his might be the first time that soggy, depressed ol' Portland, Oregon was represented by a winged skull, but then, the Pacific Northwest always did have a sleazy underbelly of kill-for-thrills razor rockers, and they pretty much all ended up on fabled trash punk label, Junk Records. Junk, of course, went tits up, largely because they took their name too literally, and released one too many, well, junky records. But what happened to the all those twitchy speed freaks and their funky friends? Where's the Weaklings, the New Wave Hookers, and Blackjack now? Well, all the coolest cats have regrouped into the sleazerock superband, the Hellside Stranglers. I mean, who are people that once appeared on a compilation called "Going After Pussy" gonna hang out with, anyway- the squares, or each other? 

For a band that started life as a part-time affair and who recorded their demos in a sweaty attic with no intention of releasing them as a fully articulated, high-profile official full length, Hellside show no signs of side-project jitters or lassitude here. Perhaps taking their cue from Midnight Thunder Express, a fellow Northwest powerhouse sutured from bits of the Valentine Killers and other straight-ahead, speedy punk n' roll outfits, the Hellside Stranglers have easily smoked their prior bands, and burst out of the soggy genre limitations of the punk/rock and roll ghetto like a greasy rocket, blasting off into realms of glam-smacking, duck walking, jukebox baiting swagger rawk. That's not to say that anybody's taken an about-face here, or sold out to the Man, or any shit like that. The overwhelming influence here is still Johnny Thunders' guitar, circa 1973, but now it sounds more like inspiration then influence, and the Hellside Stranglers end up sounding like no one 'cept for their bad ass selves. Well, and maybe a little like Boston's own danger hounds Crash and Burn, but everybody's got a doppelganger. Pushing the churning stew of loose limbed rock action into the red is Dan Eklof on vox, who's got the same kind of arrogant Johansen-on-punk cock walk strut to his delivery as Strangler pal Billy Hopeless from the Black Halos. Only difference is, you can actually understand what Dan is mouthing off about. A marbles-free sleazepunk vocal performance, imagine that. Dunno who's handling the axes where, since there's at least 3 people claiming the duties on various tracks here, but they've all got a warm, Hanoi Rocks chime to them, even when they're attempting to tear your head off, which they oftentimes are. Patrick McKee handles the keys, and in grand Stooges/Stones tradition, really only has to play one note at a time. The overwhelming affect of all this is an all night riot of black leather and cheap speed and soul scorching rock played by seasoned pros that have walked right through the fuckin' fire and have the scars to prove it. Punk rock doesn't grow up, you know, despite what fancy newsstand glossies will tell you. It's got a self-destruct mechanism that kicks in at 25 or so, just like in Logan's Run. And if you make it that far and you're still standing, well, that makes you a rocker. Which you always were anyway. No one's ever gonna deny the Hellside Stranglers their punk legacy, but this is what happens afterwards. Rock and fucking roll, forever and ever. Get this one, babies. It'll keep ya dancing all weekend.