensibilities, is the best song GN’R never wrote. It’s the fucking tits.

-Hero

Cocked N’ Loaded
Vicious Cockfight
Cocked N' Loaded

Cocked N’ Loaded are quickly emerging as top cock in the Boston rawk scene. Of course, I’m not actually from Boston, but I’ve got plenty of people there hedging my bets, and frankly, CN’L are ruffling all the right feathers, scoring a big knockout by pecking apart the rest of the best (past and present), like Cracktorch, Rock City Crimewave, Roadsaw, and Crash and Burn, so all that’s left in the blood and dust is a bloozy mess of crushed beer cans, discarded Camel butts, spent shotgun shells, broken teeth, half-eaten tamales, and a few tears. Sounds like a boss time, don’t it?

-Hero

Crazy Lixx
Loud Minority
Swedmetal Records

If you wanna know just how deep the pool of sleaze rock in Sweden actually is, look no further than Crazy Lixx, who had to gut it out for six years before finally releasing this here debut album, Loud Minority. You see, forming a sleaze rock band over there is as common as shooting your classmates over here. And like every other sleaze rock band in Sweden (and beyond), these guys are a Flash Metal Suicide waiting to happen, with their Skid Row meets Warrant/Poison/Cinderella/Ratt, fingerless glove, big bag o’ metalized glam love. It is as it should be, natch, with arena-sized hooks, Def Leppard choruses, and sweeping, lush ballads. Nowadays we don’t really need to worry about bands that have bigger hair than their sound, but if we did, I’m sure the boys in Crazy Lixx would be depleting our ozone as we speak. Frankly, if someone slipped this on without telling me who it was, I’d swear it was from the 80s. And in this case, that ain’t a bad thing. That’s how genuine and good this is. Fun stuff, for sure.

-Hero

 Crazy Lixx: Metalized glam love.

-Hero

Dogshit Boys
Business Doing Pleasure With You
Self-released

I wonder if the Dogshit Boys have actually gotten any further along in their career by now. Do they pull the chicks? Do dudes buy them drinks? Do sexy teenagers wear their t-shirts around town, torn and reconstructed in provocative fashions? Are they on the jukebox in the coolest bar in town? Or are they still the scourge of the Finnish rock scene, rotten, stinking, drunken dogs-of-war to be shunned and avoided at all costs? If their latest cry for help is any indication, then it’s got to be the latter. “Business Doing Pleasure” is a 6 song EP full of guttural snarls, corroded sleaze guitar, and songs about masturbation and dying in the mud in 1918. Bits are in English, but this one is mostly in their mother-tongue, which sounds like psychotic gibberish when DS Boy number 1 Lasse is on the mic. Overall, the fellas sound in worse mental health than ever here, and the songs – especially Lakko and Flashrock Baciller, bring their signature brand of puke-rock to alarming new levels of obnoxiousness. Do I like it? I like it exactly the way I like horrific, fiery helicopter crashes and, I dunno, tranny porn. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.

-Sleaze

Dogshit Boys: as good as tranny porn.

Soil
Throttle Junkies
Crash

Remember the good old days when if you saw something produced by Steve Albini it meant that it was going to be something somewhat interesting? Well, this CD reminds us how much time has passed. Soil cranks out perfectly serviceable but essentially dull hard rock much in a Seattle vein of almost two decades ago. Large helpings of Soundgarden, Alice In Chains and other usual suspects plus the obligatory two version track, once acoustic one not and the so-what Lead Belly cover. Much of this material dates from the '90's and sounds it. I'm not sure who sunk the money into this to get it released but it's very much ten years too late for the party.

-Sascha

Ashes of Your Enemy
The Undying
Crash Music

Ashes of Your Enemy almost pull off Testament, but actually sound more like Hatebreed. So, if you love impressing friends with your new full sleeve, then I suppose AOYE are for you. And I suppose you should leave this site immediately, you poseur dickhead.

-Hero

Ashes: Maybe not so good.

Supagroup
Fire For Hire
Foodchain

This quartet hails from Louisiana but is spearheaded by two Alaskan brothers, Chris and Benji Lee. (Lead vocals and guitar, respectively). Your basic kick in the balls boogie assault, complete with the cowboy hat and honcho-rockin' bass player as well as  the songs about rock and how much they kick ass. Not bad titty bar background music, but overall the material doesn't validate the bragging or smarm factor. It sort of makes me tired of...rock  groups.

-Sascha

The Greatest Hits
For a Good Time Call…
Desert Island Discs
 
My first impression of the Greatest Hits was that they reminded me of the early Dimestore Haloes, or Arizona's New Romantics-sortof a Mystery Addicts for the Emo-Age. The "Hits" could be referring to how often their website is accessed, and initially, they might strike some jaded, fading Dad-Rock types as summer squatters with lavish allowances having fun while tramping 'round St. Mark's Place in their brand new the Damned t-shirts, eager to recycle all your old bubble gum and glam-trash faves-like, say, Jesse Camp and the Eighth Street Kids, or Star Star, but they've already achieved what has proven nigh-impossible to yours, these last two decades:maintaining an all for one and one for all comaraderie and deftly surfing the synergistic gestalt of five image-savvy, rockin' weirdoes, who sail under no flag, uniting for the common purpose of sailing under no flag together! One guy's a mod, one guy looks power-pop, one guy could be in the Toilet Boys, one guy's a horror-punk, etc. 
 
Musically, they're mining all the Great Influences, and copping the right profile, which still offends some brutes in the Poconos-seems some white-capped, jocko wiggers in Pennsylvania recently hospitalized two of your touring heroes, which only goes to show that leather jackets and fingernail polish CAN STILL get you killed in banker-owned, and Blackwater-operated, rightwing, neo-con Amerika. (www.freedomdvd.us) -In spite of the ongoing proliferation of Hot-Topic clad, MySpace throngs, and the relentlessly commonplace mainstreaming of punk and glam. (Lindsay Lohan in NY Dolls t-shirts, the White Stripes For Target. Every commercial sounds like Buzzcocks or Ramones.)

The Greatest Hits lyricist is no Jim Carroll, but the unshackled enthusiasm and rebellious dedication to actualizing an elusive ideal makes these youngsters worthy of your attention, and marks them with the potential to really shine-out, someday, provided they can stick together and avoid all the usual traps for troubadours, and perhaps, edit-out some of their cornier use of lyrical cliche's, all-too-often, reminiscent of nothing-to-say hair-metal.
   The notch-right-above, total D.I.Y. packaging is endearingly, painfully amateurish, and they could probably really benefit from taking Sal from Electric Frankenstein's perrenial marketing advice, and using a real photographer and graphic artist for their next release. I hope they take their time writing and recording the follow-up, as it will likely be a killer. You do get the sense that they're still putting it altogether, really. If they focus on finding and honing and fleshing-out their message a bit, and maybe adding some more individuality-like they did in the song written in response to their violent physical attackers, "We Are Precious", this could be a band with a promising future.
   *Fans of Red Invasion, Exploding Hearts, Star Spangles, Astro Vamps, Slash City Daggers, Napalm Stars, and Soda Pop Kids, take note.
 
...I got their number off the bathroom wall.
 
-Dicky Bottomfeeder 

Magnet School
Tonight we drink...tomorrow we battle the Evil At Hand
Arclight

Fierce sounding indie rock and pop that sometimes dips into more punishing territory, including a bit of dirge n' drone. No one particular track really stood out, but there's nothing less than good on it, either. There's a definite singleness of purpose to disc, not to mention great playing, that carries it through with flying colors. 

-Sascha

Silent Fate
The Autumn Machine
CD Baby

Nothing new here from the start/stop tempos, the barbaric yawp of Alessio Campoli's vocal and frantic drumming and playing, as if these thrash hounds  were recording this as the ambulance carts them off to the local caring mental facility. The promo package I got tells me that fans of As I lay Dying and Killswitch Engage will dig this and I'll give that opinion a hearty second. Pretty enjoyable even if there isn't anything on here that you haven't heard. Sincerity still counts in my book and it's clear SF possesses that by the bucket load. 

-Sascha

Framing Hanley
The Moment
Silent Majority

Eleven poopy tracks of radio friendly alt-pop from a band that has seen fit to enclose Tiger Beat ready pics of each one of 'em in the booklet. If you've been dying to find out what Hanson would sound like thrown into a blender with Fall Out Boy then this is for you. Otherwise, avoid. My computer rejected this twice before it would play it. For once I should have listened to the machine.

-Sascha

Annihilator
Metal
SPV

Jeff Waters joins a long list of metal dudes that pretty much do it all when it comes to their bands – Jon Schaffer of Iced Earth and Jari Mäenpää of Wintersun are two others off the top of my head – like write all the songs and play most of the instruments. His latest effort, Metal, is no different, but this time around he’s enlisting the help of some big names to make sure the album lives up to its moniker. Danko Jones, Mike Mangini (Extreme, Steve Vai), Jeff Loomis (Nevermore), Steve Kudlow (Anvil), Alexi Laiho (Children of Bodom), Angela Gossow (Arch Enemy), Jesper Stromblad (In Flames), and others make appearances, each joining Waters on one of Metal’s ten brutal songs. Shades of Alice in Hell and Never, Neverland era thrash are all over this one, but the album is full of a number of diverse styles throughout, namely meoldic death metal, no doubt due in large part to appease the guests and draw out their individual talents. So, I guess it’s like a metal smorgasbord, and I’ve been eating up “Couple Suicide” with Danko and Anglea on vocals like spoonfulls of cyanide. Just another great album from one of Canada’s best metal bands, and a must-have for all metal fans.

-Hero

Innocent Rosie
Demos!
Swedmetal Records

Pointing two defiant fingers to the ground, Innocent Rosie come screaming out of some Swedish back alley like a motley crew of fast pussycats. I’m not sure how Swedmetal spreads the kronas around, but Rosie doesn’t seem to have been afforded the same production budget as fellow label mates Crazy Lixx, so what we have here is only a five song smattering of raw and dangerous songs that are destined for big things. Rosie is like the younger sister who hasn’t quite come into her own yet, but when she does, she’s gonna be a fucking stunner. And you know what they say about chicks like that – it’s best to get your degenerate claws into them before the other dudes come crawling and begging. “Don’t Drag Me Down” is definitely the attention grabber – the budding breasts, if you will – on this body of work, although with the Hanoi-style harp wailing away through every song, the whole thing is worth admiring.

-Hero

Colossus
…and the Rift of the Pan-Dimensional Undergods
Lucid Records

You wanna know why CDs are dying? ‘Cause the fucking things break, that’s why. I’m pretty sure I’ve never received any vinyl that’s been snapped in half. But I digress. Um, yeah…I guess the only thing I can tell you* about Colossus right now is that they’re from North Carolina, ground zero for heavy hittin’ southern mayhem (see COC, Valient Thorr, etc.), and they’ve got a raging boner for mountains and any kind of muscled man in a loin cloth and gauntlets that might live on top of said mountains. You know, like God. And really, that’s what I picture my God to look like, so despite the busted disc, I’m on Colossus’ side.

*Listen, I’m not so deft that I can’t at least scope out some of their tunes. It’s double axe-wielding power metal, despite the fact that it’s drenched in some of that heavy NC rock n’ roll tar. So really, it sounds like a lightning bolt striking a giant boulder. Oh, and I’m not all that keen on the vocals, but, you know…whatever.

 -Hero

Functional Blackouts
The Severed Tongue Speaks for Everyone
Dead Beat Records

There’s this guy I know who’s always trying to turn me on to shit like The Oblivians and The Hospitals and, like, fucking Lightning Bolt, and he always makes me watch home videos of these goddamn lunatics playing their decrepit, abusive, black noise in shitty kitchens or rat-infested basements and knocking themselves out with bottles or stringing themselves up by the neck with some loose wiring or choking on their own vomit, until I can feel my insides boiling and blood is running from my ears. When it’s finally all over I sit there for about 15 minutes saying absolutely NOTHING. Then I punch the dude and walk home. What I’m trying to say is that sick fucker would love the Functional Blackouts. Me? I’m just glad I’m not watching any home videos of these evil bastards in action.

-Hero

Functional Blackouts: alleged lunatics.

Black Francis
Seven Fingers
Cooking Vinyl

This is touted as a “mini-album”, but it is 7 songs long. That was plenty in 1976, you know. It’s plenty now, too. Brevity is a great indicator of quality control.  Anyway, former Pixies man enters studio, comes out 6 days later, here’s the results. Opens with “The Seus” which is Beck-ian lite-funk gently licked with late 70’s rap flourishes. A brave choice for an opener, because it’s godawful, probably on purpose. Things improve immeasurably as the album rolls on, with “Garbage Heap” and “Half Man” offering up crunchy, sugar-sprinkled indie-pop, the latter with a groovy CCR/Rock Erickson vibe. “I Sent Away” is a throwaway wisp of Replacements style bluster-punk. The title track is a great, acoustic-driven bit of prime Pixies alt-rock. Unfortunately, it’s only a minute and a half long, so prepare to hit repeat seven or 8 times. “The Tale of Lonesome Fetter” is the sort of swanky loft-rock that the rich-and-happy Iggy Pop was dropping earlier this decade. Kinda jive. Closes with “When They Come to Murder Me”, which is actually as good as you think it is. You could form a whole new identity over this gritty, hook-heavy growler. One that wears those black sunglasses that fold over and come with the string. And a duster.

And that’s how this one goes. According to the press sheet, Francis wrote and recorded the whole thing in a week, which seems pretty industrious, especially since it’s got two potential hits on it. I mean, what did you do last week? Right, me too. This may seem a little unfocused to the casual music fan, so stick with some greatest hits bullshit if you are one. On the other hand, there has never been a casual Pixies fan, so you fuckers are in luck.

-Sleaze