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The Bible Beaters
________________________________________________________________ The Hip Priests/Sonic Negroes
________________________________________________________________ Hooked On Southern Speed
________________________________________________________________ Ironweed
________________________________________________________________ Lords of Altamont
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________________________________________________________________ The Mansfields
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- Michael Toland ________________________________________________________________ More proof of the New Yawk rock
& roll renaissance that’s been bubbling under the Strokes etc.
hype of the past few years. (Or is that over now? Maybe I should remove
the blinders.) The Reckless Sons
need only basic tools to make a monster – loud guitars, traditional
riffs, hyperactive drums, good tunes. Sort of a mix of AC/DC,
the Faces and the Replacements, Reckless Sons, it must be said, sound a lot like a
certain Australian radio rock giant from a few years ago that had an
aviation-themed name. (Don’t worry if you can’t remember – you
probably never watch iPod commercials.) Yet this EP has all the grit,
power and drive that band was missing. They obviously listen to the same
music, but just as obviously sound like they don’t care if radio ever
plays them or not. These Days Are
Gone and the title track will hit that Pavlovian singalong button
just as hard as any song asking if you wanna be my girl, but won’t
make you feel guilty about it. ________________________________________________________________ Roadsaw
- Michael Toland ________________________________________________________________ Skintight Jaguars
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Michael Toland ________________________________________________________________ Sonic Negroes
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- Michael Toland ________________________________________________________________ Three Day Threshold
So yeah, imagine that, only
recorded through condenser mics on weird nights one million miles from
home. They play Folsom City Prison and attempt their signature cowpunk
stomper Gone at least three times. And they do a smashing versh of the
shuffling Black River Gold that almost had me in greasy drunken tears,
even though I haven’t had a drink in decades. Great stuff. Bonus:
buy the CD, and you get a free recipe for Flemish Beer Stew. Just
reading the ingredients will make you puke. Awesome. -Sleaze ________________________________________________________________ The Cheap Dates
-Sleaze ________________________________________________________________ The Vermin
-Sleaze ________________________________________________________________ Futants
-Sleaze ________________________________________________________________ AC/DC
I subconsciously rip off AC/DC at
least ten times per album I write and have to go back and change the
song in certain cases because it’s an EXACT replicate. To say the least, I’m a sucker.
Even the albums that suck, don’t suck to me. While Bon Scott arguably
was the heart of the band, I still am partial to Brian Johnson given his
run with the group and the fact that the first AC/DC I really heard was
“Who Made Who.” AC/DC has sold its soul
monumentally. Tickets were a scant 40 bucks for the “Stiff Upper
Lip” tour. That price jumped to over $100 for the current run, and the
band’s new album “Black Ice” is sold exclusively at where else but
Wal-Mart? I still can’t be mad. Even
though every Hessian with a mullet, skateboard, tattoo, beer gut or pair
of Jenko’s has some sort of clothing item with an AC/DC logo on it,
I’m still that sucker who will buy the AC/DC lighter even though he
doesn’t smoke. I’m still the sucker that hordes every AC/DC hoodie
Wal-Mart, Kohls, or even the fucking Circle K (and no, that’s not a
joke) has to offer. I’m sure someone out there was
more excited than I to pick up “Black Ice,” but there weren’t
many. It’s been eight years since AC/DC bought a case of beer and
spent all six hours writing a new album consisting of the same song with
the same lyrics in some cases, but that same song still rocks. Whereas
bands like the Stones sound atrocious live, AC/DC never really wrote
much they couldn’t pull off at age 50, so it still works. The cannon
still blows up, the bell still falls, Rosie still inflates. It still
rocks. It’s been the same thing for years, but for some ungodly
reason, it never grows old. Literally EVERY song from the
“Back in Black” album has been overplayed by classic rock radio –
even “Let Me Put My Love Into You.” When an AC/DC chord hits on the
radio, you know instantly it’s AC/DC – even if you aren’t as crazy
about the band as I am. Two seconds into the band’s
first single “Rock ‘n’ Roll Train,” I knew it was their new song
without even needing an intro. Every rock review seems to use
AC/DC as its base. Bands that have the faintest tone even remotely
resembling that of Angus or Malcolm are compared to them. It’s the
formula. Have AC/DC, will rock. And to an AC/DC freak like me,
the new album certainly does rock. But with this long-winded
beginning now over, I’m going to break down this review AC/DC-nerd
style. If you’re not an AC/DC nerd, here’s the review: It sounds
like AC/DC. With that out of the way,
“Black Ice,” has solid moments. Some more solid than others. Opener “Rock ‘n’ Roll
Train,” which is baffling to me because the lyric is “runaway
train,” sounds like typical fare. Only AC/DC can name the song what it
really isn’t and no one questions it. “Black Ice” gets away from
AC/DC trying to sound like Bon Scott-era material. “Stiff Upper Lip”
was very much trying to be as stripped down and old-school as the band
could get. Not the case here. There’s big choruses and hooks
everywhere. This record sounds like “Fly on the Wall” meets
“Razor’s Edge,” with a few surprises. “Anything Goes,” is as pop
sounding as any AC/DC song ever, and done successfully. When the group
tries balladry, or as close as they’ll ever get to it in “Rock
‘n’ Roll Dream,” it falls short. The song just doesn’t go
anywhere. By the time it builds up, it’s done. It could have been
fantastic if it had about two more minutes to it, but nearly every song
on “Black Ice” cuts off at the 3 ½ to 4 minute mark. Other failed attempts include
“She Likes Rock ‘n’ Roll” which is just sort of annoying, and
“Skies on Fire,” which again never builds the momentum of the
opener. “War Machine” is straight
rock, the album’s “Hail Caeser,” if you will. “Big Jack,”
“Spoilin’ for a Fight,” and “Money Made” are straight Brian
Johnson-era AC/DC and all possible singles. The bluesier numbers,
“Decibel,” and “Rockin’ All the Way” sound a little forced. With past AC/DC records the band
weeded songs down considerably. They didn’t do it here, possibly
because they might be figuring it’s their last ever studio effort. 15 songs for an AC/DC record is
unheard of, and there are at least five that could’ve been left off
“Black Ice.” But back to my original point,
I’m an idiot for AC/DC, so even the songs that suck don’t really
suck. They only suck for AC/DC which is still better than the
Buckcherry’s and Velvet Revolver’s of the world. Frankly, I’m just ecstatic that
the band finally put out a new album. It had been so long some morons
actually said that AC/DC’s new song sounded like Jet. That’s sheer
blasphemy to my ears and anyone who ever grew up with giant posters of
Angus on every wall. In all likelihood, this will be
AC/DC’s last studio effort. They were never going to do another “Powerage,”
or “Let There Be Rock.” And even though they sold their souls to
Wal-Mart and Rock Band, with as quiet as the band had been after
previous releases when it came to the media and marketing, they deserve
it. AC/DC earned the right for everyone in the world to be sick to death
of them. By the end of all this, just about everyone will be. But it’s
still AC/DC. It will always be AC/DC. It can only be AC/DC. -Bj
Lisko _________________________________________________________________________ Adam
West
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________ Deadly Sins
-Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________ Ginger
-
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________ Matt Taylor
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
Slick, but with at least some
sort of soul missing in many self-releases from the blues circuit that
are like so many business men indulging in some very soggy biscuit style
sessions over each others gold-encrusted cuff-links. And that’s
despite Lights On The Water sounding sickeningly like Chris De Bergh doing late-seventies comfortably numb-arsed Pink
Floyd sat on their opulent palaces of gin-soaked lingering and golf
parties with his mum pissed at karaoke. Classy may be a kind term but
it’s STILL the kind of easy on the ear dinner party blues where the
greatest dilemma seems to be the length of the cocktail sticks in
comparison to the one that the Williamsons over the road (or lake) had
last year. Voodoo Dance does
replace the flat cap and wax jacket with some attire more suited to the
terrain, but an excruciating wail through House
Of The Rising Sun and most songs being long enough to let one course
settle with a sip of wine before the next one. Maybe chucking the car keys in
the hat might get…the knives out for some grittier realizations. As it
is, it gets to the vaguely Bad
Company-ish Dark River but
yet again this is polite project manager blues - power-steering,
personal secretary, pinstripe suit, organic pasta…The inclusion of a
trio of trilling dainty dames adds extra dimensions and depth to the
gruff vocals (as on Tumbling Down) and dextrous and silky Strat-slinkery of head honcho Gary
Boner, but overall - maybe it’s generational, maybe aspirational -
alas this remains just aural wallpaper, more of the usual, in spite of
it’s relative edge and bite when compared to, say, Storm
Warning, Matt Taylor, Chas Burnett
and other recent blues smatters passed this way to besmirch. This just
doesn’t excite or entice. Music matters, Rock’n’roll matters, the
blues fucking matters. This doesn’t. -
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
-
Stu Gibson
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-
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
Sure, dispatch some of the lesser
lights here on the mercifully brief pop-punk section and peruse like the
parched, loathsome post-apunkalipless lags you may well be…Prowling
this worldwide wolf-pack are the street punk party piss-up kiss off with
Kings Of Nuthin’ of Johnny
Rocket and The Booze Brothers,
all-female Turbonegro tribute
Turbonegra, sleaze-a-ramic
Canadians Big John Bates, Gutter Demons, ex-Creepshow
dame Sarah Blackwood in
country chanteuse corset and The
Dino Martini’s tequila sunrise with a tourniquet, London’s Thee Exit Wounds and ex-Frantic
Flintstoner Out Of Luck,
Norway’s Francine with
their rewiring of Cyndi
Lauper’s She Bop and
fellow Norse noggin-rockers The
Buckshots, Argentinian speedpunkery from Attaque
77, plus pop-punk pom-pom shakes from The
Bullocks and Muff alongside
sleazy knicker-twisting from The
Heroines. And all that alongside homegrown
garage-groovies like Helldriver,
horrorhowl punks The Spookshow,
Ahead To The Sea and
exhil-irate-ing folk-punk, psycho’s The
Ripmen, ruckus rockers Mr.
Bubble B. and and The
Clerks’ awesome oompa-ska Skatris.
And that’s just disco uno. Bonus CD secondo spills The
Yeti Girls on your jeans which’ll raise an irritated smile (‘Her
name was Claudia / She tasted like my mum…’) and while proving that
bands with numbers like 182 and 41 after their name have an unfair place
in the world, it doesn’t exactly do much to further the cause of
dork-punk. An apparently out of character Dropkicks style knee-capper
from Square The Circle wins
the first corner, filled with too much rap-metal crossover which, even
in it’s native tongue doesn’t create any curiosity, until you’re
cosseted homewards at the end of a rewarding reel through some Rain-worthy
rock’n’roll, with a savvy n sassy ‘Neo-Swing / Rockabilly’
section, ‘specially the stockin’-smokin’ Sun-recorded Girl
Singer by The Camaros and
devilish doo-wop of The
Senti-mentals Feeling cosmopolitan yet? Bad and
international? Well, suck it n’see as they say…feel what touches
your knee and pops your buttons. Here’s to the one celebrating
the twenty-seven year itch. Bitchin’, as, erm, they don’t say round
my way. Cliché be damned n’ rammed up yer cornhole’s, here’s
something for everyone, and if it’s good enuff for Elvis
it’s good enuff fur us right? Kinda, but if it’s good enuff for
me it’s good enuff for you. How’s that for a dog-eared dodgy quote? -
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
Prominently featuring the fiddle
of then collaborator Simon Cohen (to the band’s ire, but creating an
enchanting caterwaul entirely in keeping with ) this is a siniciously
caustic roll-call of classic cataclysmic psycho-servicing such as Anal Wonderland, Rubber Rock,
PVC Chair, Cripple In The Woods, Human
Slug, Busted Hymen, Sick
Spasmoid and Pervy In The Park alongside covers of Be Bop A Lula (with slight lyrical adjustments along the lines of
‘she’s the girl in the latex jeans’ and ‘open your piss
flaps’) and Cast Iron Arm
that no amount of self-conscious imitators can buckle a manky cod-piece
to. -
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
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Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________ Peggy Lee
This largely unreleased and
untouched treasure chest of musicals, pop schmaltz, jazzy blues, comedy
Spanglish schmug, smoky songs of torch and train from the vaults shows
the lady sure can give you a fever, however slight, so suspend
preconceptions and imagine yourself addressing your disarray in smoking
jacket and pencil tasche (monocle optional) and make a date with viz Lee
for a of sultry 2-disc course of splendour and surprise amongst the more
sedately though not entirely un-seductively supine pop, which is
pristine when done as is on I Don’t Know What To Do Without You Baby, setting the scene for Dusty
twenty years later.
From the twenties-era blues of Bessie
Smith and Ma Rainey on Ain’t Goin’
No Place, the slightly
racy If I Could Steal You From
Somebody Else, voodoo quiver of Love
(Your Spell Is Everywhere) and pompadour raising swing-ity pop of Love Ye and (I Wanna Go Where
You Go) Then I’ll Be Happy, to the flirtatiously innocent
wide-eyed-ness of Goin’ On A
Hayride and novelty account of country folk hitting the big smoke on
Neon Signs (I’m Gonna Shine Like Neon Too) there’s more to this
than her stints on Nat King
Cole’s radio show may suggest to casual, crooked stance observers.
Cole Porter’s Climb Up The Mountain isn’t too far from Patsy Cline a few years hence, Boulevard
Café is a pure spooky slice of Brechtian
noir, Telling Me Yes, Telling Me
No a playful waltz of woe, and despite being described as
‘deliberately sub-par’, one of the most worthwhile songs here to
clean your lugs and lungs out to is Don’t
Give Me A Ring On The Telephone (Until You Give Me A Ring On My Hand),
a glorious vaudeville romp that does the most to entice you to take up
thy cornet and… -
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
That it features Bantam
Rooster and DirtBomb dynamos Tim Potter
and Jim Diamond and a Jim
from New Bomb Turks should
give a fair idea of the mutant Motown
mambo with street crevassing MC5
riffs, rhythms and undiluted rigs that they tear these songs up with,
with all due regard and honour they deserve. -
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________
Like The Lords’ gallantly inelegant grandeur and mysterious majesty,
Hopeless and his Halos harbour motivation borne more from melancholy and
disdain yet create an album of hope-filled starry-skies, just ones
viewed through jaundiced eyes. Utterly alluring and enticing they weave
webs not dissimilar to those almost unassailable Lords and should be
heard to herald this, for it’s an album that will hold you immobile
and cause crowds round blazing trash-cans like archetypal cinema screen
bums on street corners, full of that intangible li’l ol’ essence
called heart that only the utterly fucking real have.
Like Walter Lure relating how Thunders
took his sound around no matter what guitar he picked up a la Chuck
Berry, yet no-one could actually play his mangled Cochran-crash of
an instrument, bands like the Halos have that extra side to their
blades, never mind the beguilingly emphatic presence of their frontman,
who sounds about to rip out your speakers and dance on your stereo. That
may not happen but what will is that this’ll
etch a tattoo in your heart with a groove as rough as Billy’s
battered larynx. National, naw, international treasures to cherish.
-
Stu Gibson _________________________________________________________________________ The Creepshow
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Stu Gibson
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Allegedly dedicated warriors in
the army of the Lord, Ohio’s Bible
Beaters sing the praises of the Almighty like they got their
schoolin’ in the good book from the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Maybe
some good bud, too. And some mushrooms. The BBs treat countrified gospel
the way the Cramps manhandle
rockabilly, while the vocal, ahem, blend by guitarist Johnny Whisman and
Ms. E McQuown has the reckless glory of prime X.
The sentiments found in Fire On
the River, Blood On the Cross
and Rockin Out with Jesus
might lead one to wonder how much of the impetus behind the songs is
real. (Satan is real, after all, as the Louvin Brothers famously
reminded us.) According to these guys, though,
Jesus Invented Beer, when confronted with sin you should Stop,
Drop and Rock N’ Roll and there will certainly be No
Assholes in Heaven. So cheeks are obviously getting some tongue
action. Not that it really matters – this is a stone hoot, whether or
not you or the band is god-fearing. 
It’s the Sonic Negroes’ presence that attracted me to Dogfight – Swedish action rock gets to me like cheeseburgers do to
Kevin Smith. And the five tracks on their half of this disk are indeed
brick-smashing examples of Nordic headbanger punk (especially Quagmire, The Grittiest Star
and Watch Your Back). But
that’s to be expected; it’s hardly revelatory. So it’s Great
Britain’s Hip Priests that
impress me here. They share a similar mindset as the Negroes – maybe a
little more garage rocking and a little more dirty-minded, kicking off
the disk with the inspirational manifesto Let’s
Get Fucked. According to these holy men, it’s ok to Rip
‘em Off and be Shot to Hell
in Breakneck Babylon, cuz,
after all, She Loves It!
Trashy power rock at its sleaziest – a really party starter (or
ender.) 
I
Midwestern glam punk trash from
that Mecca of gutter rock, Ohio. Jaime Holliday has a résumé stuffed
with bands like this; the Luxury
Pushers are just the latest iteration of his personal aesthetic.
Holliday’s vision seems to be a fusion of the Dead
Boys, the Black Halos and
Motörhead, if you can imagine putting eyeliner on Lemmy. (Now try
to get that image out of your head…dammit.) Holliday and his rotating
cast don’t so much toss glitter at you as mash it into your face –
the chassis may be sleek and curvy in all the right ways, but the engine
is running on pure, raging rocket fuel. In other words, you can sing
along while you get the crap kicked out of you. 
I’m sure Nashvegas hasn’t
even noticed, but real country music is making a comeback. Thanks to
folks like Dave Gleason’s
Wasted Days and Hellbound
Glory, C&W is getting gritty again, with tears ‘n’ beers
replacing wine coolers and self-empowerment. Well, maybe comeback
isn’t really the word – I doubt Tim McGraw and Kenny Chesney are
worried about falling chart placements – but the good stuff is
bubbling under again. Whitey
Morgan and the 78’s could stand proudly on the stage with Waylon
Jennings (their most obvious influence), Merle Haggard and Johnny
Paycheck without flinching – this ain’t ironic, nudge-nudge
alt.country here, it’s the real, heartbroken, bruised-knuckled,
blackout drunk thing. Morgan’s baritone was made for this music – I
imagine as soon as he hit puberty his path in life was set, like it or
not – and his band of young longhairs obviously grew up on their
parents’ outlaw country stash. Morgan’s tunes sound like they come
straight from his world-weary gut. Goodbye
Dixie, If It Ain’t Broke
and Love and Honor have it all
over anything Carrie Underwood’s ever done – even a country cover of
Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On
Fire is worthy of scuffed boots and a Stetson. Sinner
comes closest to rock, but only by the same percentage as ol’ Waylon
might have done. Are y’all ready for the country? Whitey Morgan bets
you are.
Like some Phil Spector hand
puppet, Quatrain is more
famous for the producer it worked with than the album it made. David
Briggs, known as the main studio foil for Neil
Young & Crazy Horse, as well as producer of Spirit’s
great The Twelve Dreams of Dr.
Sardonicus and Nick Cave’s
equally great (but for different reasons) Henry’s
Dream, worked with Quatrain in 1969 when he was staff producer at
Tetragrammaton Records, the Bill Cosby-owned label that brought Deep Purple to American ears. This all has dick hell to do with the
quality of this record, of course, but it’s the kind of baggage that
fills up reviews, I mean, that’s shackled to a band’s history.
Anyway, Quatrain was a pretty versatile bunch, at home with psychedelic
pop, folk rock and bluesy hard rock. The latter is best repped by the
bonus cuts, as songs like Let You
Go and Get a Life find the group getting angrier and Ghosts Over the Sunset Strip weirder as time went on. The band had
solid songwriting chops, so the tunes actually hold up as more than
period pieces, to be listened to once and filed away in the curiosity
shoppe. Fields of Gold, Try to Live Again and Black
Lily (which has some very Captain Beefheartesque rhythm guitar licks
churning away behind the burly leads and melodic hooks) show the group
at its best. If you’re not a fan of psych rock obscurities, this
probably won’t yank your chain very hard, but if you are, this won’t
be disappointing.
Sounding like the Backyard
Babies without the budget, Skintight Jaguars rawk with their nether
regions exposed on The Curse.
The singer’s got that
hot-young-couple-in-the-woods-pursued-by-werewolves (probably the ones
from Dog Soldiers, given the
band’s UK origins) sound, like the producer was holding a flaming
brand below his testicles and inching them closer and closer until he
got it right. (That’s assuming there was a producer, which, from the
primitive sonics displayed here, probably wasn’t the case.) The band
rages appropriately behind him (maybe they’re the werewolves) and the
songs have surprisingly strong melodic backbones – almost power pop,
even. Which leads to some of these tunes sounding a little too close to
emo for my tastes, if your average emo boy had progressed beyond passive
aggressive whining and into songs like Start the Fight and Kill You
in Your Sleep. Same old story, I suppose – boys loves girl, girl
won’t put out, boy wants to smash everything in sight to bits.
Favorite song title: Joey Ramone
Won’t Leave Me Alone. 
What is it about Scandinavia that
produces so many ass-kicking power rock bands? I get that there’s so
little sunlight in the winter months that our friends in the frozen
north have nothing better to do than hole up in the basement and
practice, but that doesn’t explain why so many of these musicians
choose to bare their fangs and tattoos with the volume cranked to 12. At
any rate, Sonic Negroes are the latest band of brigands picking up the reins
from the dearly departed Hellacopters,
Peepshows, Gluecifer, etc. Honky Bastard
Blues has all the usual ingredients for this sort of thing: catchy
songs, brawny riffs, a carnivorous vocalist, a drive like a runaway bus,
brilliantly tangled English lyrics – you know the drill. Sure,
you’ve heard it all before (especially if you read this site a lot),
but it’s done as well as anybody else has done, which invokes an
automatic Go! response in
someone like me. Maybe you, too. 
Comps dedicated to a single 60s
garage band are often dicey propositions – too many times the band is
lame enough to
So, somewhat inexplicably, Boston
twang-pushers Three Day Threshold find themselves with a sizable and
fervent clutch of fans in Belgium. New York or Milwaukee would have been
easier, but what the fuck, a fan’s a fan, so they pack up their
three-legged dogs and moonshine jugs and head east. The result is this
lo-fi, hi-octane collection of live cuts from various pissholes in
Belgium and Holland, complete with intros sputtered out in foreign
tongues. If you are unfamiliar with 3DT’s heartbreak bluegrass, well,
it’s pretty simple stuff. This is a band created solely to provide a
proper soundtrack for that one night when you puked on your shoes and
made out with your step-sister. In front of everyone. And bragged about
it for weeks. How do you think that’s gonna sound? 
Four tracks and one’s a Joneses
cover, which means the Cheap Dates have – bless ‘em – graced us
with the gift of brevity. Extra points for that. Anyway, four go-nowheres
from Columbus, Ohio, raised on Bomp and Creem, serving up effortlessly
out-of-it NY trash rock in the classic Heartbreakers tradition. Teenage
Crimewave sticks out as the hit of the set, but it’s not like the
other three sound any fucking different. It’s just got the best title.
So, yeah. Listen, they’re one of us. Support ‘em. Buy a t-shirt, if
they have them. Ply them with booze if they stumble through your town.
And don’t stab them in an alley. Unless they deserve it. 
So, says here the Vermin have
been around for 13-or-so years; they are, in fact, a punk rock
institution in their native Las Vegas. So I’m admittedly late to the
party. All the hot chicks have left already, the booze is backwash, and
there’s no cake left. There are, however, still plenty of good times
to be had. The Vermin play catchy, stripped-down punk rock, sorta like a
hardcore-tinged Social D, and they play it exceedingly well. Head thug
Dick Vermin is a sinewy guitar anti-hero with surprisingly nimble
fingers, especially for a dude who looks like he kills people for a
living, and the songs are instantly memorable, thanks to the Vermins’
Ramones-y ability to pare ideas down to the bare essentials: Gimmee
Hot Sushi is about the desire to eat sushi, just as Where’s
Nikki? is about trying to find a chick named Nikki. They’re not
complicated, these dudes. And they rock with tremendous abandon. 
So
at first pass, the Futants sound like half-crazy noise mongers with
almost no control over their instruments or their creative impulses. But
then, if you listen again, it all starts to make sense. You start to her
the grand design at work. You just let it wash over you, like a muddy
tidal wave, and it brings you to startling new vistas of
I am a confessed IDIOT for AC/DC.
It goes beyond owning every album. I’ve got an Angus tattoo on my arm,
a Gibson SG, bootleg cassettes galore and could wear something with
AC/DC on it every day for a month without having to do laundry.
After the self-conscious metal
fiesta fiasco of Ginger’s Sonic
Circus and Destroy All
Monsters here, in the main, the admirably erratic, though rarely
revelatory, Wildheart is back to writing enormous bubblegum popera’s
recalling the Earth Vs era of cuddly creativity and bong-fuelled boisterousness
before the skag scuppered things and spilt the bong water and spesh on
their last skins. Taking that notion further here he adopts guises like
a clean Jeff Lynne with a
loved-up Al Jourgensen, or Jellyfish and Gandalf Murphy,
mixing lovestruck country swoonage on Casino
Bay, glorious soaring so close to the sun but derdurderdurderddd
FUCK IT on The Queen Of Leaving
and psych-lament House Of Moths
and Regret.com like Mott
meets Mercury Rev with
electro-industro indulgences like Soap
Hammer mingling with the jiggery-folkery of The Ninns Of Mourning betwixt. As someone who can control clouds one
minute before inescapably flinging himself at any folly a momentary
wide-eyed whim holds woefully before him, he can be akin to The
Waterboys Mike Scott. At times here there’s a feel of that great man’s Room
To Roam as wisdom and reflection catch up with Ginger and trinkets
of tunes spill into each other, lapping around the main rivulets.
Thankfully there’s little of Tyla’s recent endless self-immolating immelodious ruminations and
plenty of rocking and songs that roll off his never tied tongue, filling
billowing sails with charismatic, affecting choruses that save the day
for a thousand Trafalgar’s (case in point, Awareness
And The Great Integrity is admirably rescued from a preposterous
title and furthermore plummeting from Neil
Young to Here I Go Again,
by a twenty-two seconds, though the same can’t be said for such slush
as the awful, almost Paul
McFarteney-esque, The Perilous
Burden Of Prodigal Obligation – surely a title alone worth
shooting him for, never mind full of smack)…also to pick through
there’s LoveShit meets Lenny
Kravitz on Josser Bank,
bonkers gypsy-folk like Julian
Cope on You And Me (That’s What I Want) or a Stevie Wonder soul-swing on Couple
Trouble, which possibly out-pastiches anything on the planet, and
alleviates songs to pick your nose to like A
Malibu Chronicle, surely a title worthy of a more interesting, less
self-satisfied song. That this comes off as an endearing album despite
or because of its feckless flaws may be testament to the old egotist as
he unravels his middle-aged spread and realizes he’s out with no full
house in sight.
