Lynyrd Skynyrd
Street Survivor
Geffen

Despite the plane crash that decimated the band just days after it’s release, this isn’t a retrospective testimonial borne out of tragedy, but an album that stands as a hideous salute to one of the eras best, yet still often overlooked, bands. Where the mid-seventies had seen some downtime in the shade as the toxic delights of rock’n’roll’s hard thunder road rolled past, here Skynyrd set their Southern suss and swagger among the substances and liquor - knuckling-down instead of nosin’ around - and summoned the spirit of just a few short years before on wild-cat rockers (What’s Your Name, You Got That Right), dances with demons (That Smell, One More Time) and poignant wisdom on I Never Dreamed. There’s better, or equally great, Skynyrd but not as consistent, so, with this thirtieth anniversary reissue featuring original, scrapped, sessions and live cuts, ayuss, the big 5-0.

- Stu Gibson

Bullet Treatment/Its Casual
Split single
Basement Records

Four track 7” fulla ripping, old-skull hardcore. Opens with two head-smackers from LA’s own Bullet Treatment, who play the same sorta eviction-party wreck n’ roll you might remember from watching that grainy VHS bootleg of Decline over and over back  in high school. “Bride and the Wolf” is pure ’82 mayhem, whereas “Law of Observation” tosses a little rock n’ roll slither into the mix before it explodes into a barrage of unholy terror. Flip it over, and you get a double-shot of Its Casual, a long-running two-man LA destructo-machine that sounds not unlike Motorhead chair-wrestling with Henry Rollins. Both bands offer up plenty of high-speed thrills and vintage punk rock psychosis, so if you dig it raw and halfway homicidal, then it’s on.

-Sleaze

Various
High Voltage – The Ultimate AC/DC Tribute
Cherry Red

Anything calling itself ‘the ultimate’ whatever has gotta be setting itself up for a fall, huh? And surely Hayseed Dixie could kinda lay claim to having that whole hairpiece covered.  So are we gonna quibble about what purpose such a tribute serves. I mean, it’s not like the diminutive ‘DC need a leg-up in the legend stakes. This collection certainly crams a lot into the available grooves, being a round-up of a couple of previous tributes separated into punk and metal. Is it a tax write-off or does it show how adaptable their songs are when subjected to the subversions of other diverse genres, or does it tap into a market of tribute collecting fetishists? Basically, do you need a thirty-track trawl (including three of Highways To Hell) through a trough of sub-standard swill culled from the rawk world to remind you that the originals are so sublime? Whichever way you twist, these little ventures (see also Butchering The Beatles) nevertheless hold a certain fascination, not least for the names that get dug up from the rawk knackers yards and welfare lines (Joe Lynn Turner, Ugly Kid Joe, Jetboy, Quiet Riot, Pat Travers)  and for imagining what you’d do with the songs if you got hold of ‘em. There’s no kitscharatic tiki takes, ballroom croons or even hayseed-style hoedowns, so it sorta hangs fire in your imagination. Many are mainly straight out imitations that never quite convince (Great White, Bang Tango – with Cinderella’s Fred Coury, no less, um John Corabi with Bruce Kulick and the interesting pairing of Sebastian Bach with Kelley Deal) except for Stephen Pearcy and Tracii Guns Whole Lotta Rosie and Lemmy’s turn with Jake E. Lee on It’s A Long Way To The Top. There’s a few electro-industrial attempts at restructuring (others in this series include An Electro Goth Tribute To Prince and A Hip Hop Tribute To Metallica), bringing the best and the worst grimacing to the fore with Genitorturers’ oddly alluring fetish-disco fist of Squealer and the Terminal Sects’ seedless Who Made Who. Crash Kelly are too respectful while even The Dwarves’ Big Balls is a slightly saggy sac, despite an arresting introduction, though 16 Volt show on Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap the potential is there for some foundation shaking, it just makes you wish that Ministry had done it, while Day Glo Abortions come out the crunch with their cranked-up crazy psycho-stomp behind a flatbed pick-up in a parking lot somewhere south of all civil decency tread through the subtleties and nuances of The Jack with rib-splitting relish.

It doesn’t say how many of these were quick courtships done specially for this release, there are a cast-list of contenders to make it a definite Ultimate Tribute, but at the end of the day, when the sun goes down and the moonlight’s shining through it’s a few quid of fun. Just not as much as it could be. But what else you gonna do? Buy the fucking Telegraph both days of the weekend? Have another BBQ? Well, put this on.

-Stu Gibson

The Maharajas
In Pure Spite
Low Impact

Oh, how I dread sitting down to write a review for a mediocre record...Words spill forth like so much good red wine for the great records; the mediocre ones are kind of like that brownish sludge that drips from the tap at a rundown motel on a highway in the middle of nowhere. I'm normally a big fan of Swedish bands (I've always thought that they must put some sort of concentrated extract-of-rock-and-roll in the water over there), but The Maharajas, while certainly proficient, are just, well, mediocre. Tap sludge with a less-interesting Mando Diao/Hives/60s garage rock vibe. I'd rather drink a diet soda.

-Holly

Slomber
Fire in the Jailhouse
Naked Hollywood Records

Satisfactory sleaze metal that’s equal parts slobber and somber, and so maybe it was a clever band name Slomber were after, but my guess is they actually had high hopes for their Motley-inspired Norwegian fast-talking riff rawk. That’s not to say there isn’t potential with some of the licks here, it’s just that I’ve heard better tongue wagging from politicians and thirsty dogs.

-Jeff

Guana Batz
Loan Sharks
Cherry Red

Alongside fellow psychobilly ringleaders King Kurt, Guana Batz were always far more of a funtime Frankie collective than the chainsaw Charlie crews that crawled out the crack-den enclaves the likes of Demented Are Go and The Meteors frequented. Favouring a cleaner, more traditional though no less wild-eyed approach, this reissued second instalment (after debut Held Down To Vinyl…At Last!) of the attack of the killer Batz shows a band on top form, music-wise at least - let’s forget the dodgy Bermuda shorts they’d bequeath to Ted’s Bubonic Dirtbag and other late eighties indie idols – and should show the range the genre can be capable of. Despite being split slightly top-heavily in favour of covers due to the age-old pressures of trying to scribble a second album between constant touring, more than anything the life-blood of their ilk, the standard of Elvis Costello’s Radio Sweetheart and Springsteen’s I’m On Fire (complete with piss-taking Born In The USA style cover) add to this record’s deserved place in history, however small that be. Fairly straight covers of Chuck, Eddie Cochran and Johnny Burnette show amidst the self-penned quakers Pile Driver Boogie and I’m Weird this light-hearted meringue of mayhem could still hold court with the more self-consciously crazy practitioners of this fine art.

- Stu Gibson

Lair of the Minotaur
War Metal Battle Master
Southern Lord

War Metal Battle Master is a maelstrom of bloody fury and black mayhem that’s aptly labeled “a concept album about solving conflicts with a big fucking axe,” and is steeped in enough mythological grandeur and harrowing abomination to recall days of Death, Slayer, and Exodus, when underground tape trading, crushing tall cans into your mulleted skull, and shaving the neighbors cat were all that mattered.

-Jeff

The Functional Blackouts
The Very Best of The Monkees
Dead Beat Records

Yesterday I hated this record. But I was feeling kind of down and dreary, like the weather, and it was just too damned loud and energetic. Today, however, I think it's pretty fucking great. Covering the now-defunct Chicago band's five-year career of snarling, spitting, melodic thrash punk noise, this 18-song collection of singles and rarities is the perfect record to put on when you're feeling kind of angry for no good reason and you need some music to smash the unwashed dinner plates to. (There's an accompanying promo sheet printed in a very small font that lists the band's history and discography, but I figure you can probably look that stuff up for yourself. I hear the internet can be useful in these matters. Although it would probably be helpful to mention that they count The Germs and The Electric Eels among their influences.) So, um, yeah, today I really like The Functional Blackouts. Maybe I just feel like smashing shit up today. (I love how music

 can make you want to smash shit up.) I'm not going to smash shit up, mostly because I would just have to clean it up afterwards, and there is nothing more frustrating than cleaning up a mess you've just deliberately created, but I really really want to. And I'll make sure to have this record handy for when I do...

-Holly

286
The View Inside
Inner Light Records

I won’t judge 286 too harshly because there are only two songs on this EP, but holy fuck I hate hard rock. It’s just such a lazy and unmemorable sound, isn’t it? And the bands that play it usually wind up with gigs at sporting events or during homecoming because the radio station that’s pushing the hell out of their “hit” is a high paying sponsor, and goddamn it you better drink a ton of Smirnoff Ice, pal, ‘cause their logo is on the banner too. I don’t mean to take my hard rock frustration out on 286 but here they are and I’ve already forgot the two songs I should be reviewing. So, you know, some things can’t be helped.

-Jeff

Black Gasoline
She Gave Us Magic
Black Gasoline

I kind of wish I'd given this record a listen before hitting the highway with Hero because, man, is this some kind of driving music; I'm talking high-heeled foot to the floor, running from the cops (assuming I could outrun them in my broken-down, bald-tired, piece of shit excuse for a car) driving music. When they aren't ripping the roof off the joint with their manly raspy vocals, guitar-shredding licks a la Thin Lizzy, head-banging beats, swirling Deep Purple-y organs, and irresistible cowbell, I'm guessing this hard-rocking quintet out of Wichita, Kansas spends a good amount of time speeding down cornfield-lined highways, swigging warm beer from cans, evading the man. Hard to pick a highlight from these solid twelve songs, but I guarantee "Dirty White T-Shirt" and "A-C-T-I-O-N" will have you breaking all sorts of laws.

-Holly