Buncha
underfed deviants from various razor rock outfits (Weaklings,
Riffs, Kill City Thrillers) get together in the only town left
seedy enough to take ‘em in (Portland, west coast version, natch), and
form a rubber-legged glampunk band steeped heavy in bubblegum hooks and
raunchy, junkie-rock guitars. They call themselves the Soda Pop Kids
because, well, it looks good on t-shirts, and here we are. Despite the
admirably ramshackle backing vocals and occasional wobbly guitar line, “Write
Home” is actually a tight and extremely well-crafted debut, fulla
catchy, hook-heavy ditties about cheap girls and cheaper booze that pay
affectionate homage to the New York Dolls and the Dead Boys. Johnny P.
Jewels probably can’t help sounding just like Stiv, so don’t damn him for
it, just let that venomous howl roll over you like a French taxicab and
dig the reptile cool and suicide party thrills of handclapping sleaze
rockers like “Shots of Whiskey”, the infectiously raucous “Get
Tight”, or the ballcrunching “Put On Your Tight Pants”.
You even get a stab or two at Motown junk. None of it’s any kind of new or
profound, but it’s all tasty and fizzy and fun while it lasts. You know,
just like soda pop.
________________________________________________________
Buncha
underfed deviants from various razor rock outfits (Weaklings,
Riffs, Kill City Thrillers) get together in the only town left
seedy enough to take ‘em in (Portland, west coast version, natch), and
form a rubber-legged glampunk band steeped heavy in bubblegum hooks and
raunchy, junkie-rock guitars. They call themselves the Soda Pop Kids
because, well, it looks good on t-shirts, and here we are. Despite the
admirably ramshackle backing vocals and occasional wobbly guitar line, “Write
Home” is actually a tight and extremely well-crafted debut, fulla
catchy, hook-heavy ditties about cheap girls and cheaper booze that pay
affectionate homage to the New York Dolls and the Dead Boys. Johnny P.
Jewels probably can’t help sounding just like Stiv, so don’t damn him for
it, just let that venomous howl roll over you like a French taxicab and
dig the reptile cool and suicide party thrills of handclapping sleaze
rockers like “Shots of Whiskey”, the infectiously raucous “Get
Tight”, or the ballcrunching “Put On Your Tight Pants”.
You even get a stab or two at Motown junk. None of it’s any kind of new or
profound, but it’s all tasty and fizzy and fun while it lasts. You know,
just like soda pop.