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Apache
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Asia
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Bedford
Falls
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Birds Of Avalon
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Born To Lose
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UK Subs
Anyone who has followed this band is aware of the revolving door of musicians who have come and gone over the years, but this is the second new release in a row to feature main-stay frontman Charlie Harper plus Jet on guitar, Brian Barnes on bass and Jamie on drums. And what a band they are, bringing the UK Subs sound alive and kicking into the punk n’ roll naughties, whilst maintaining the original simplistic charm of the original sound. If you like the UK Subs as a live band but find the production of some of the original recordings a bit flat then check this out. Put simply it sounds like we knew the ‘Subs studio recordings always could have and should have, thanks to a great production from Stan Standen from Demented Are Go, who previously worked on the ‘Suns last single and also mastered The Eruptors debut album. Recommended for old punks and younger rockers alike, whether your first gig was seeing the Sex Pistols at the 100 Club or Backyard Babies at King’s Cross Water Rats, you’re going to enjoy this. High octane, raw power. Crank it up! Alex Eruptor
Hollywood Brats Audience attendee aka twat walking right into a tongue-lashing – “You sound like an abortion.” Andrew Matheson, Brat, twat maybe but honour this – “That’s ok pal, you look like one.”
Stu Gibson
Hydrogyn
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Jon Cleary and The Absolute
Monster Gentlemen
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Jubilee
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Lauren Harris
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Mudhoney “Spill my seed – Suck my waste”
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Romeo Must Die
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The 222s
They certainly played like heroes anyway if this slutty knees up and wide apart slew of home and live recordings is anything to go on. These flurries from some DollsCooperCounty summercamp of smut-struttin’ (sorry, lass) masterclasses veer magically wide of many marks and have little wings causing whimsical little flurries in your hearts, fizzing like cherry bombs in your sticky pants (is that bubblegum, boy?) from Female (‘You look like a female but you fuck like a man’) and Hold Up to Academic Drop. A veritably slippy, sloppy, ritzy, ribald and rampant history from rawk’n’roll’s rapacious slag-heaps, just the way we like it. Stu Gibson
The Turnpike Cruisers
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The Demonics
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The Fabulous Rachel Moss
Album
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Sonics Rendezvous Band
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The Lords Of
Altamont
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Motorhead
Since “Overnight Sensation” in 1996, Lemmy, Phil Campbell and Mikkey Dee have been a recording machine, putting out now seven studio albums with what has become the longest running Motorhead lineup in the band’s 30 some year history. While every album since then can certainly be categorized as Motorhead – let’s face it, they all sort of sound exactly the same – they’ve been all been solid, but to varying degrees. “Motorizer” surpasses them all and quite a few of the band’s earlier r ecords, too. Opening track “Runaround Man” is the best Motorhead song in a decade. With train-like tenacity, Lemmy pounds out more lyrics per square second he ever has. Motorhead once said if they moved in next to you, your lawn would die. Well, listen to “Runaround Man,” and your brain just might because it’s that damn catchy. “One Short Life” and “Back on the Chain” groove with Sabbath-like swagger. “Buried Alive” is pure the pure rapid-fire Mikkey Dee we’ve come to know. Every Motorhead album has at least one tune that sounds almost exactly like “Ace of Spades.” “Rock On” fills the quota on “Motorizer.” “English Rose” is another pure rocker ala “Born to Raise Hell.” Motorhead is the safest bet in the CD aisle perhaps of all time. But Motorhead fans undecided on whether to shell out the cash for yet another studio album, don’t fret. “Motorizer” is another Motorhead album, but it’s more than that. It’s the best album done by the current lineup, and probably falls into the band’s top three of all time. B.J. Lisko
Danko Jones
“Never Too Loud” was put out earlier this year and showcases some of the band’s most diverse material to date. “Code of the Road,” “Still in High School,” “King of Magazines” and “Let’s Get Undressed” are the Danko we’ve all come to know – personal AC/DC/Kisslike anthems beat into your brain like a jackhammer. But Danko experiments a tad on songs like “City Streets” and “Ravenous” which toss a pop feel into the mix. It ultimately works. “Take Me Home” is an acoustic guitar rocker dedicated to the most important thing of all – Danko’s record collection. It’s an oddball at first, but really it’s not all that off the beaten path. “Forest for the Trees” noodles a little bit, but the very next track is back to classic Danko with “Your Tears My Smile.” The album closes with the title track, which at first I though was a cover of Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine.” I swear the two songs start exactly the same. Regardless, it’s another classic Danko sing-a-long, and a sure-fire tune in the live set. B.J. Lisko
Turbonegra
What can be said…’cept if you like Turbonegro you’re pretty much guaranteed a good ride from these frisky Frisco ladies, especially if you grind on the nutty Norsemen’s best, most discernibly bulbous offerings from their tender, well-talced loins like Good Head, Age Of Pamparius (yuss, the pizza one…), Don’t Say Motherfucker, Rendezvous With Anus, Prince Of The Rodeo, Erection and Denim Demon. So it ain’t as good as the original deal and they stay true to the recipe but all usual rules of cover versions can be trashed and slapped with this hot-stoking, um, masterstroke. Everything rattles n’ rolls like their compadres And really, anyone who fails to connect the excitement at shouting about having ‘Muthafucking pizza tonight…’ in front of a huge bank of gatling gun amplification should, well, be shot like Harry Dean Stanton in Dillinger, the old ranch dude at the end of Young Guns or the Weller guy that becomes Robocop. Open up and say ‘Grrrraaaa…’ and tell these good nurses about the headaches in your pants for what is far ahead of being the nineteenth most powerful concept in rock since that Girlschool / Motorhead liaison. Stu Gibson
Western Promise
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Hey, how about some fucking vinyl?
__________________________________________________ Man, this Ion USB turntable is a pain in the balls most of the time. I didn’t used to have to hunt for the fucking manual every time I wanted to play a record back in the good old days. Then again, we wore parachute pants in the ‘good old days’, so I guess it’s a trade-off. Anyway, here’s the glorious results from the pile of wax I just scrutinized.
The Greatest Hits/ The
Tough Shits
Black Radio/Ruling
Class
Midlife Crisis
Palavas Surfers
The Steaknives
Truckstop Lovechild, not surprisingly, play trucker punk. Trucker punk with wailing, Gaye Bykers on Acid-y psycho-freakout guitar. It’s a fearsome combo and although their track, the Nashville Pussy-ish Thinkin’ Ain’t Drinkin’ is pretty standard stuff, something tells me these fuckers are bound for…if not glory, than at least one fuck of an album. Watch out for em. The Lookies sound like The Left, which probably means nothing to 99% of you, but seriously, they do. Stooges-inspired garage-punk looking for a fist-fight. Solid.
The Dead Ringers
Burndowns
Washington Dead Cats
Sleazegrinder ____________________________________________ More CDs...
Load Point Pull
Anyway, I should have given this one to Jeff, seeing as how he is the metalhead and I am, well, not the metalhead. But how is a girl to know that a cd with a cover done entirely in black with the band's name on fire is going to be metal? (Exactly-I should have given this one to Jeff.) So Kansas City's Load Point Pull are pretty heavy-duty, man. All black and on fire and shit. Basslines that'll bust your windows, and that I'm-too-tough-to-actually-sing-so-I'm-just-going-to-growl-at-you Rob Zombie vocal style. Heavy as a ton of bricks, but melodic, too. I probably would have danced to "Out Of Reach" at the goth bar I frequented a bunch of years ago. So while you probably won't find this cd in heavy rotation at the Holly-household, it is not without its hard rock industrial dance metal charms. I think Jeff would probably really like it. Holly C.C. Voltage
Holly
Disarm
Like cross-ocean clones of Izzy and Dregen dodging dealers and that endless draft into the drudgery of the dole or dour jobs they manage here to present themselves as far more than small satellite town kids on poppers n’ pills rawk. Having seen too many classic rock pastiches (well, three but three…) this last year here’s a band at last to take the reins from the all too over-rated Babies and show the current cess-pit of so-lowly they’re-not-even-cringe-worthy-never-will-bes disintegrating the ironic Motley Crue stance of too many tiresome scenesters with their half-assed crimping with the flick of a cracked plectrum, riding some resurgent glam sleaze coaster with strictly no roller on the back of The Crue’s pitiful rehabilitation. Formulaic but fun, they’ve sheared off the shackles of their roots for an international sound, making the title somewhat ironic, it just remains to be seen if they can do the same musically, but as it stands this fucks over with a shrug any recent supposedly righteously-racked rock action the UK’s being feebly exporting in recent years. Stu Gibson
Hanoi Rocks
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Guana Batz
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Frantic Flintstones
And don’t go thinking that half (actually over half) of this depends on how much you wanna splash out for a Santabilly album. This is called Not Christmas for a reason and so stands on its own feet awaiting any little psycho miscreant and apprentice deviant to sit on it’s knee with Bad Manners style ska (Frantic) and customary dizzying disarray at it’s dirty finger-tips dipped in disposal that King Kurt fans would gag on. So Little Town Of Bedrock is razed at rock-smoking rates, She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain is treated to a sax-sucking mong-stomp through on Alone Again / Round Mountain and scuzz-shuffles on Just Because (NOT a Christmas song but it does mention Santa Claus, smart huh?) and Santa Claus Is Back In Town (‘Santa Claus is coming…up your dirtbox tonight’) will be helping blow the usual Christmas schmaltz up many a rockers’ sprouting smokestacks as the nights draw in…what, Chuck, no In The Grotto???? Stu Gibson
Oli Brown
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Pennywise
Contradictorily Stu Gibson
Various
Though questionable how often you’ll return to these clips, so long as you’re not expecting any high concept scenarios and / or, if any of you once respectable reprobates remembers The Dirty Strangers’ Bathing Belles clip, well, dip in and go for a dive. Stu Gibson
Teasing Lulu
Stu Gibson
The Bone Machine
Sounding wonderfully evocative in the Italian tongue – though sometimes so unhinged it could be a Vietnamese street market (Sono Morto seems to herald Cortese crowing that he’s ‘sold a wok…’!) – these viscious vignettes could soundtrack and disembowel the cast-list of a Lucio Fulci flick, from the Dion as deranged playboy of the twisted world, driving a clutch-less Cadillac past crooked crosses and coverless crotches, whistling I Was Born To Cry through a scaly lip-scalped mouth, or the Little Richard trapped in a chicken coop with a psychotic cock fighting the hundred years horn on Siamo La Banda Che Suona Le Tue Ossa and Una Cassa Da Morto Foderata Di Rosso swigs on your sister’s sway while swaggering into her closet and closest secrets entirely in the manner of Walk This Way…is we missing something (don’t start) or is gleefully wading through the stains smeared on Aerosmith a particular hobby ‘mongst Italy’s luna-billy bopsters (see self-crowing cockabillies The Legendary Kid Combo). If you wanna cut to the chase of this frantic rampancy, then yeah ya could say it’s kinda Cramps-sodden but the chase being better than the catch, natch, get ye tha card and exchange yer currencies and get some of The Bone Machine stamped on your ass like the grass chomping cattle you be, for this is best recordings so far merely bolstered not bettered by a monstrously surreal slur through Big River as it carves their faces in the side of the Collosseum for a new quintessential national monument. Stu Gibson
The Lords Of The
New
Church
From a time when all your favourite rock stars were narcissistic narc-heads on a shoestring, this lil ol’ supergroup of banditos swooped, soared and sowed oats and swore oaths wilder and more sacrosanct than the holiest psalter, swapping punk’s gob and malice for goblets, ruffles, fetishes and whatever rough specials of the day coursed through and chalices but never let the accelerator slip on conflict and the compulsion to contradict whether in polemics or paeans to plastered trysts. Arch, cynical, crass, calculating, candid, cryptic, cool and just unconditionally sexier than any phet-faced, rat-eared, Sylvester The Cat on sewer-smack had any right to be, Stivney and his sallow-eyed deviants stride on sheets of black midnight humour with sultry demeanour, shallow cravings and gargantuan grotesqueries from the powder-chilling drill of Lil Boys Play With Dolls, the grandeur of I Never Believed, the so-stoned swagger of Black Girl White Girl whicha woulda 86’d The Stones offa their infamous ’72 tour along with the vaudeville vamp of Fresh Flesh. The live slip of a set is as sweetly, seedy and shambolic as the much-slaked legends say, yet when they crystallize as on the citadel sway of Russian Roulette and cataclysmic Holy War it’s evident even on the scratchiest live sweat-shaking communion that no-one has ever really followed their chain of command in exploits of disobedience and dissolution. Religion all night long, Lords that should never be laid, nor allowed to rest…Like a perverse Shangri-la, I cried. I danced around in my frock coats. Hear it & fucking weep… keep telling secrets…this record’s GOTTA sell...RIP Stu Gibson
The More I See
Not unlikely to have a place chartered on Ride The Lightning or Master Of Puppets in business class, Metallica being a band directly influenced by the Dogs way back when Lars still played tennis and Gizz was a teen. With this banquet of viscerally mellifluous but muscle-bound classic thrash, may the circle be unbroken indeed. Another strike against would be usurpers of late last century for practitioners of metal malevolence everywhere. Stu Gibson
The Stupids
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I Hate Kate
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J.P. McDermott And
Western Bop
Replete with the heartache chasin’ twists of classic honky-tonkers far more than any mere western-shirted retread of the type that takes attention to authentic detail over attrition of art and soul, it’s like this timeless record’s five-year gestation period was spent in a saloon opening the sluice-gates and inhaling sorrows on the wind whilst evading deliverance from the Elvis evil lycanthropic bop. Lurking starch-collared and square-shouldered, the slew of self-compositions snuck in stand as equals amidst the plentiful covers. The vicious Gene Vincent lip-curls masking breathless splutter-lungs on My Damn Baby and Coulda Shoulda Woulda (‘I woulda been married if I hadn’t’ve been true…’) could cause consumption among staples like the late-dawn Sun-session stomp through Johnny Cash’s Cry Cry Cry. Proffering sly grins and shrugs to ghostly laments Not Enough Of You and the title tune, they give a haunting glimpse of what one Buddy Holly may have bequeathed to the beat had he not been dealt out by fate. Last fool, maybe - nobody’s, definitely. Stu Gibson
Last Train Home
Stu Gibson
Regurgitator Y’know when you identify with an anti-hero, like Patrick Bateman in American Psycho and you sit around n’ discuss how you could do similar with greater pleasure, it usually happens after walking round Camden or Manchester, actually, thinking about it does the job really. This is one of those moments but set to music and makes you want to hunt down that Flowers guy from The Killers and construct a case that the cast of CGI or that Pathology film would never be able to get a bead on. Milking the sour tit of electro toss, wanking the last dregs of woe from the mass emo irritant, inserting little slivers of retro classics from Amadeus to Rasputin, Cool For Cats…Pulp without any prescience, hell, even the sodding nauseating New Order are tossed in there as well, hell, it’s like they’ve gone to the cash-point to withdraw some supposed ‘cool’ to get on a teen-flick soundtrack. I bag the killer role. Stu Gibson
Sebastian Bach
UK crew of an extra DVD, there is more to this album than the main selling point that three tracks feature his compadre and patron that is one WAxl Rose (on the elegantly ridiculous (Love Is) A Bitchslap) on backing squawk and grimace. Stu Gibson |
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San Fransicko partying pouters come in compact fun-sized
packet that yuss, early seventies camporamic glam in any damn colour you want,
darling, and a few yet to be invented. Bypass any notion of the similarities to
Bob Geldof’s Rats, though there is slight resemblance to their superb second
Tonic For The Troops album, and never once will you have to pause to reflect
on what one tit or tat was nicked from (well, ok not exactly true but you gonna
argue with Wolly Bully or Psychotic Reaction) though you can place
them proudly in the silkily polka dot n’ paisley pantheon of Brats, Dolls,
Ramones, Alice, even The Gun Club and biker fumes. Snarling n sniping this is a
swaggering glitterball from gutter to groin that will make you touch your hips
and maybe even wish they’d let you.
Pointlessly rising again. Let us pray for a musical
continental drift to ensure this resurrection is choked on, which would be about
the only rock action this load of overwrought cobblers would come anywhere near.
However it’s worth a download listen for the sheer incomprehension that will
crease yours and your compadres faces, as you frantically quiz each other as to
how in your worst personal hell such songs can be constructed, and query your
recent drug intake. Other than that this set of horseshit makes absolutely no
sense, possibly not even to accountants, though don’t get me started on them,
though it is hilarious and makes Magnum seem reticent to use the
preposterous pedal.
The subtitle “More sad songs about girls” says it all
really, for this ain’t no staunch-shouldered, mean-eyed caterwaul through
country dirt-roads and the suffocating stench of cantankerous back-alleys poured
out from bottles of heartbreak and unbeckoned beauty between slugs of squandered
romance and bumps of whatever shit the bloke round the block reckons he’s
holding. Nope, it’s drab indie rock from the same neck of the woods that should
be silenced for ever by marauding groups of musical einsatzgruppen following
this scrawl as Spastic Sheep Bleaters that can’t even muster the manhood to be
screamo, for FUCK’S sake (or lack of). I’m sure their parents and whatever
woe-hungry wallflowers that pass as friends relish their tender hearts but,
intone with me a la Eldritch – ‘Get real…get another’. If you come across
this just check the crap cover shot of the guys’ pitiful not worth a shrug shoes
and judge it forthwith, then buy me a drink if we should ever meet, for saving
you a fiver and a gainless half hour (or half-minute) or so. The credit crunch
should close such kak down. Man. Though I doubt it, this is the sort of dreck
that causes spontaneous masturbatory convulsions in the checked-coat,
cord-wearing, beard stroking cum-guzzling 
Formed from the ashes of dark-cloud garage
groove-psych-grinders The Cherry Valence, couple Cheetie Kumar and
Paul Siler continue traversing a willfully winding road. Or two, even
three in this case, for they have indulged the false idol of pompous psychedelia,
the pontificating piles-forming nonce of the kind that forgets all sage advice
about carrying protection and births prog from its swollen girth. Praise be they
largely leave the long, arduous parts behind and those aforementioned ashes fall
more between the spliff and mushroom cloud rather than those of the weary
wishbone variety. There’s still too much Led Zep lethargy and even
Grateful Dead, though, which means Yours Stuly can only really cop you some
of this if you want to formulate whether you hate fucking heads (still) or not.
Largely concise clutters of choruses and squiggly interludes they may be but
don’t be thinking that with the tedious though cutely appositely–titled
Instant Coma they’re on some sort of door to door sales jaunt selling the
Encyclopedia Apocalyptica, cos they’re really striving to connect with their
inner-seventies child. Or worse, on Think, their inner late-sixties
Beatle. Something even cranked up choogles like Taking Trains can’t stop.
Do, however, burn the Sabbath resting on the Lords day magic carpet ride
that is the mighty opulence of Horse Called Dust, from whence cities and
whole civilizations could arise. There’d just need to be one holy hula
dance-fest with a phalanx of Salma Hayek’s and Jemima Roper’s of a
civil war first. But rock’ll always ride out, right? Right??? 
Texan terrors BTL are back with another back-bar room of
brawling, sea-faring, ocean-bound anthems with which to barricade the doors for
another lock-in littered with the detritus of late-nights, shore leave fall outs
and last minute failures. Chris Klinck’s vocals are amongst the most
stirring, and that’s soul-stirring, and affecting in rock’n’roll never
mind the street punk niche people’d love to keep ‘em boxed into, and, backed up
by the beefy, bull-horn steaks of his four hombres hewing a no limits
suction-pump of hardcore and squealing rock guitar like some soul-dredging
dialysis machine, these guys are no slightly built bunch of ‘woah-oh-ohh’
merchants whose table’s for the taking with the littlest touch. Under such
rapturous sheets these songs, and this band, work as they’re either
blessed with, or well aware of, their great (musical anyway) state’s lineage and
it’s not such a leap of faith to picture Texan troubadours such as Townes Van
Zandt or Steve Earle picking out tracks like Soundtrack or
Ante Up (Or Roll Over And Die). No false posturing or by numbers
brigandage but some well-considered and often beautiful diatribes and
salutations to situations attestable to from experience, experience that
resounds round your leaderless, rally-call hungry soul, not much apparent these
days but Born To Lose can be as profound as the are a pounding, sensory
padded-cell cataclysm. THAT’s punk rock, should you need a slap as a reminder.
And let’s face it, you, me, your best pal, all probably fucking do round about
now, eh? Powerful mojo.
Featuring five blistering audio tracks and a live video of
the title track, UK Subs brand new release is a classic. ‘I Live In A Car’ and
‘Warhead’ are both new versions of familiar tracks from the ‘Subs chart-storming
golden era, whilst ‘Straighten Out’ is a more dynamic mix of the b-side from a
couple of years ago. Meanwhile, the two new songs ‘Knuckleduster’ and
‘Creation’ sound great and even though these legends of punk have nothing to
prove, they still sound as though they’re writing and playing as if their lives
depended on it.
Stomping outta the early seventies glam-slam glum-slum of
Lahnden in a parallel slime-light with the Dolls in possibly one of the
strangest synchronious misalignments in any world that’s ever been worth writing
n wanking about, not just music - history. Yes it’s that fuckaluckadingdongingly
important. This is no ‘oooh look at that Elvis chappie, let’s sign Cliff
Richard’, nose-missing by a million lines, this is as grimy and ecstatically
sticky and trashed as their 
Beckoning you back to the pre-Riot grrl eighties with a
come hither flick of the hair and crotch-coaxing index finger to a world
festooned with Doro Pesch posters, Pandora Peroxide in her prime,
moving nascent stonewashed blue-jean bulges unwittingly to back rows come these
Sessionista satellite with the likes of B.B. King
and Taj Mahal on his flighty-fingered credits and a mainstay of Bonnie
Raitt’s touring band, ivory-itcher Cleary unfurls some swamp-funk blues from
the 
This 4 piece LA rescue ex bit-parters from their respective
cameos, culled as they are from Wires On Fire (Michael Shuman -
yeah I thought that too - who can also mention QOTSA to his unemployment
officer, and Evan Weiss) and NIN / The Icarus Line in front
celebrator Aaron North, plus a veritable motley crew of drummers from
A Perfect Citcle’s Josh Freese to The Willowz Loren Humphry
and rumour has it even Josh Homme and Bauhaus’ Kevin Haskins. So
is all the back-slapping and protestations of being a real band, man, not one of
those stinky side projects worth the laser usage for this disc. Well, there’s
signs of striving for new identities yet they risk ending stuck in the mire of
identikit bands straining to straddle the divides as suggested in their intended
influences from Replacements (surely asking for ire?!), to Blur
(definitely if used in the same sentence!), The Verve (ditto. Thricely!), Neil
Young (need I go on??), Creedence (bit late in the day now), Jane’s
Addiction and Dylan (I went).
A debut album from Iron Maiden headman Steve’s
daughter is sure gonna catch equal squeals of delight and derision. Apparently
spotted by legendary Brit prodcer / writer / berk who brought us Since You’ve
Been Gone Russ Ballard (who knew nought of the family connection
sayeth the legends and heralds), Harris and her band of repr-oap-bates lay down
some stadium ready, rock radio friendly, if not overly amorous, riffing with the
practiced eye of former ruffians, perfect fit for the menopausal metal set on
their nostalgia retirement farms running their estate ragged in their new Range
Rovers before racing through suburbia for the Sunday papers. Hurtling to
mediocrity and adequate this slab of marketing-man rock concocted over many a
smorgasboardroom meeting, or orgy, was written by a team almost resembling a
supermarket check-out section when the students are back in town, surely one is
an advisor to MTV, another a consultant to whichever teen soap channel de jour.
As it stands, the lady doth have a strong voice, though one lacking personality
and charisma, which would carry this record into the chapters of kook-dom. So
it’ll surely be adored by many looking for something a bit edgier than Bon
Jovi to raise toasts to their misspent youth, or the older teen independent
girl now Avril’s got hitched and Harry, well, it would insult this
‘arry to go quite that far! A perfect, cheekboned, sculpted example of one
critic, or cynic’s, classic being anothers cliché. Harry will be soooo jealous.
This twentieth anniversary two-CD set is as monstrous and
colossal a goatfuck (cheers, el Coen Brothers!) as it was hearing the
sick sludge of Touch Me I’m Sick or In ‘n’ Out Of Grace steaming
and scything through some clubs’ sound system or skanky mate’s long suffering
seventy quid stereo for the first time of many. Expanding on the original
six-track shrug that slid outta Shitstain, Seattle, like an apologetic turd down
your thigh in front of your first girlfriend’s parents, this is now a remastered
(ha ha!!) 32-track torrent of small-town torments and tragic accident, Grinding
garage–band mentality with Sabbath’s jaw-slackening apocaslippeddisco,
Stooges stun-gunning scatalogy and the cartoon malevolence of America’s
early eighties hardcore heroes from The Melvins to The Replacements,
Mudhoney were similar likeable, lanky-haired losers standing (barely)
unpretentiously and gloriously from the locker room to mall to, yup, garage.
While sure as a stoner’s wisdom and a drunk’s steady hand, the second disc
comprises kinda inconsequential though sloopendous live slop of slight interest
the first disc is the essential holy fuck of what grunted at the world as
grunge, and still scrapes with broken fingernails the weasly entrails of those
much more famous sons of that little town, but then even TAD did that.
The intro to Touch Me… can still make you come and shit almost at once
(accidentally wrong sentence structure??) like some GG Allin gang-bang
with Angus Young and a young Paul Westerberg in Beer For
Breakfast slob-glory. Sod it, most of these early tracks can. Crawl amidst
the gut-fisting suffocation of Mudride and smear yourself some new
murals, muchacho-chistas, as the disemboweling and retinal prolapsing bass
squelches all over No One Has. Furious, passionate, dysfunctional,
aggressively pathetic, nerdy yet nastily resentful, desperate and anguished, the
likes of Need, Chain That Door and Twenty Four along with
the harrowing If I Think (prefiguring the raggedly majestic By Her Own
Hand and When Tomorrow Hits from the following years even greater,
and grebo-er, self-titled debut muck) and the couldn’t give not get a fuck lurch
of You Got It (Keep It Outta My Face) along with Hate The Police
showcasing their sluurrrred-pop capabilities…if they rarely captured such
low-down grime again just ask how many no-hoping thirteen-(shit)can caners with
stomach cramps and colostomised brain-cells never mind coagulating nerve endings
could ever happen ‘pon such degrading delights in the sick swamps of their
darkest desires. 
Hail! Hail! Rock’n’Roll!? No, but this IS massive metal
with balls bigger than Valhalla and all the halls of hell only gearing up to do
battle, well, with any fucker, by the sounds of this testosterific seven-track
onslaught from the vocals and bassist behind UK stalwarts Stampin’ Ground.
In fact, it smashes those old wart wounds like giant Cyclops on spacehoppers.
Tumultuous thrashing to make the cheekiest cunt clam up except to emit
occasional squawks from various prolapsing and herniating organs, orifices and
clenched muscle walls with pincer movements of rhythmic vampire riffs raising
stakes made of rib-cages to festoon with bass-drums like grizzly bears
belly-flopping on your face, salmon-ising your insides in an instant, forcing
their clenched fist and every supple sinew from elbow to shoulder into the
vanguard of the new wave of British FUCKING Metal, that shall not be thwarted.
Casually proving the lie (along with current miscreants
Chop Suicide) that Canadians aren’t just a set of bear friendly rubes higher
on the boring barometer than their self-imposed British cousins and notable
(along with the French) for being entirely culpable for the cuntsoup spawned
from the too-toothy traps and sandpaper faces famous for crimes even against the
most foul of coffee table music, The 222s basically downed tools on the
detention breadline, got all dolled up and appear to have glitzed, ritzed and (Donna’d
and...?) blitzed like heroes for a few years, before getting go go gone, faced
with the moronic musical climate that juiced and lubed itself over the likes of
Supertramp and Kansas. Destiny sure is one wonky-racked n’ deranged bitch. They
shoulda come to the Motherland rather than mong in their home city in a state.
Ten years or so later times two, a fellow set of fag-hounds suffered a similar
fate in old 
This ten year best of from these 
More than just a showcase and a primer for upcoming
releases this little cutie not only takes yer hat but scratches your back and
puts a bag in your hand, leading you underneath the counter to a treasure trove
that penetrates the underworld of rock’s past and slides you into some future
now with Teasing LuLu and new uk spaced out warpiers Tomorrow plus
solo soul-salvers Judie Collings and scabrous old essential dispensers of
ragged sagacity like ex-Damned Lord Brian James and his hallowed
scalpelling Telecaster alongside Iggy, Stooges, Kusworth,
Lou Reed, Steve Marriott, T-Rex, Sylvain, showing
these priceless wares with a love and passion of the performers they retch up.
Gobbling old labels voraciously like a benevolent beast along the lines of
Cherry Red, and Charly they already have Stooges, T-Rex, MC5
and Sonics Rendezvous boxes notched on their bedsteads and upcoming Lords
and Nikki Sudden ones plus issuing Kusworth solo, it’s waving a big
fucking polka dot scarf at you so step into the breeze, count your change and
indulge that yet to be pleased.
The fabled band featuring Stooges drummer Scott Asheton
and led by MC5er Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith – who only ever
released one single, the voluptuous space trucking car-park grind of City
Slang - are caught here on the same day the Pistols famously put the
knee in their punk spectacle at that Winterland gig. It’s not documented and
what’s the point for you can be pretty sure that not many in this 
With a title surely winning favours from the grand old dame
of punnery if ever there was one, ‘tis like they were sat around all this time
scratching like meth-fiends mired in a nettle bush in desperation to use it as
their third album title. If they were then they also scraped up a furious
bush-rustler of a record amidst the earth’s herpes and halitosis, hewn from
garage rock’s cavernous n’ much itched alleycat scratch, one not so virulent
since Zen Guerilla flew too close to the sun, and Thee Hypntoics
were, well, a bit too daintily English. No bunch of abscess-sucking obsessives
with barren bandoleros in rock recess these miscreants, but high plains drifters
juiced up on bulbous-jousting ju-ju n’ kicking karmic ass, laughing like hyenas
in every hellhound’s hollow-eyed hang-dog stare, grinding their snouts into new
street currency to scare your family and most fucked-up foes with. Who needs
bullets? All you need is love? Naah, San Fran or not, all you need is fug and
this plug-ugly torrent of swamp-grime and wheels-spinning gas n’ grease guzzler.
Bad-trip bards, Johnny Too Bad’s, the demon brothers that woulda been cast by
Russ Meyer had be been bulging-eyed fer big balls not big breastage, all in
black biker garb wielding garage grind garrottes, screaming whore harmonicas and
blues-based ballerina lurches with the shotgun blast vocals and
chainsaw-cracking guitars of Johnny Stiggs DeVilla and Shawn Sonic
Medina carving fatalistic scriptures of disaffection onto sarcophagi that
should hold up every toilet venue and crease the walls of every party you ever
thought you went to. They’re exactly the sorta band your mother warned you
about, that you got into rock’n’roll, black leather n’ slack morals for,
scowling out scabrous riffs that make speed outta the detritus of the cough
syrups and linctuses that snot-nosed snivelling wretch-rockers sooth their shit-snivelling
noses with while tagging along to parties, asking them to buy booze. Pipeline
is surfed on Stygian screams on opener Intro (No Love Lost), lassoing
Link Wray licks to the backseat, slyly slinking lines outta old sleeves
along their leery way, these fuckers slab it to your sorry sides with a blasé
way with all that is let loose and brutalized. It could be bottled more crudely
but they take The Stooges’ ‘Little Doll’ and ‘1969’ into Little Hell,
The Lords of the New Church’s A Gun Called Justice and honorary
lord Roky Erickson’s Don’t Slander Me for dances that make Iggy
appear static with stage-fright. Crank-compadres Going No Where Fast and
Driving Too Fast along with the skirt-tearing title-track and Faded
Black shudder-fuck any notions that their nonchalance may be anything other
than acceptance (‘Haven’t got a chance and I like it’) but artifice. Acceptance
like Murder City Devils’ ‘Some people are born…but some people are born
to Rock’n’Roll’ or Angel City Outcasts’ no terms discussed Made
For This, some records may even atone for The Cult’s previous sins,
some films, such as the speed-riddled ‘Vanishing Point’ should be remade with
this biker-fuck rubber-burner as the soundtrack.
It’s 2008 brother, which means it’s not 2007 anymore and
also means there’s a new Motorhead studio record. 
Why 
Oh me oh my oh what a concept! What a title…! What a
payload to get waylaid by!!
1985. Midway through Thatcher’s long, tight, hard reign
cloud, cold war cocoon, miners and dockers strikes, the Troubles, inner city
riots, industrial decline, or dismantling, came this scarred and sharp-tongued
troupe of Irish-descent Scousers condensing the barbed wire bombsite love and
passion of early Stiff Little Fingers into a driving post-punk call for
response, clanking clarion horns with The Clash, Billy Bragg and
that initial pulsing effervescence that propelled early U2 to
now-unfortunate pinnacles. This collection of early singles and Peel Sessions is
a pointed, strident picket, despite the dismal forays into reggae funk that
blighted their era, but with the doleful, dolorous but soaring voice redolent of
Mark Burgess of The Chameleons or a young Julian Cope, even
Stuart Adamson from Big Country, they stand out as earnest,
incandescent and affecting. Very reminiscent of the eighties it may be and it
might be simple at this remove to cast all that politically and socially
conscious militancy as right-on Socialist Worker-selling student activism but if
any of the myriad yet myopic so-called indie bands put the tinny guitars,
throbbing bass and machine-line drums to the grist with such conviction and
surging, uplifting euphoria they’d probably have cardiacs from extreme exertion,
such is the level of complacency shrouding all too many aspects of Blair’s
Britain. Alas, amidst the same politico-social background, a mere few years
later another sense of commitment and community saw that bands like Western
Promise were trampled under flares and rousing tribal rave beats. This is one
historical tract that should be studied anew.
They’re called the
Tough Shits, and it’s on brown vinyl. Haha! Anyways, the TS
tracks sound like
Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers. Slurry, scarf-wearing drug rock. Nice. The Greatest Hits
tracks on flip sound like some groovy, if slightly unholy, cross between
the Bay City Rollers and the New York Dolls. Tasty stuff. From what I
gather (and by ‘gather’, I mean I glanced at the cover), this was produced
by Briefs-man Steve E. Nix, and the whole thing might be the Briefs in
disguise, or their cousins, or their roommates. It’s got that vibe. Good, erm, shit, man. 
Split 7” that seems to be a semi-concept piece about, I
think, highway murder. Black Radio are Brit brawlers who play ferocious
speed-rock with gnarly metallic leads. It’s like that movie with the
flying guillotines, just non-stop panic and head-chopping. Fucking crazy.
Ruling Class are Swedes. They play muscle-car rock, fast n’ furious, but
with a dollop of melody, I’m assuming, to bait the chicks into their car.
Their death car! 
So hey, dig this:
Midlife Crisis is a supergroup comprised
of Dregen from the Backyard Babies, Robban from the Hellacopters, and a
coupla dudes from the Maggots and Maryslim. I didn’t realize that until I
read the hype-sheet; the cover just looks like a buncha rehab-bound
hard-luck types. So Midlife Crisis get together whenever-it-happens to
bash out some loose-limbed, raw-boned covers of their fave punk rock
songs, and there’s a quartet of them here, including, as you might have
guessed from the title, Cranked Up Really High by Slaughter and the
Dogs, Vital Hours by The Outsiders, and…some seriously obscure shit
from The Menace and FF Commando. Odds are, unless you are record collector
scum, three outta four of these will sound brand new to you, and the Dogs
track is suitably snarly so, you know, right the fuck on! 
Very swank slab of deep-blue vinyl and a sleeve that folds
out like…I dunno, swinging doors. Musically, it’s pretty rocking French
surfabilly sung, fittingly enough, in their mother-tongue. Even the
bird-is-the-word bits are in French. So it’s educational in that respect.
Not exactly ground breaking or nothin’, but if you ever wished the
Ventures were more continental, than you’re in luck. 
Steaknives are Italian, which sorta surprised me, what with
the scary red blood splatter on the cover. Usually it’s American bands
pushing the openly-psychotic angle. Anyways, sweet pink vinyl and a
quartet of creepy-crawly garage-punk that grinds away at a slack-ass pace
but makes up for it’s lack of pep with some very tasty Thunders-esque
guitar licks. Lotsa talk about dogs. I think they’re into the Stooges. 
The skittish, rumbling bassline on
I Want Out alone
makes this single worth the purchase, but the rest of its pretty bitchin’
too. SF band fueled on snot and old glam records, doing a tuneful sort of
Dead Boys revamp with scorching, acid-punk guitars and vox that sound like
the dude just knifed his own mother. And liked it. Awesome. 
Big thick chunk of pizza-sized black vinyl with a shiny
little credit card inside the sleeve good for one free digital download of
this here LP. Swell! As for the rock? Burndowns are Pittsburgh dudes,
sorta punk, a few metal riffs, mostly slop-house garage spew that reminds
me, vaguely, of the Meatmen without all the phony baloney bullshit. I
envision sofas with cigarette burns, cheap beer backwash, roommates who
are always late with the rent, a greasy, much-pawed collection of Swedish
Erotica on VHS. Standard loser-rock with a few dips into punk rock glory.
And that’s that. 
Straight outta Paris, the
Washington Dead Cats are ooky-kooky
psychobilly splattercats with semi-secret second lives as comic book
artists and Frenchy hip-hop stars, all kindsa crazy shit. They’ve been
around forever and a day as evidenced by this career-spanning LP that
collects tracks from 1986-1991 on the A-side, and 2001-2007 on the b-side.
What were they up to between ’91-’01, you ask? Dunno. Hip hop and comic
books, I guess. Anyway, they sound very much like the Euro version of
Dino Lee and the Kings of White Trash. Same predilection for mixing up
b-movie themes, rockabilly, surf, Vegas-y lounge, and sweaty rock n’ roll.
It’s infectiously fun stuff, Makes me wanna build my own Frankenstein
monster, or something.
A long time ago, Sleazegrinder sent Jeff and me a package
of stuff to review. Jeff finished all his reviews in, like, three days, and
here I am with one cd left, a whole calendar year later. Talk about
embarrassing...
Pay attention now,
because this can get confusing: C.C. Voltage is both a man and a
band. (Kind of like Sleazegrinder being a really rad dude and a rock
and roll empire.) C.C. Voltage the man wears many hats, in addition to the
fine white panama he sports in the liner notes. He is a respected teacher of
German by day and a drunk punk 'n' roller by night, and he plays a
mean game of nudie spot-the-difference. C.C. Voltage the band, hailing from
Vancouver, Canada, with musicians pilfered from such lager-soaked legends as
The Spitfires and The Black Halos, is, unsurprisingly, pretty much like the
man: smart, unpretentious, earnest, and a hell of a lot of fun. This is
fantastic power-pop punk rock, from infectious opener "Think About It" to
the melodic oh-oh-oh chorus of "Remote Control" to the driven-tambourine
rock that fuels "Frankfurt." A Touch Of Class...Just A Touch" is perfect for
drunken summer evenings on the patio. Don't forget the umbrella in your
cocktail... 
Though it can be claimed that South Yorkshire is an unusual
backalley for rock’n’roll jetboys n’ jeepsters to be born into, lest we
forget a certain Mr Z Mindwarp hails from someplace further on up the
road. Obviously, but not to their detriment, ingesting copious amounts of
Scandinavian ice-berg crunching polar-rolling rock, these four tirade
troubadours power-line their way through vicious vein-slicing sing-alongs
with the gruff-faced, gaunt stomached greed-lust of Gordon Gecko
indulging in mutual mutilation with Patrick Bateman. Snaking into
your synapses like yer preferred powder of choice piled up from expense
accounts they combine the brutal stomp of early Wildhearts but slash
the playful pop with a surly well-articulated, intelligent (at last!)
disdain and dark air shrouding what would be dancefloor beltclip slipping
riffs deserving of a head flushed down the toilet with the screamo hordes
sucking on 
Legendary live tapes reissued after two decades on the
bootleg shelves at record fairs may be ten a penny but for catching the
mighty, and mightily frazzled, Finns live in their pre-Razzle demise
prime, then you may not get much better than this. They may be of similar
ilk with platinum-tinged penchants for pin-eyed stares and similar silks,
but fear not the paltry releases that beleaguer the legacy (for want of a
better word) of Mr Johnny Thunders, like the typically tragic through
wasted opportunity Thunders, Kane and Nolan DVD. Essentially a
greatest hits set (with Lightning Bar Blues credited instead of
Mental Beat), which in reality, it can be safely but slurringly sluttily
said, is ‘all’ they were. That ‘all’ ain’t a light one either, lags n’
lushes, for beat my behind and bugger me rancid n’ wrinkly and film it in
the reflection of my PVC thigh if there’s much better on this waterblue
swirl than Boulevard Of Broken Dreams, Tragedy or Malibu
Beach (yeah yeah, ok, Oriental Beat’s conspicuous by its
fluorescent absence but testament to this celebratory shooting gallery of
galaxial glam-gems is that you’ll barely notice). So quit simpering n’
simply sit around with whatever toxins you call treats and wish you could
prance back and forth from a mic stand as well as Andy McCoy and
Sami Yaffa, as well as mangle the intro to Up Around The Bend so
well it’s a crimped, pancaked mush more like a spilt drink, then still
manage to turn it into a discernible song. Yuss, it surely takes strange
boys to slay such classics openly, brazenly and fucking amazingly. 
These two further batventures reissued for reappraising and
ravaging anew loiter in later night speakeasies than the first two more
fun-pub afternoon bitter and crisps sessions Held Down To Vinyl and
Loan Sharks. Though the sombre sleeve shots adorning
Still sprightly old scumbilly goat n’ rancid throat-wrecked
lung-depleted mainstay Chuck Harvey here has a coupla rocketing
oldies from ‘88 stomped onto one CD. Just as drug-buddy Spark from
Demented Are Go lives up to his bands moniker with his scabrous tales of
healthy perversions and predilections, so the Flintstones furnish a
bedrock shakin’ bop infused with the calypsodic spirits of ska that will
bedevil the Wilma outta your Barney and make you stomp through the floor of
your car and run it on phet-faced foot-fucked pedal power with this
dry-tongue lashing of instrumentals (notably Chuck Blows A Fuse) and
leer-grinning bonzo bog-brush dog killer crap-sodding soc-hop soda-jerkers
like Rockin’ Bones and giant ewok-boppers What The Hell and
Hot Head Baby. 
Enjoying the patronage of, but not patronized by, blues
greats like John Mayall, Buddy Guy and Walter ‘Terminal’
Trout, this young slip of a string-bend’s not been practicing the
slightly-constipated-whilst-doing-the-cryptic-crossword-mid-chicken
dance-face since he was in nappies, as may be presumed. A relative newcomer,
plucking for slightly less than the lucky seven years, alas, you can
telegraph what this is going to be like. Sure he can play a bit of geetar
but it’s hard to imagine it exciting anyone other than your stereotype blues
fan in a waterproof and warm pint of mild. It may be in the same vein as
Stevie Ray n’ so on but twinkly fret-board skills and some vapid funk
from your rhythm boys aren’t solely what translate into the Texas flood,
thus this 
Ever a sucker for defiant stand and fight war cries, this
not exactly highly anticipated return from the Cali-punk legends starts out
on not such a wretched note as expected with (Intro) As Long As We Can.
The welcome is kinda short-lived, though. From the wimpering with warm milk
and cocoa under cartoon character bed clothes of One Reason and
Confusion (‘I can’t believe what I have found / The world’s been turned
upside down’ – there, there, dude, hang in maaan) this deserves a
short-shrift unless you’re unduly desperate to own more melodic poppy
speed-punk recorded in a studio far from the nearest dealer of nasal spray,
positively stuffed full of tritisms (You Get The Life You Choose,
Affliction which helpfully tells us we got to ‘fight – for what’s
right’, I’m sure you germs’ll agree we should all be thankful for that lil
gem, hell it’s gonna be my hahaha epitaph) or have been unfortunately
kidnapped by the most sadistic bastard ever and have to choose between this
and My Chemical Romance. It’s not quite that nauseating, it just slips past
in a resiliently un-scintillating slurry but I’d need castrating if I
recommended any of you co-sickos to cut this some slack. Definitely burn the
opener though, and maybe Faith And Hope. Oh yeah, for all its
anti-establishment blandishments, it’s released in 
Teasing Lulu are a two toxic terror girls aiming to add
some glamour va-voom to the trite riot girl template, intending for the
noughtie-woman a la PJ Harvey but coming across like Elastica’s
Justine Frischmann was their New Deal advisor. Being suitably
under-produced by The Stranglers’ bassist JJ Burnel is a good
starting hand to flash then, which does give the nod to this being more than
just tantrums over lost tutus. You want the trite girl band comparisons
first, ah ok, then you may picture them as Alisha’s Attic being
exorcised by latter day Babes In Toyland, quirky verses looking up
the skirts of chart-friendly, indie dancefloor choking choruses on the
better moments, monuments to being fucked over like belting openers, the
topically titled The Ex-Factor and Waste Of Time, and
cretin-crunch anthem D.I.H. I mean, face it, nothing’s gonna be as
fearsome as Kat Bjelland in full heel-splitting, glass-piercing,
car-scorching woman-scorned super-sexy-psycho-crone-mode, but overall they
fail to inject some vital signs into their cauldron, leaving it all
tasting a bit too artificial and affected. The clunky parts clatter, the
kooky parts (Lady Luck adopts a move off B52’s Planet
Claire, the screech on Loser being neither cute nor scary)
licking not a trace of cracked nail polish off Kate Piersson’s
presumably delightful toes, neither creating any unexpected tensions and
gut-crunching caresses. Like any tease it has many a moment but it doesn’t
cut to the quick enough. 
Rarely it seems in the self-decrepitising pit of
psychobilly / rampant rockabilly does much new come round the corner to
blindside you, no matter how a-quiver they may make your head n’ hair. This
masked set of miscreants are far from a vanity project for label and shop
boss who in this incarnation bearing the bronco-brunting moniker of Jack
Cortese. Their frantic fifties and bong-baiting, catapult-eyed boogie
reels you round a wall of death and remain psychobilly in as much as this is
pretty much what you’d expect The Meteors to sound like but rarely do
given all the ‘only pure psychobilly’ bullshit posturing and narrow-minded
prattling Fenech’s solo stuff belies. Sadistically souped-up,
exhaust-splintering rockin’ is the rout of the day so expect more traces of
You Can’t Catch Me (Forse Sei Gia Morto) and Rip It Up
riddled with skanky demon seed adding some vibrancy to the same old psycho
stew whiff.
Formed by ex-Prodigy and English Dogs
guitar-eye-gouger Gizz Butt in 2002 (and featuring Sacrilege’s
drummer, if anyone’s been wondering unduly), TMIS eschew most possibly
expected traces from those bands, ‘cept for retaining the high maintenance
tumult of their assault-savvy approaches. This second album again launches
an articulate ultra-tech metal crusade on several fronts akin to early
Maiden’s punk-puke-phoria re-moulded for The Matrix millennium,
confident discourses like a commando squad at the peak of their calibre
coupled with the intelligence of the scientists who concocted the clinical
stimulants on which the cavalry charge through the gargantuan waves of
guitar-grit.
Instigators, possibly, of the UK hardcore skatepunk scene,
forming after doing the eighties version of free jumping down the stairs at
their local multi-storey car-park in Milton Keynes then listening to
Black Flag and The Replacements Stink a lot while sniffing
glue and each others shoes and munching mushrooms, not even hallucinogenic
ones, just bad, old, manky mushrooms (perhaps, anyway, I lost the cheat
sheets and the internet’s down at time of writing), mixed with mucus to make
‘em stretch further. Existing for just a few short years sometime round the
mid-late 80’s, this long abandoned wealth of recorded output is now reissued
(in deluxe trend-adhering digipack no less!) with a wonderfully stupid
amount of bonus material, demos, lives and stuff as Coolest Retards
and Frankfurter, which only shows how short they were in their
original form, more like Dead Kennedy’s In God We Trust E.P.
Silly, nonsensical and gloriously, joyously absurd. Largely interchangeable
but having three of the best album titles in the cosmos ever should tempt
some taste buds and loose some ears on this slew of open season butthole
surfer-ama well worth congratulating flatulatingly.
An earnest entreat in both name and title set to the sort
of simpering indie angst that these days passes for unslakable thirsts for
new terrains. Fresh off the conveyor belt from Calanywhere are this perky
indie-pop trio, with bleeps and whirls masking the bleats and yerlps. The
Killers with more guitars and a writer who obviously spends copious
amounts of time masturbating vigorously to Muse and old Brit-pop lags
like The Longpigs while mourning the demise and lack of critical and
commercial acclaim ceded to The Bravery. If that makes your ring
twitch propelling you future-wards with the lavish abandonment of the until
recently chronically constipated, then tuck in and feast, fuckers. It’s said
success is limbering up in the wings. As Mudhoney sang ‘You Got It…Keep It
Outta My Face.’ 
Ever regaling any world that would listen with his true
metal credentials, Mr Bach seems to have spent eighteen plus years trying to
atone for hand-wringing ballad sans balls I’ll Remember You and
helped up the ladder by hanging out with Bon Jovi. On the back
of rehab, reality TV troubles and so on is this an album of bitter
bite-backs and kitten claws at dawn? Nope, not really, unless you see
something in Our Love Is A Lie, Stabbin’ Daggers, Negative
Light, Take You Down With Me and so on. So the guy always
had a screw loose beyond vacuous self-obsession but he sure can shriek and
that very, however scant, fact drags late eighties riffs from the sunset in
a 4x4 loaned off Ted Nugent onto heavier street corners. He should be
put under Alice’s guillotine with a blade fashioned by the yakuza for
American Metalhead though the ironic post-metal brigade will die for
it, for all the metal-talk Bach has a well-conditioned commercial head of
hair as gets all Maiden with legs akimbo on You Don’t Understand,
and squashed into the middle and end are execrable REO Speedwagon for
the noughties (Live And Die and the freakishly Pete Cetera
X-Factor contender on Falling Into You) that should be trampled with
undue haste, lest they appears on a Kate Winslut soundtrack like some
sub-Aerosmith schlop-out. Besides the selling point for his