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Oh, by the way…recently I did this story for an upcoming Metal Hammer special wherein I gamely tried to answer the burning question: What is metal? In order to properly answer this question, I called in an expert, my good friend Ian Christe, author of Sound of the Beast: The Complete Headbanging History of Heavy Metal. Anyway, I wanted to check his authenticity as a metalhead-til-he’s-dead, so I asked him what was on his “recently played” list on I-tunes. It was all Cro-Mags, Van Halen, blah blah blah. An astoundingly metal list, for sure. So I thought maybe I’d do the same thing here, so you can see how authentically ROCK I am. But now that I’ve spent all night reviewing CDs, all the junk I just listened to is on my recently played list, which doesn’t help anybody. So instead, I will list what I bought at the Salem Record Exchange today, in not-so-lovely downtown Salem, Mass: The Primitives – “Secrets” EP 12” red vinyl Creaming Jesus – The Bark 12” EP Waysted – Women in Chains shaped picture disc The Archies – Jingle Jangle LP
Also, a biography on Queen called As It Began and a VHS copy of Brain Smasher, starring the Dice Man and Teri Hatcher. So, you know, you decide. I can tell you that I FEEL quite rock, which is bound to happen when you’re at the fuckin’ record store on a Tuesday afternoon, when most responsible people are working. Oh, one more thing. My muse for this column? Taraji P. Henson, from Talk To Me, which is very close to the coolest movie of the year.
Used Alien Mind Well, they’ve done it. Eureka. I mean, you name your band Used Alien Mind, you better cough up the mind-freakery. And this shit is freaky, Jack. Imagine Love and Rockets locked in a haunted funhouse all night. And then they all get slaughtered, and all that remains is a tape of their impromptu jam session early on, when they were getting high and sorta vibe-ing on the spooky atmosphere. That’s this CD, exactly. Will drive paranoiacs to the asylum. After Dark NYC Raw, horror-obsessed metal that bashes away drunkenly, like a monster in the sewers chasing down hobos. Reminds me of early Bathory mixed with gritty, home-taped doom-rock. If this is not already the soundtrack for a snuff film, it soon will be. The Besmirchers
Born in the Basement
(DVD)
Feel the fire! Amplified Heat Trio of bearded bros from Austin, Texas, blasting out double-wide power-blooze in the fine Blue Cheer tradition, with a dash of southern charm thrown in for added spice. What I dig about these cats is the sense of visceral immediacy to their music – sounds like they’re gonna get frustrated and just break your jaw for you any minute now. Otherwise, this ain’t entirely (or even sorta) different than their previous dispatches, but if you’re down for another round of violence-prone stoner-boogie on the evil blues side of the poppy field, then grab a thick handful and hold on tight. Portugal the Man
The Bulshevaks I dunno, I got no info on this one. Is it our old pals The Shaveks with “Bul” added to their name for kicks?* Did somebody actually send me a hype sheet explaining all this, and perhaps I just lost it, like I do with my fuckin’ keys every five minutes? Doesn’t matter. What’s important is that this is five songs of furious sleaze-rawk with punchy choruses, slithery guitar solos, and evil cowboy vox. It’s rip-snorting, trash-the-joint stuff, reminiscent of the Erotics, and it’s well worth hunting down, by whatever means necessary. Blowguns, espionage, tripwires, whatever. Be creative. *Yes. I just figured that out. The motherfucklin’ Shaveks are back, bitches. Sideburn
Marduk
Kill Cartel Long-standing Sleazegrinder readers may remember our affection for scruffy, bubblegummy UK sleaze rockers the Roolettes. Well, forget about ‘em, wipe them from your memory, because the same fellas are back with a rougher sound and a meaner name – Kill Cartel. Their opening salvo is a 6-song assault of high-tensile arena-sleaze, heavy on GN’R style scorch and fist-throwing choruses. The bleary-eyed savagery of “Blood Red” is the clear monster of the bunch, but not to worry, the whole thing snaps at you like an angry dog after the mailman. Welcome back to the jungle, fellas. ________________________________________________ |
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June 2007 All reviews by Sleazegrinder |
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*Note*
Time constraints hinder my patience for
digging up all the label links. But that's why God gave us Google.
Imagine all that junk is your responsibility. Christ. Still, I’m not gonna complain too much. I get up around whenever. I used to get up on time. And that sucked. Anyway, here’s some reviews. Oh, and my muse this time out?
Eve Park, AKA Geek Girl. She’s got a videoblog that I watch religiously. What does she talk about? Who knows. Some computer bullshit. But she’s cute, smart, nerdy and enthusiastic, which is an awesome combination. I love her hard. Here’s a link to her show. Check it out, you’ll learn something. Something useless, but something, nonetheless. Truck on, baby.
I remember some hairy psycho at the Linwood babbling to me about these guys years ago. Was probably one of the dudes in the band. Took a while, but here they are, Boston’s newest ass-burners, with a crackling 4 track’s worth of doomy sludge-punch goodness. Collectively, “Into the Maelstrom” sounds like 17 crazy motorcycles bearing down on you in slow motion, allowing you to accurately picture your own death many long minutes before it actually happens. Rarely does a stoner rock band provide this much authentic, palpable atmosphere, but believe me, these supercreeps take you places. Inspirations? I’m guessing the usual: Monster Magnet, Blue Cheer, punk rock, drugs. Drawbacks? Andy Beresky’s vocals sound a little to nu-punk for the wall of vintage goo surrounding them. I would suggest they get a werewolf to howl instead. Otherwise, top notch freak-out songs from one of the more impressive bands this dumb town has spewed up lately. PS: the guitars will punch your fuckin’ heart out.
The Hail Marys
Monarch!
Dreadnaught
Velvet Cacoon
Sons of Perdition
Mac Blagick
Speed Round:
Kaross What, do you think it’s a coincidence that Kaross looks like Kyuss? Well, it is not, sir. “Molossus” is chock-full of very accomplished Swedish stoner rock. Your crotch will thank you.
Iceage Cobra MC5-inspired freak-fuzz from Seattle’s most with-it motor-city revivalists. Song to kill your best girl to: “Tornado of Knives”, a chest-thumping roar of pure gut-grease. Swank.
Midnight Creeps Murderous sleaze punk from the back-alleys of Rhode Island. Personally, I think they’re the greatest punk rock band in operation, and I’m willing to fight over it, no problem. If you’re into really violent sex, this is your new favorite record.
The Earps Charismatic trucker punk from Arizona. Story songs with happy endings, tasteful slide guitar, lots of references to Elvis, hookers and cocaine. Supersuckers fans, pin-up chicks, and DUI collectors take notice. Right. That’s it for now. Fret not, though. There’s more coming. Does it ever end? No way. -Sleaze _______________________________________________ |
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May 2007 All reviews by Sleazegrinder |
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Hackman
*Boston. Lucky me.
Josiah
So what of Elektrohasch’s other two releases this month? Well “Free Ride”, the sophomore album from dizzy Danes Causa Sui, froze my computer up so badly I had to write all these reviews over BY HAND, or I would have lost everything. So figure them out on your own, I’m not risking further complications tonight. Dude from Rolling Stone likes ‘em, if that helps. David Fricke, the editor. If you’re so cool, Fricke, why do you feature talentless nothings like fuckin’ Fergie in your magazine? That’s sorta besides the point, tho. The hype sheet mentions Blue Cheer and Can, so it’s probably pretty trippy. “Black Hole” by the multi-national Sgt. Sunshine is el-freako stuff, mixing up jammy art-punk weirdness with loping desert rock. Kyuss meets Swa? Something like that. Could be good for banging chicks that are smarter than you.
Blackboard Jungle
The Ones
The Way-High Men First off, I gotta commend these guys for the best job modifying those generic brown cardboard CD sleeves I’ve ever seen. Really awesome screen-printing job, makes the whole thing look like a piece of lo-fi, hi-concept art. Even better is the smokin’ hot shit inside. These New Orleans brawlers mix up a very tasty cocktail of Detroit riff rock and Supersuckers style thrillbilly-punk, blasted out through a tower of arena-shaking ampage and a decidedly Kiss-like stackheel slink. They’ve got the same true-blue spark that Joker Five Speed had and the Sex Slaves still do, an authentic hunger to climb to the top of the big rock candy mountain and piss on the heads of their detractors, and they’ve got the songs, and the guitars, to pull it off. Killer stuff, well worth seeking out. Thanks, Way-High Men. Now I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my precious time listening to this bottomless bucketful of CDs all night.
Motorama Ramshackle garage punk from Vancouver. Dudes look like a lot of fun at parties, what with the masks and all, and the music has a nice creepy degenerate feel to it, but it’s not a whole lot different that any of the other gusto-going-for garage rackets out there, so I find myself shrugging at this late hour. Probably the locals get it more than I do. What I did quite enjoy, however, was Motorama’s thanks-list to all the bands they’ve played with, an amazing roster that includes jaw-droppingly named bands like Mystery Pissers, Lyin’ Bitch and the Restraining Orders, Auto Pussy, Tony Baloney and the Rubes, and of course, UberSissy. All those are my new favorite bands.
Jeff Dahl
Tuff Luvs
- end reviews. I haven’t really put much of a dent in the pile tonight, but I feel a little better. If I haven’t gotten to you yet, don’t worry, your time is coming. Unless your record is in the garbage already. But that wouldn’t happen unless you totally suck. And you don’t totally suck, do you? Totally?! Next time. -Sleaze ________________________________________________ |
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March 2007 All reviews by Sleazegrinder |
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PS: this column was written under the influence of Fiona Horsey, star of Twisted Sisters.
PPS: please don’t hassle me if your band’s CD is not reviewed here. I’m
sure there’s a good reason. Maybe one of the other Sleazegrinder writers
has it. Maybe I reviewed it in Classic Rock magazine, or in Revolver. Or
maybe you just didn’t rock hard enough, ever think of that? |
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Torok
This one arrived with a neat, child-sized chunk bitten out of it, so I can’t play it. Back in the vinyl daze I coulda just skipped the first two tracks and I’d be fine – I spent a good few years back in the 70’s with a chunk missing from the second record in the Kiss Alive II set and never missed a beat – but these fuckin’ CDs, they are not so forgiving. But the whole package fairly stank of ball-grabbing, chest-thumping rawk, so I checked ‘em out via Myspace, and goddamn, these Foobar fools do, indeed, rock like fuck. Their sound mixes crunchy 80’s denim-metal (Accept, Priest) and Swedish motor sleaze, and the result is pure macho power-rock. Cowbells and everything. I can’t say much more, since I am not an expert, I am merely a man with a broken CD, but I’d suggest you turn towards Gothenburg and hear that howl. That howl is the RAWK callin’ your name, brother. That howl is Foobar. The band.
Much like Witchery, who have that ‘W’ thing, Metallium have their own secret hand-sign. It’s basically two Dio signs together. Go ahead, try it out. Pretty cool, right? Any band that has its own secret hand-sign is ok with me, even if the metal they are plying sounds like “Queen of the Reich” era Queensryche. Despite it’s rather archaic construction, the delivery on this collection of propulsive fist-raisers is flawless, the musicianship is stellar, and Metallium do not blink once, not even when they belt out a dizzy power-pomp cover of “The Show Must Go On” by Queen. One thing is for certain, Metallium MEAN IT, man. It would be rude not to bang your head in supplication.
Brainsaw is gonzo splatter-punk straight from the leathery bowels of Detroit Rock City. Featuring former God Bullies front-freak Mike Hard on vox and Queen Bee’s glamazon bass-pusher Karen Neal, there is very decadent rock royalty at work here. The songs on this too-short EP are semi-metallic knife thrusts of midnight-prowling sleaze, full of high tension, nasty thoughts, and the occasional mental breakdown. If you’ve ever witnessed the full-bore psychosis of the God Bullies, then you have some idea of the evil that awaits you here. Just imagine that Am-Rep muscle coiled like a serpent and slithering down a dark hallway. That’s Brainsaw. Brainsaw are gonna fuck you up, Jack.
Latest clutch of Southern-flavored fuzz from these Minneapolis true believers. Equal parts Allman Brothers and Fu Manchu, Countach offer no solutions to the ills of the world, nor do they dazzle the ears with inhuman musical prowess. But they do scoop out big ol’ hunks of greasy mustache rock and serve ‘em steaming, and that’s close enough for rock n’ roll.
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February 2007 All reviews by Sleazegrinder |
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Just kidding. There is nothing on Earth I like more than finding a new way to describe the same sound over and over. It’s an exquisite sort of torture. But normally, I filter out the junk before it ever reaches you. Not anymore. Now, I’m just going to grab whatever’s next on the pile and let it fly. I will then report my findings here, on what we all hope like hell will be a regular, perhaps weekly column. Welcome to my nightmare, Jack. Bonus to bands: If you have a girl in the band, I’ll probably post your picture. And if there’s no bands with girls, I’ll probably post random hot-girl pix, because I like girls. -Sleaze _______________________________________________
Midnight Bombers
*As you might imagine, these being mad bombers and all, their identities are a secret, but I would not be surprised if a Granny or Dirty Power-er was involved.
Obsessive Compulsive
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Daphne Loves Derby
I had very little faith that anything good would come of this, but the name “Daphne” gives me a boner, so I decided to give it a try anyway. DLD are Seattle “indie” rockers, although they sound more like whatever that band does the Friends theme than say, Pavement. I mean, I hate Pavement too, but at least they don’t make Jennifer Aniston music. C’mon, Seattle, start taking drugs again or something. |
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Three new tracks from this long-running Finnish dark-glam sinstitution. Musically, they pour on the hard-driving guitars in fine, fire-starting Guns N’ Roses fashion, full of icy fury and back-alley sleaze. However, their vocalist, Henkku, sounds sorta like Frankenstein, which sends the whole operation into a whole ‘nother direction. They’re the horror movie GN’R, these Starhags. Or maybe they’re the Hollywood 69 Eyes. Either way, these blistering power-rockers are perfect for banging brunettes in the backseats of hearses. Blondes, forget it.
Open-ended Danish outfit headed by one Simon Beck, a Copenhagen scene-creator with lots of cool friends, many of them blonde. This is the second album for the Vertigo, and it continues down the same dusty path 2005’s Viva Vertigo did, mixing up drowsy cowboy songs with Raveonettes-y garage-jangle and narcotically sweet hipster-pop. Drop the needle anywhere and you’ll hear something that reminds you of better days and songs you used to sing, but tracks like the epic Beatles-meets-the-backporch Brit-rock gem “Love is a Dog from Hell” and the slinky, downtown breeze of “Wind Full of Diamonds” approach flat-out gorgeousness. Awesome. Trust me on this one, this album will make you feel young and handsome.
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Obviously this would be of interest mostly to the Raygun faithful, and to you I say both sets sound quite excellent, and feature NR classics like Metastasis and Peacemaker, to say nothing of the tasty covers, which include “I Don’t Mind” by the Buzzcocks and “Twentieth Century Boy”. To the rest of you, I suggest you pick up 1985’s “Throb Throb” album and 1989’s “Understand?”, because they kick a roomful of ass, even with those polite haircuts.
Yeah, so here’s a 4 track CD-R fulla milky sludge from a bunch of Chicago stoner-dudes. Everything about it is primitive, including the production, which seems to retreat the closer you get to it, like a tortured puppy. I bet that’s pretty trippy if you’re weeded out. Anyway, I can hear the deep rumblings of fearless blastronauts in these lurching grooves, but this particular batch of tunes never really lifts off. I’m not saying we have a problem, Houston, but it might be a good idea to tinker with those heat tiles before we schedule the next launch.
Damn. I may not be the best guy to talk about this compilation. But you get what I mean.
So, yeah. Right on. See you in four years, Willycranes. _______________________________________________ |
Old skull punk
shockaholics from Tucson. The sound is ragged and phlegmy 80’s hardcore,
violent and just sloppy enough to satisfy your need for punk rock
authenticity. In fact, drop the needle anyway (ok, laser, whatever), and
it will instantly transport you to your last basement punk rock show,
surrounded by boozy teenagers while the cops smash the front door down.
Lyrically, the Besmirchers are from the GG Allin school of scumfuck
poetry, as evidenced by songs like “One More Slut”, “Pussy and Smack”, and
“Daddy’s Little Fuckhole”. Also includes a suitably raunchy cover of “I
Touch Myself”. Belch. 
Rat Skates
was the
skinny blonde drummer for NYC blood-metal champs Overkill during their
hungry years. He was also, it turns out, their chief archivist and
historian, as this amazingly comprehensive documentary attests to.
Basically, it covers every facet of Overkill’s first decade of existence,
from their early glam-punk days to their emergence as world-class thrash
metal heroes. Along the way, Rat explains not only how Overkill developed,
but how the entire thrash genre did. For old-school metal fans, the film
is a visual feast, as Rat rolls out countless fliers, magazine photos, and
early video clips of Overkill, including rare looks at their initial Alice
Cooper-y shock-rock outfits and make-up, and some truly awesome shots of
their haunted castle stage show. Hot. Not so hot is the bits when Rat’s mook buddy throws awkwardly staged questions at him, but this a minor
quibble, really. For the most part, it’s a solid hour of sharply-edited
horn-throwing metal nostalgia that will thrill and astound anybody who
ever owned the Power in Black demo. Which, admittedly, is not a whole lot
of people, but YOU had a copy, right? 
I know it kinda looks
like some indie rock bullshit on the outside, but Church Mouth is actually
a fearsome slab o’ Future Rock from a bunch of loony Alaskans, including
at least one dude who spent a year by himself in the frozen woods, eating
polar bear (I’m guessing) and talking to ghosts. Stylistically, it’s
pretty slippery stuff, but retains a regal sort of 70’s Dust Rock as its
base. Rumbling bass lines, heavy fuzz, arena rock-star vox that quite
often elevate to a glass-shattering soprano, and plenty of disarmingly
smooth bits. Toss in lots of weirdo atmospheric elements and a sense of
mad-science experimentation, and you’ve got one hell of a debut album. Not
too many bands can vacillate between Wolfmother and Steely Dan in the same
lifetime, never mind the same fuckin’ song. Awesome. 
Long-running Swedish
beard-farmers offer up a good hour’s worth of rumbling head-music heavy on
the Sabbath fuzz and Cult-ish hippie mysticism. These cats are not afraid
to just let the shit roll, as a good half of the songs on deck hover
around the 9 minute mark, which makes The Newborn Sun a perfect complement
to a cough syrup cocktail and an afternoon face-down on the couch. 
Typically chaotic live
set, recorded during the heart of winter in Poland, from Swedish black
metal maniacs Marduk. By my estimation, there are exactly two kinds of
people in this world: the kind that would listen to a live black metal
record on purpose, and the kind that would not. The latter makes up a good
99.99999% of the world’s population. For the rest of you, this is beyond
blistering. I mean, your skin will just slough right off when you hear
this. If you’re prepared for that kind of fuckin’ mess, then grab this. In
fact, might as well be totally necro about it and hold out for the
double-vinyl version. 
Elektrohasch Records out of Germany is probably the most prolific stoner
rock label in operation these days, easily picking up where Man’s Ruin and
later, Meteor City, left off. And unlike their American counterparts, they
tend to cherrypick their acts with a bit more finesse, as they rarely
release anything that smacks of the painfully generic copy cat-ism that runs rampant
in stoner rock. Thusly, we have the awe-inspiring “No Time” by Brit weedeaters
Josiah. It’s a swaggering tribute to the kosmik blooze that rolls
steadily along on big manly riffs and a Blue Oyster Cult box set's worth of
cowbell. Barely any words, tons of macho groove, and enough grit to keep
your teeth dirty. Downside? The singer sounds too much like Paul Stanley
for his own good, but that’s his mother’s fault, not his. This one, I will
keep. And believe me, there’s trash barrels full of stoner rock CDs in
this office. 
Britt from the Substitutes sent along
this very welcome reissue of his old
90’s band, Blackboard Jungle. If you’ve never heard of them before, I
suggest you read our own Stu Gibson’s rather brilliant
Portland dudes who play scruffy power pop, very much in the Dream
Police-era Cheap Trick vein, with maybe a little pogo-ready Tuff Darts
thrown in for extra kick. They sound like chicks dig ‘em. And that's the
whole idea behind all this bullshit, isn't it? 
I
can’t tell you that there’s anything original about the beer-spewing scuzz
on display here, but I will tell you that it’s loud, lunk-headed fun that
mixes up howling sleaze with arena-rock ambitions and party-punk attitude.
Sorta like Rock n’ Roll Juggernaut-era Meatmen with Ace Frehley on guitar.
These guys were born to shit in bathtubs. If staggering into walls is your
game, seek these power-pukers out. You have much to discuss with ‘em.
Torok is a Twin Cities hard rock band featuring Mike Torok, original
guitarist for shock rock legends Impaler. When I first popped this one in,
I thought I accidentally pushed the big red button on my time machine,
because it sounds alarmingly like something from 1985, complete with the
arena-rattling production and the big, ballsy guitar-twirling riffs. It’s
not exactly metal, but its close, like Alkatrazz or Europe, and it’s
played with remarkable dexterity here. I can’t help but to think that this
one woulda seriously dropped some panties 20 years ago. These days, well,
who knows, but if you miss the bluster and ruffled blouses of vintage
glam-metal, then check this chunk of retro-flavored hard candy out. 
This is, claws down, the finest horror-punk CD I’ve heard in many full
moons. No “whoa-oh” baloney-billy on deck here, no semi-industrial jibber
jabber, just one nasty cut after another of hard-charging, purple-metallic
sleaze rock with muscular vox and a serpentine guitar-grinder that has no
qualms with leaning heavy on the wah-wah when the right moment hits ‘em.
Said axe-handler is one Nasty Samy, editor of France’s finest
sleaze-webzine Everyday is Like Sunday. He also plays the growly bass here and
orchestrates the chaos. There’s a couple choice covers on here (Trash
Brats, Kevin K), but mostly it’s homegrown French fiend-rawk, dark
Halloween-y treats like “Succubus Without a Name” and “Have You Ever
Touched Dead Skin?” that creep, crawl and crush with sinister intent and
raw power. Cool ghouls take note. 
LA
dope n’ rollers return from the abyss with an impressively full-bodied
collection of 70’s fried groove rawk. The fuzz is so corrosive it makes my
eyes water and the grooves thick enough to surf on, and just to mix things
up, there’s a couple acoustic numbers on display: “Nikki”, which sounds
like a free-flowing backstage jam, and “Catalina”, the pearl of the whole
record, a real tequila soaked slice of desperado balladry. No shock and
awe here, but this and a bag of something dubious will get you through the
night, for sure.
What I mostly expect from a Hammerlock record is backwoods terror, and so
far, these San Fran Psychos have delivered every time. A power-trio
consisting of husband and wife team Travis and Liza Kenney, plus a
drummer, a shotgun, some rope and a big ol’ bottle with XXX scrawled on
the side, Hammerlock effectively straddle outlaw country and fist-fighting
scum-rock with all the intensity and authenticity such a motley stew
requires. “Forgotten Range” is Hammerlock’s fifth album, their first in
four years, and in that long interim between recordings, they’ve learned a
trick or two. Sure, incendiary rabble-rousers like “Snide Little Faggot”
and “You Can’t Stop War” offer up the gleefully confrontational hell-rock
Hammerlock built their rep on, but there’s some fine pedal steel plucking
riddled throughout the album, and there’s authentic honky-tonk C&W (“Ain’t
One to Judge”, “The Wings of Alcohol”), and there’s even some smooth-sippin’
southern rock (“Buenos Noches from a Lonely Room”), as well. I’m not
saying you oughta get close to Hammerlock or anything – they’ll probably
still shoot you fulla buckshot – but I think you’ll still be pleasantly
surprised by this one. Who knew they had pretty in ‘em? 
Aside from an unhealthy obsession with teenage Satanists, Acid King’s
early years do not sound much different from their later years. It’s one
of their more charming traits. But the stuff on this reissue was
originally released on Sympathy for the Record Industry in the mid 90’s,
and it’s been long-gone for years. First up is their debut, self-titled
EP, originally released on 10” vinyl in 1994. It’s got four punishing
tracks worth of deep, dark sludge, including the creepy dirt-crawl of “The
Midway” featuring vocals from the Melvins’ own Dale Crover. Also included
here is Acid King’s first album, Zoroaster, from 1995. The blueprint is
all there: Lori S’s hoarse, Joan Jett-gone-to-hell howls and doom-powered,
death-rattle guitar, the Satan songs, the long, winding passages that
blister and peel in the hot sun like a bad paint job. They would continue
on in this vein for a decade, but it all started here. Mandatory listening
for downer rock fans. 
Dragon Tears is a dizzy Danish supergroup featuring various fuzz-faces
from On Trial and Baby Woodrose in their most intoxicated forms.
Apparently written and recorded in a purple haze over the holidays, this
is groovy, heavy-lidded psychedelic dope rock that rarely rises above a
whisper but manages to keep you captivated throughout, if only to figure
out what parts were recorded during the peaks of the acid trips (for the
record, that’d be “Doubtstains” and the first half of “The Doors of
Prescription”), and what parts were performed face down on the floor (“Hobbiten’s
Drom”, no doubt). Don’t expect the glammy crunch of Baby Woodrose or On
Trial, but do expect to fail your next urine test after spending time with
this one. 
Gothenburg stoner-kings Duster 69 return with a wavy-gravy collection of
far-out space-streakers. This band’s magical weapon is a guitar tone (care
of Jochen) that really does suggest a panicky sorta doom. It’s a
remarkably icy sound that can bore through planets, and it is used to here
to carve out murderous trails of blood and sinew that twist around the blustery rhythm
section like the rags on an evil scarecrow. I can only assume that Angel
King is a concept album. The concept? Why, it’s about drugs, sir. Drugs
and maybe Danzig, which is what D69 sound like quite a bit this time out. 
A
knock-down, drag-out party in a box, NYC’s Stone Soul Foundation mix up
bar-room boogie with a skronking brass section and flash metal guitars,
and as you might imagine, the result is popped tops and DUI’s all around.
I haven’t heard this particular combination of instruments since The Boyzz
back in ’78, and although there’s no revving motorcycles in the mix here,
the biker-rally vibe is in full effect on Saturday night howlers like
“Walk Tall”, “Heavy Hand” and “We Are Reborn”. There’s also a smattering
of funk (“Get Up”), rattlebone blooze (“One Night”), and vintage
glam-metal power balladry (“Into the Flames”), and various mutations along
the way. Remarkably pretense-free stuff that exists only to get you on
your feet. Or on your knees. Whichever comes first. 
This one comes in a fantastic looking shiny black digipak with a pair of
mirrorshades reflecting the hooded rock n’ roll felons on the cover. They
all dress like the Unabomber, see. I thought it was sorta
counter-productive that a band full of midnight bombers would release a CD
that forces you to leave your fingerprints all over the thing, but
maybe I’m taking the image too far. Anyway, “Evil Streets” is full of
knife-slashing punk rock, fast n’ mean with a palpable black leather
slither to it. Pretty comparable to other San Franpsycho bands like the
Grannies and Dirty Power*, the Midnight Bombers offer up scuzzy, howling,
garage-wrecking noise for snipers and stalkers. I dug the menacing
“Shanghaid” the best, because it sounds like a guy getting pummeled to
death. Which is what you fuckin’ get when you’re out on the Evil Streets,
baby. 
A
young band of aggro gloom rockers from the UK, Obsessive Compulsive
(which, by the way, is no fun to either spell or say, and probably looks
weirdly confessional on a t-shirt) chase their hoary little demons on this
6 song EP. The band’s got impressively tormented, pissed-off goth-metal
vocals (care of tough-as-nails rocker chick Kelii) and a driving industro-metallic
guitar sound that brings to mind a grunge-y Marilyn Manson. The songs are
a little on the meandering side, however, with long, winding instrumental
passages that stretch on longer than your average Iron Maiden
battle-gallop. Personally, I would have gone slash-happy in the editing
room with this one, because there’s perfectly formed downer-core anthems
in here, they’re just layered in florid jibber jabber. Perhaps a few
driving cocaine-metal beats or flash-dustrial riffs would have injected
some much-needed sex and violence into the mix. As it is, this is sure to
please grumpy teenage cutters and trenchcoat sporting gamers, but OC are
gonna have to amp up the action to snare the hardcore rockers. 
I
dunno what 
Jesus. I’m already disillusioned with my new review-the-whole-pile policy.
This thing was produced by the Helmet dude, Page Hamilton, so I figured it
would at least have some short-haired chug to it, but this is just really
weepy emo-core bullshit. Why isn’t this genre dead yet? I mean, it’s been
begging for it for years now. Somebody pull the fuckin’ plug already. 
Chicago
The hooded ghoul on the cover, his mouth crimson with goblin blood, is
pretty indicative of the kinda Halloween-y noise you’ll find inside. The
Lurking Corpses reach deep into Venom and the Misfits’ black bag of evil
tricks, concocting a frothy cauldron’s brew of feral horror-punk that
tosses in random pinches of glammy riffs and the occasional (and quite
jarring) black metallic demonrasp. They are at their best when they’re
channeling the 50’s inspired deathpunk of Danzig and the fellas, as on the
greasy “Dead Girl” and the storming deathbilly of “She Said Goodbye”, but
with 20 tracks to fill up, it’s no wonder they switch up genres at will.
Craftier than the average horror-rock goons, The Lurking Corpses managed
to keep me cowering in the corner for the duration of this one. It’s a
howl, Vladimir. 
So the back of this one has a copyright date of 2003 on it, which means it
took 4 years for it to get to me from Finland. I know the By-Sea postal
rates are cheaper, fellas, but next time spring for airmail. Anyway, the Willycranes
are cowboy hat sportin’ desperados who play good ol’ American
trucker punk, which is pretty impressive, seeing as they are not Yanks and
probably don’t drive trucks. It’s good stuff, full of Supersucker-y
guitars and bar-brawling choruses, and although nobody’s fooling the
originality police with songs like “Sex Drugs and Rock n’ Roll” and “Go
Baby Go”, the Willycranes more than make up for their lack of new ideas
with good, ol’ fashioned gusto. Gusto don’t come easy, you know.