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'Say What, Baby?'
 A more worthwhile Thunders / Heartbreakers comp than has been the case the
last few years, this set wins by being a treat for the hardcore Thunders
fan and also a great starting point for someone just setting out on that
rough n' rocky rolling road on the way to collecting too many god awful
sub-bootleg constipated cash-ins in the vain hope of just a couple of
seconds of clattering caustic caterwauling. Early demos, the entire 'Live
At The Speakeasy' classic set, and! and! and! a DVD with off-cuts from the
old 'Dead Or Alive' vid...actually the DVD's a bit disappointing as it's
kinda lifeless, stilted and static being filmed with about 2 cameras and
as with the original vid seems to be too overdubbed...interesting none the
less tho, but if you're wanting to see Thunders in better form pick up the
new Dolls 'All Dolled Up' doc.
But view the DVD as the bonus that it is and centre on
the actual music. The Speakeasy set was always infinitely better than the
oddly more lauded 'Live At Max's' album, which seemed like the start of
the cash cow going through the motions days. These '77 London shows see 'em
rattle off their street smart jive pitch like the hustlers and hoods they
were, sewage, dried
spunk, soaked in sarcasm and smack stained clothes and hearts, Lure and
Thunders liberal jibes at the audience ('You're boring the fucking shit
outta me...') sounding funny and twee today in their bad boy 'give a fuck'
posturing but was a new addition to the punk scene from our brash New York
brothers at the time. Changing 'Can't Keep My Eyes On You'
to 'Can't Keep My Cock In You' is classic Thunders childish petulance,
aiming for an offensive put-down and coming off charmingly goofy. Sounding
like the songs have fallen through the ceiling after the bath overflowed
and they're playing in a pool of wallpaper paste, they're on top form, the
tilt-a-whirl 'I Wanna Be Loved' and 'Get Off The Phone',
splintered sarcastic fuck you fingered guitar squeals tuned just about,
bar-brawling drums right on the pulse, nothing sounds this seedy and
greasy, teetering from the brink of brilliance to a dervish dalliance with
that old devil, disaster, bar by bar. Everyone who calls themselves a
rocker should own this, and glory in the desperate glory of the sloppiest,
yet most sinewy rock'n'roll there may have ever been. Transcendental
trash, indeed.
The value of the 'Raw and Rare' disc will depend on your appetite for
songs scratched onto tape in subterranean basement studios smaller than a
pub toilet, next to a subway station. Songs that have now been issued in
about 37 different versions. Those addicted to the tiniest details will
have a mild, but pleasurable, no doubt, stroke at the early lyrics and
briefer intro to 'Born To Lose', but above all else it's a
slight tipsy treat to have 'Too Much Junkie Business' and 'Seven
Day Weekend' as studio recordings (barring The Dolls clunky cut of
'...Weekend'), and also 'Take A Chance', which was the only
reason of worth to buy the '...Max's' album. All 2 minutes of it at that!
As demos they're a little more sedate than the adolescent monsters they
mutated into but it'd make me suspicious of someone who's not plugged into
the electric cool of that insouciant trademark leering, lurching guitar
that rattles like Link Wray driving a Mustang through all the garages on
his street.
Anyway I'm gonna shut the fuck up now with my prattling and follow the
advice I'm about to dish out. That is to part with yer precious pennies
and pitch into the perfect, primitive specimen of palpitating Rock'n'Roll.
And yeah, I came to stand around and look funny.
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