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 If you still ride a
skateboard, and drink forties of malt liquor
everyday, and you like to loiter 'round on the corner, wearing one of
those Von Dutch black hoodies you personalized with the little pyramid
spikes, and a West Coast Choppers t-shirt, even though you've never rode a
chopper, or visited the West Coast, AND you're pushin' forty, this could
be your band.
OR, if ya just gotcher first dumb tattoo, and you've been hangin' out with
some morally vacant, old, meth-dealer, playin' all his scratched-up
Corrosion Of Conformity c.d.'s while he stares half-lidded at bad porn,
and
sends you to the convenience store to fetch him his Pabst and potpies,
when
he ain't cutting his product while muttering obscenities to himself about
his slut ex-wife and probation officer, then the JACK SAINTS might be an
acceptable C.D. for you to pop in, while this goon and his creepy tweeker
crowd play hearts endlessly, and treat you like the kid Joe Peschi shoots
in
the foot from Goodfellas, a speed freak's apprentice, then perhaps, songs
like "Chainwhipped", "Generation Gangbang", and "Cockblocked" might speak
your language, but these songs don't mean shit to me.
Let's face it- San Fran H.C. party punk has never really been my cuppa
black
milk. The closest I come to diggin' anything near this realm would be,
uhhh...Cherbub Scouge's Holly & The Italians cover, or the Grey Spikes, or
the U.S. Bombs more Clash sounding singalong street punk, or um, Jello
Biafra? Which is to say, I ain't too swingin' bout none o' this kinda shit
to begin with, I hate Green Day, and the Offspring, so when you add in all
the gratuitously played-out B-movie dialogue in between songs, and the
lyrics and imagery sensationalizing porn, drugs, suicide, in a whacky
kinda
way, it just don't move me at all. Like Patti Palladin sez, "They don't
live like us/they don't die like us." I can't take these clowns seriously, no
matter how long I've been reading their otherwise gushing reviews in all
my
favorite, defunct, print fanzines. If you like the whole "punk'n'roll"
concept as manifested by bands like Zeke, and the B-Movie Rats, and all
those Junk Records bands, you'll probably dig this Jack Saints disc,
thoroughly.
I'm not touched by the songwriting, convinced by the hardknocks
sob-stories, or amused by the nerds-turned-tough guys ethos of this band. I
know wot yer thinking: They probably just ain't T.REX enough for me. You
could be right. Next.
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