Rock City Crimewave and I have a long-standing history together. I've told the terrible true tale too many times now, so I'll skip the gory details and just say that if Crimewave honcho Ian Adams was not the hellblazin', psycho-active, greaser shaman that he is, and were he not so willing to accept a miserable wretch like me into his cloak and dagger cabal of highly specialized Rock City mercenaries all those wasted years ago, then I'd still be under a bush somewhere, sharing my $5 bottle of Muscatel with the spiders and the snakes, and you might be reading about whatever horrible dreadlock or sweater-boy band that had stormed the gates of the sonic temple when I was too weak to defend it. So listen, we all owe the boys a debt of gratitude before this record even gets cracked open. And as I lay down the Good Word on "Sealed with a Curse", keep in mind that, although this review is obviously rife with nepotism, just like Dave Wyndorf, I choose my culture well. So just trust me on this. 

Rock City Crimewave started life half a dozen years ago as 8 Ball Shifter, a berserk surfadelic creature feature of a band, the ultimate b-movie melding of Dick Dale and the Misfits. The twang and shiver of those early years still linger like cold spots in a haunted house to this day, but when they rose again like nail-proof saviors in the late 90's as Rock City Crimewave, they had further mutated into gonzo, skull riding motorpunks. Oh, and it was good, sinner. Peace spread across the land- or at least, the Greater Boston area- and all was well. Chicks wore their pants a little tighter. Pick-up trucks and efficient Japanese compacts were traded in for gas guzzling American muscle cars and ear-ravaging choppers. Goatees were chopped off en masse, replaced with Van Buren sideburns and psychotic honcho mustaches. Radio stations held mass burnings of Limp Bizkit and Nine Inch Nails records, and started playing hour-long blocks of 70's punk. Local TV stations started their broadcast every 5 AM with a 15 minute version of "Kick Out the Jams", complete with a regal Freak Flag billowing in the wind. And lording over it all was Rock City Crimewave, calling for a street level revolution built on guns, tits, and beer for all. And they got it, every time. Started to seem like the party would never end, until it did. A pallor was cast over Rock City, and dark days dragged on, rife with terror and misery. And all appeared lost. 

Then somebody, somewhere, said "Let there be Rock!" at just the right time. And just like the cavalry at the 11th hour, the ragged, re-grouped soldiers of Rock City Crimewave returned, armed with a new guitar player (Gardner Key), a new record, and a new lease on life. Shazam. 

"Sealed" opens with the tribal rolling thunder of Barry Smith's hammerhead drums and the sound of two guitars drag racing down Satan's Hollow as Ian howls like a wounded eagle about "The Sirens" calling for his watery death, and you just know that this is gonna be one bitchin' ride. "Bang Shang a Lang" is exactly what would happen if Sid Vicious joined the Archies, and marks the triumphant return of Adams' signature guitar sound, a diseased squeal of a thing that's the rock and roll equivalent of Harvey Keitel's famed Bad Lieutenant freakout wail. "Jersey Devil" has a Stooges piano plink and a crazy Dracula riff, and "Kill the Lights" sounds like Glenn Danzig fronting Social Distortion. "Zero High" is an amazing, psychedelic, bossa nova doom rocker that sounds like Roy Orbison tweaked to the tits on bad acid and voodoo. "Unloose" is anything but, a straight ahead punk and roll scorcher with a liberal dose of MC5 Ramalamalisms. Bouncy go-go rhythms and sleazy lyrics abound on Saturday night shocker "The Strangler". I know exactly who they're tearing to pieces in the snotty "Felony Racer", and so does everybody else with even a passing knowledge of the Crimewave, and they gave this one an impossibly catchy chorus, ensuring the cat's further torment as it blares away on the jukebox of every dive he walks into. That's a pretty fuckin' brilliant revenge scheme, you must admit. "UFO American" is the most overtly Misfits-y track on the record, right down to the opening shouts of "Go!" Still, it's an homage, not a rip-off, and it sounds a damn sight sexier than the ragtag gang of has-beens and hangers on currently touring the comic book convention circuit and calling itself the real thing. "Ain't No Grave (Gonna Hold My Body Down)" is delta blues as Cramps-damaged cock rock, "My Cocoon of Terror" is unabashed spookshow fun with a Satanic pep rally call and response between Ian and gravel throated bass player Poundy, and the whole stellar package draws to a fiery crescendo with the rock anthem to (literally) end all rock anthems, "Burn Rock City". Whew. It's kinda like fucking, only without the wet spot and cigarette afterwards.

This album is just about as good as rock and roll gets, and it makes me feel bulletproof every time I spin it. You want resurrection- insurrection, even- then you got it, baby. There isn't a band in the land that can make you feel this good just to be alive and capable of intercepting these crazy, go go dancing transmissions, and I don't just recommend this record to you, I demand it. Believe me, you deserve it. It's been a rough couple of years, and this one's bringing the good times back, for good. Tits, guns, beer, and all. A-fuckin'-men.