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CD REVIEWS January, 2007.
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The Heartattacks
-Holly
Miniskirt Blues
So just how sleazy can ‘The Itch’ be? Well, in addition to the groin-scratchingly suggestive title track, there’s a song on here called ‘Pocky Whore’ (I’m assuming they’re using the word ‘pocky’ as in she’s got ‘the pox’) and the front cover depicts a waist down photograph of a high-heel wearing miniskirted streetwalker standing in a back-alley next to a stack of rubbish (or ‘trash’ or ‘garbage’ as you might say in the colonies). That sleazy. This mob win further points for including a cover version of Johnny Kid and The Pirates classic ‘Shakin All Over’ (which was also famously covered by The Who in their ‘Live at Leeds’ set). Quality of the packaging is good, including a glossy cardboard sleeve, and the record itself is pressed on a nice thick and heavy disk that feels like you could drive a tank over it. To buy this release, visit www.jet13records.co.uk you can even listen to MP3’s first. -Alex Eruptor
Pretentious, self-involved Italian goth metal, which, in turns out, is no better or worse then pretentious goth metal from anywhere else. However, it suffers heavily from the lack of a big-tittied, raven-haired enchantress upfront, which is pretty much the only reason I can find for listening to goth-metal in the first place. Next. -Sleaze The
Phenoms “S.E.P.U.”
-Holly
-Jeff Warren
-Sleaze |
Wooly Mammoth
-Jeff Warren
-Sleaze
-Sleaze The American Plague America is plagued by many things these days: the president, celebrities, the threat of terrorism, obesity, democracy, and hillbillies. Oh, and phoney rock n’ roll. Of course, I’m not American, so maybe I’ve got it all wrong. But I doubt it. -Jeff Warren
The Intellectuals
Thankfully, there are still plenty of songs about Whiskey yet to be written. Whiskey or God you ask? The answer is always Whiskey. Trust me. The press release calls The Intellectuals “Rome’s Premier Garbage Can Derelicts”. I don’t know what that means but I love it. I also love the fact that The Intellectuals have previously released their music on cassette tape. I still can’t throw mine away. 8 Track is really hot right now so inevitably, in like 2047, my cassettes will again be cool. For those of you keeping track, “Invisible is the Best” is the 5th release from the Italian Trio. The Intellectuals were formed under the influence. Although this is nothing new. Everyone starts their band in order to make excuses for getting something. Getting drunk and making noise are the least of the reasons. After listening to “Invisible Is The Best” I strongly believe that The Intellectuals were drunk when they recorded this record. It’s also likely that Guitar Girl, Guitar Boy and Key-Tee were drunk when they shot the back-cover. Despite these odds, The Intellectuals actually made a decent record. They aren’t afraid to rock keyboard on all 14 tracks. They sound like the B 52’s if Fred and the Girls were strung out and decided to cram a Rich Bich through a Fuzz Box. “Invisible Is The Best” has the energy of a live performance. Although, okay, I’m not really sure when each song ends and a new one begins. “My Brother Chorizo” has few other lyrics besides the ones noted in it’s title. But hey…sausages taste good. Pork Chops taste good. Actually, I haven’t been honest. I’m totally drunk right now. The Intellectuals and Vodka go good together. They reaaallly do… And listen, I never told you this before but I love you too. Seriously, it’s not just the booze talking. - DJ Cherrybomb
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UK Subs ‘666 Yeah’ b/w ‘Straighten Out’ Format: 7 inch single (ltd edition of 1000), or digital download Label: London based punk legends the UK Subs crank up the evil on this transparent (blood?) red 7” single, which was recorded on that most unholy of dates 06.06.06
This incarnation of the UK Subs includes Japanese guitarist Jet, previously with Sonic Boom Boys and The Parkinsons, who also happens to be head honcho of Jet 13 records, the label behind this disk. Although not a great departure from the ‘classic’ UK Subs style, Jets’ guitar playing creates a slightly more ‘punk n’ roll’ sound, suggesting that this could also appeal to a slightly broader audience than previous offerings. The artwork too is a bit of a change for the Subs, featuring a rock n’ roll looking red devil and ace of spades motif as opposed to the Xerox anarchist stylings of old. The whole package is great quality, including nice glossy cardboard sleeve (featuring the above mentioned artwork), and also an inner sleeve to protect the rockin’ red vinyl disk. So stick this slab of wax on the turntable and you get a pounding rocker of an A-side featuring a quick harmonica solo from Charlie (who maintains that punk is a form of blues music), then flip this sucker over for a quick one-minute-and-thirty-four-second blast of fast and furious uncompromising punk rock that will scorch the grease from your ears. This is one of the best singles I’ve heard from UK Subs, who are one of the greatest bands to have emerged from the British punk boom of the late 1970s/early 1980s, and continue to be a great band to this day, both on stage, and also in the studio based on this evidence. To buy this release on vinyl or digital download, visit www.jet13records.co.uk (you can even listen to MP3’s first). -Alex Eruptor
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The
Gee Strings
By way of Germany, The Gee Strings bring their fourth full length, “Bunch of Bugs”. With cuts like “Let’s Make Up and Screw”, “Just Head” and “Dirt Track” it’s hard not to love this record by way of track listing alone. But let’s get down to brass tacks. The Gee Strings, like so many great punk bands don’t get airplay. The industry is too busy trying to save roadside pigs like Britney Spears. Luckily, there are still labels, (in this case Dead Beat Records) still putting quality shit out. Dead Beat’s impressive catalog includes Italian garage punks The Intellectuals, Ohio’s The Feelers and Seattle’s own Tractor Sex Fatality (okay Seattle, you win for the city with the most creative band names. Some of the more aberrantly named include Ice Age Cobra, The Suffering Fuckheads and the always popular The Vomiting Unicorns). Anyway…as I’m looking at the cover for “A Bunch of Bugs” Gee Strings vocalist Ingi truly lives up to her European Joan Jett image. Albeit a more masculine image of the Joan we all know and love. If you can imagine that…or nightmare that…your choice. Sorry Joan, my money’s on Ingi if you ever meet in a dark alley. Bunch of Bugs is really a pretty sweet record that never pauses to let you catch your breath. On “Love Shock” I can’t help but think of The Gee Strings’ German comrades The Scorpions. The Schenker in Ingi’s voice is clear when she says “I just don’t know why I am still wasting time on you/who am I talking to/I just can’t get through”. It’s that curt and specific instruction that I look to German Punk Rock for. Besides, there’s enough feedback on this album to keep us all happy for a few weeks. “Go Skid Rock” had me at “Go”. “So Messed Up” spins the familiar story of how you get fucked up and need to go throw up. But in your own toilet. “Get me outta here quick now/I just wanna go home…wherever that is”. Truth be told, it’s always better to puke in your own toilet. Besides, it’s legal to pass out curled around the base of your own shitter. Of course, this is the last time that you will hear me advocate doing anything legal. Don’t want to lose my L.A. privileges. - Cherrybomb
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Ogre
-Jeff Warren
-Stu Gibson
-Jeff Warren
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Turn
Me On Dead Man Technicolour Mother Alternative Tentacles  The press release for San Francisco acid warriors Turn Me On Dead Man's second
emission says the music on Technicolour Mother is "heavy crush bliss rock,"
which is either the correct way to describe it or the latest dish of word salad
from some critic holed up in his bedroom in Waukegan or San Jose. What it sounds
like to me is nothing short of intergalactic warfare between ancient space gods,
which is interrupted by centuries-long bursts of tantric sex. Frontbeing/guitarthing
Mykill Ziggy wields colossal blocks of sonic force across the band's churning,
roiling nebula of noise, which then splinters and reforms itself in a myriad of
different crystal-colored configurations (STP stomp for "La Creatures D'Amour,"
lurching and horny Cheap Trick-style power-pop on "Galaxina," haze-heavy psych
on "Pharmaceutical Rainbows" and "Wondermint," the latter complete with a woozy
sitar and keening Fairlight). All of this adds up to Galactus-sized Heavyness,
which you may or may not be ready for on a psycho-spiritual level. Best to have
your chakras aligned before listening. You can ask your girl/boyfriend to do
that for you. – Paul Gaita ___________________________________________________________________________ |
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Greg
Ashley
-Sleazegrinder
This ‘un is a four song EP of crushed velvet and lingering cigarette smoke from three hep cats with pinkie rings, slick hair, and spit shined creepers. And if they are, in fact, demons, they are the swankiest demons this side of lounge punk, Jack, like a super boss cross ‘tween Sweatmaster, Social Distortion, and Lucifer Star Machine. So grab yer dice, blow on ‘em, and kiss your best girl before she runs off with the band. It’s all class and ass up in this joint, and the joint is jumpin’. -Jeff Warren
Ciril
Characters: Holly (H) and her boyfriend (BF) Time: Wednesday evening Setting: their living room H: It’s the new year. I should stick to that non-procrastination resolution and review some records. Here, put this one on. (slips Ciril record from its sleeve, hands to BF, who places record on turntable and drops the needle) H: What are you doing?? BF: What? I’m not doing anything. H: That’s the wrong speed. BF: No, it’s not. Hang on a second. (fiddles slightly with the rpm dial) H: Stop it! It sounds like shit. Don’t touch anything! What speed do you have it on? BF: 45. H: Is it supposed to be on 45? BF: Yes! H: Are you sure? BF: YES! H: (as BF grabs his coat) Where are you going? BF: (in a huff) To get the mail. Just listen to your fucking record. This is what it’s supposed to sound like. (exits) H: Oh. Wow, this record sucks. We had as close to a fight as we’ve ever gotten. Over this record. If you need more than that, sonically, it is dull thunking and catfight guitars accompanied by vocals that sound like a less-talented Sid Vicious stomping around in a heroin-induced rage. Not recommended, unless you plan on a career in the torture industry, in which case, I suggest you run right out and buy a copy. -Holly
PS: I really like this line from Antonio’s thanx list: “god, for not placing me between his balls yet”. What? -Sleazegrinder
Is it me or has there been an unusual amount of hype surrounding The Chelsea Smiles lately? You know what, it’s probably me, because I invent bands like The Chelsea Smiles in my mind all the time, dude. If I’m making out with a coked out chick at party or riding down the fucking highway in a goddamn burnt out pinto at an unholy speed (not that I ever am, but just go along with it), I imagine the most bitchin’ sleaze rock band is playing the soundtrack to my reckless behaviour, and said band is most definitely something like The Chelsea Smiles. And they’re beamin’ at me from the gutters of Hollywood (not England, as the name and sound might suggest), spurring me on with their black sneaker swagger, devastating charm, and prolific pedigree. You ever heard a band write two-minute arena rock songs? Well, these fuckers do it, and they do it with ease. Because this isn’t just punk rock, brothers and sisters, this is glory. Well, glory and punk rock. Everything here sounds like a Scandinavian version of the New York Dolls. It’s Thunders meets thunder. “News for You” is the best song, I think. It’s all a fantastic blur, really. Real or not, these cats deserve the hype. -Jeff Warren
Kudos to Haunted Town for coining – or at least exploiting – the term “No Coast Punk”. You know, because they’re all Midwestern bands. Awesome. Anyway, as you have now already guessed, this is a Midwest-only punk rock comp that leans heavily on the greasy, puke-on-your-prom-dress punk n’ roll side of the street. It’s got a real “Party in a can” vibe, and features several fast fucked and furious tracks from the likes of The Almighty Hangovers (KY), Bump N’ Uglies (MI), The Roustabouts (OK) and the Gotards (IL). The Almighty Hangovers offer the most repeat-business, belching up a slashing trash-rock sound that slithers and weaves like a drunken cheetah. Old school-est of the bunch has gotta be the simple-but-effective street-rock of melodi-skins Southpaw Manners, and the punkest of the pack just might be Tanka Ray, whose guitarist sounds like he could slice through steel. Oh, and let us not forget perennial Sleazegrinder faves the Forgotten Four, who offer up but one track, a typically glam-slamming snot-rocker called “Tell Me Where It Hurts”. I’d point out the clunkers, but I didn’t hear any. Solid. -Sleazegrinder
-Holly
Wanda
Jackson
-Stu Gibson
-Sleazegrinder
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The Dirty
Burds
-Jeff Warren
Blame
Oh, my. Nu metal was gross in 1999. It has certainly not gotten any better with age. Or with spicy Italian flavoring. Check, please! -Sleazegrinder
Swell
Maps
-Stu Gibson
Astoundingly obnoxious and genuinely wicked-sounding Italian black metal that, rather tastefully, takes the thorny old-skull, Bathory-esque path to oblivion. Six twisty, torturous tracks are offered up here in homage to…well, perhaps not to Satan, but certainly to satanic hijinks, as evidenced by the awesome, headache-making gorefeast “Start the Chainsaw” which opens up with what sounds like demonic frogs, slips into weird crackling vinyl for a few minutes and ends in somewhere in the next song, a blaze of piled-up splatter-metal guitars and unholy noise called “Sad Show”. Sweet. The whole sordid mess ends with a Darkthrone cover (“To Walk the Infernal Fields”), which is only fair. I am sorta bummed that Hell Baron’s Wrath are pouting on the back cover dressed like out of work waiters, but that’s nothing a little corspepaint won’t fix. Fashion issues aside, this is an energizing slab of nasty black n’ roll. Pick it up and burn something to the ground. -Sleazegrinder
Fields
Of The Nephilim
-Stu Gibson
-Sleazegrinder
-Sleazegrinder
Boxcar
Satan/Grave Brothers Deluxe
-Sleazegrinder
GMT
-Sleazegrinder
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This
single from Sweden’s The Heartattacks is pressed on what their record label
calls “gold” vinyl; it’s actually the exact yellow shade of the urine you
generally see hanging in clear plastic bags off the side of hospital beds.
(Which kind of goes along with their name, so I think it’s still pretty
cool.) Vinyl colour discrepancies aside, these three songs make me wanna get
up out of that hospital bed, shake off the morphine doze, and dance my ass
off. Relentless and pounding, this record is medically more like a headache
than a heart attack, but in a good, Swedish-garage-punk-headache way. Jesus,
I can’t wait for my
Scandinavian rock and roll road trip this summer…
Debut six song mini-album
from 
A
couple of thrash-punk-rock ‘n’ roll bands from the Chicago area share space
on this record. The Phenoms song is raw and bluesy and wild, and as far as I
can figure, it is about a record. I have no idea what “S.E.P.U.” stands for;
maybe if I did, the song would make more sense to me. But you don’t always
need to understand rock and roll to GET rock and roll, right? The two songs
from It Burns are pretty fun, too, all growly and manic in a
long-haired-boys-wearing-black-concert-t’s-in-the-mosh-pit kind of way.
“Rock and Roll Destruction Machine” is just that; it even ends with what I’m
pretty sure is the end of the world. And “Henry Fisher” is brilliant in its
idiocy: the lyrics for the entire song are “Henry Fisher, child molester/12
years no parole”--awesome. 
Do you know any bands from Chattanooga? No? Well, now you do,
sucker. Now, if you’re wondering just what the hell Chattanoogian rock
sounds like without having to go all the way to Tennessee yourself, allow me
to lay it out for you: it’s skinny, bleeding, kinda raw, sorta punk, a
little bit country, a little bit rock n’ roll, and a whole lot poor. I’m
sure there have been some lonely, dry nights when the weathered cretins in
The Unsatisfied seriously contemplated strapping on a bolero tie and hauling
gear down the road to the bright lights of Nashville, but likely got drunk
instead and joined the rest of the down trodden on the breadline for a
healthy handout of faith and fire. And there’s plenty of that here, which is
often the case when your heroes are Iggy and Lux and you sound like a
bastardized mix of The Supersuckers and The Stooges. Man, if this is what
all the gutter rock in Chattanooga sounds like, show me the way to the
crumbs so I can feast on the luv n’ blood. 
Cleveland punks belching up a fistful of tough, metal-riffing
riot anthems with a tasteful dose of pop-tastic melody thrown in to sweeten
the deal. They’ve got that anything-goes atmosphere, like bones are gonna
start breaking and glass is gonna start shattering and there’s going to be
blood everywhere as soon as they hit the stage. Pretty impressive for a band
that doesn’t appear to have a bass player. Lyrically I think they’ve got
some sort of social consciousness that they’re tangling with, but the music
is pure gut-punch, no message necessary. I dig it. I could smack some
bitches up to this. And I probably will. 
The fuckin’ walls are shakin’, dude. Debris is raining down on me
like there’s a whole army of thawed out and pissed off Neanderthals beating on
my house with mammoth bones. I haven’t heard sonic doom like this since
Priestess blew the doors off my frontal lobes with their classically thick,
heavy rock melodies, and goddamnit if Wooly Mammoth doesn’t have that same
brutal sound, only they drop it way down so you feel it in your throat. And
before you know it you’re choking on the drug n’ roll of it all, spitting up
black blood and begging for some sort of reprise, which comes in the form of
“The Middle Way”, a four minute gloomy acoustic number (if you can survive until
then, that is). But hang on or get the fuck out of the way, because “The
Temporary Nature” kicks in right after, and it’s probably the most vicious of
all the songs on deck here, like the chanting and marching of hell beasts deep
in the center of Earth’s rotten core. So if you like Trouble, Sleep, Pentagram,
or anything Wino does, you’ll go ape, er…mammoth shit for this one.
I thought the Hate Pinks broke
up already. Maybe they just threaten to all the time. Anyway, the snotty French
bastards are back with an alarmingly short new EP. How short? Less than ten
minutes. But it’s an action packed ten minutes, from the glam-slamming fuzzpunk
of opener “Sexual Liberation is for Animals” to the snuffling Pistols-y sleaze
of “My City is Sick of Pizza” to the acid-damaged snarl of closer “Sweep the
Shit”. The brevity is pretty refreshing in these days of hour-long,
filler-stuffed CDs. I mean, thanks to the Hate Pinks’ economy I can get all
kinds of shit done this afternoon, I can go set downtown on fire or piss on the
Alamo, or whatever. I am liberated by these Hate Pinks. Liberated by
misanthropic French speed-freaks in new wave shades. And that’s pretty awesome.
Merci, Hate Pinks. Merci. 
Second album by art-damaged NYC sleazesters Crimson Sweet find
‘em flickering like woozy fireflies between splattery hard-glam (the screechy,
stuttering Dolls n’ roll of opener “Copper Flashes”, the rumbling “Disowned”,
the cowbell-banging howler “Waste You, Taste You”) and more expansive, bloozier
tracks like the gravel-gargling “The Falcon”. Lead blonde Polly (the artist
formerly known as Rooster Booster) has so much grit in her voice she sounds like
she eats cigarettes, and her raunchy guitar drips with hangover sweat. It’s
intense stuff, and Crimson Sweet’s penchant for darkness will probably turn off
the scarf wearers among us, but if you dig your rock n’ roll with bruises and
black eyes intact, then you’ll want a taste of this one. 
Is
Cinnamon the new
If your
gonna compare yourself to
Man, did
Ogre’s Seven Hells ever show up at the right time. I mean, all I’ve been
spinning lately is Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Kyuss, Tchort, and fuckin’
Wolfmother, just eating up all the monster grooves and majestic thunder boogie
like spoonfuls of druggy cough syrup, and Ogre definitely bring their own
mountain of moonrock to the party, that’s for sure. Now, it’s true that Seven
Hells is only the band’s second full-length release in six and a half years,
but that just means they either put a lot of care into crafting their
opium-tinged opuses or spend most of their time lost at sea wrestling giant
squids and carving anchors into their chests with rusty hooks. But you win
either way because both are totally badass and exactly what you want from dudes
delivering your stoner rock. This is some deft and expansive sludge, my friends,
full of fantastic themes and arena flourishes. Oh, and it’s no coincidence that
Seven Hells has seven songs. ‘Cause each one is. Hell, that is. You’re
gonna love it.
Clanking Christmas cracker from surely everyone’s favourite
Christmas fairy, being a resolutely lo-fi blues Queen this is about as far from
saccharine festive sentimentality as you can get, though it has large platefuls
stuffed full of cranberry-tart lip-smackingly endearing coquettishness. Playful
and whimsical as Lee Hazlewood dreaming of a young Nancy Sinatra waiting for him
under the tree attired in tinsel, this should kick off the day as you quaff
morning sherry and yer mam totters around the front room. Far from being a
turkey. 
Devil to Pay
are the mean men of Midwest mayhem, the kind of dudes our very own Smutstrutter
would gladly strap her bouncy ass to the back of a hog and travel over her two
lane blacktop and several state lines to go see blow smoke from their bellies
and crush lesser men in their big, greasy hands. Cash is King is a brown
bottle slow jam of super boss pick-up truck rock and bone breakin’ boogie, and
the boys in DTP pay homage to Kyuss and Cluth here with lead doper Steve Janiak
doing his best John Garcia and the rest of the band sounding like a 50 foot boa
choking the life out of a chainsaw. I’d point out highlights, but all 14 songs
just seem to ooze into one another like a bad dream that you don’t want to wake
up from. And that’s it, really, which is plenty ‘nuff when you think about. So
grab a couple bottles of Wild Turkey and pray that you’re not a lesser man.
Gris
Gris frontfreak Ashley holed up in a cabin in Kossy Texas, with only the coyotes
and a big pile of drugs to keep him company, and somewhere between here and
madness, he wrote all these songs. Drawling mind-fuck folk rock scrapings and
queasy calliope narco-dreams collide in a drowsy, ethereal ride through a
Jandek-ian slumberama that sputters and sparks and stops and starts at seemingly
random intervals. “Sailing With Bobby”, featuring…I dunno who she is, Ashley’s
own Nico…is the winner in the deck, a psyche-tinged cross between the Shirelles
and an indie-slacker Ravi Shankar that leaves a warm, post-coital afterglow.
Elsewhere there’s boomy Jonestown Massacre messing-about and several moments of
very pretty madness. Recommended for your next beatnik bongo bash or some
equally groovy happnin’. 
I
apparently lack the vocabulary to describe these two songs by Long Beach punk
band Ciril, so instead of telling you what it sounds like, I’m going to tell you
what happened when I played the record: 
I got a
pile of CDs as big as my fist (and that’s plenty big, stringbean) from Italy the
other day. They don’t seem to be from the same label or anything, so it’s all
sorta mysterious. It’s like a whole bunch of Eye-talians just got together and
sent me a rock n’ roll care package, or something. A hot batch of Euro-porn
would have been better, but you take what you get in this world. One thing
that’s not mysterious, at least not since like, 1984, is thrash metal. Silentree,
first disc off the pasta pile, is exactly that: 80’s style thrash-pummel with a
slight nod to more contemporary death-tones, particularly in Antonio
Evangelista’s growly vox. Guitarin’ and bass-rumbling and battery-wise, however,
it’s pure flailing Megadeth, fast, tight, n’ tasty. So if you have no fear of
neck braces, snatch this up and thrash on. 
Based on
the sleeve, I was expecting something a little more Cramps-like from this
Norfolk, Virginia four-piece, but their more generic rock/punk sound was pretty
fun anyway. Lots of cymbals, scuzzy guitars, and slightly tinny vocals that have
a strangely attractive quality, despite their slight tinniness. This band sounds
like its members have more than a few layers of dried puke on their shoes. Which
can only mean a good time, right? I’d put this record on at that point in the
night when you’ve already probably had too many Irish car bombs but feel like
doing another one anyway and just need a little inspiration. (Oh, and their
myspace page is pretty fun to read, too.) 
Superlatively wondrous Queen of Rockabilly covers the King of Rock’n’Roll in
what could be a horrendously mawkish and macabre affair, especially with her
being a one time flame of Nelve. But with Danny B. Harvey handling guitar and
production duties with a dazzling aplomb that’d make the famous gold Cadillac
look rusty by comparison this is a sweet delight, no serenading of ghosts with
‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’ here. With the fabled wildcat voice still cracking
whips and purring prettily at age 68 (‘Mystery Train’, a magnificent crystal
chandelier cut-glass take on the usually lumpen ‘Love Me Tender’) much of Elvis’
rockabilly songs are given the magic Wanda (sorry, everyone) touch, from the
time she knew him. In the company of one new track ‘I Wore Elvis’ Ring’ they
swing with her own rhythm and walk the line with the gal they called Hurricane
Wanda fifty years ago, helped by Harvey’s discreet but dapper rejuvenating
jarring guitar jigs to stand alone and resplendent out of the shadows cast by
Elvis’ quiff,. Book-ended by Wanda’s own poignant reminisces this is a
celebration that wails and never wallows. Superb. 
Beautifully designed and heavy enough to take yr head right off, this dazzling
7” pic disc from 
I hate to
belie really damn good punk rock with nattering, cock-driven admissions of love
and masturbation for the five runaway misfits that are pounding out their ounce
of nubile flesh in the name of filthy fury here, but sweet holy fuck if I didn’t
just spend the entire 10 minutes (!) of this 5-song EP starin’ at Jiggy, Teddy,
Domi, Trucker, and Blitz wondering which one of them dirty burds I was gonna
move to England for, tattoo their name on my chest, and then marry them in the
most punk, anti-wedding ceremonies of all time. Like we’d have GG Allin shoving
a banana up his ass and cutting himself with bottles rolling in an endless loop
in a big screen while we all got right tossed and twisted until we’re all passed
out on the floor of the loo. So, forget all that and try to remember what I said
about this being really damn good punk rock. But in case you were wondering, the
answer is: all of them.
Hot
chick with gun on the cover. Check. Obvious-but-true title. Check. Pulp Fiction
intro. Check. So far, so good for these steely-eyed Italians. Let’s see what
happens when the rock kicks in. 
Featuring their sleeve notes this cut ‘n’ paste collection of home-tapings
presumably had the bands consent yet makes their already ramshackle catalogue
seem like the Kobe steak of the temperamental experimental world. Sure there are
elements of what could be termed sampling and found sounds, another different
version of single ‘Dresden Style’, and a pre-punk mix-up of what would become
art-rock with slabs of Krautrock that perhaps wouldn’t be associated with kids
from rural afternoon tea home counties England. But there’s some woefully
pointless farting about more akin to kids lunching on mushrooms in the summer
holidays in Enid Blyton fairytale lands and would bewilder Einsturzende Neubaten.
At its best, as on ‘Full Moon-Blam-Full Moon’ and ‘Televisions’ the essence and
excitement of primitive rock’n’roll’s caterwaul is conjured just in the very act
of playing, as well as signalling Sudden’s direction on his early ‘Waiting On
Egypt’ solo fare. On the converse whimsical English oddities like ‘Shubunkin’
are something like Pink Floyd’s ‘Zabrinskie Point’ soundtrack. For psychopaths.
For what it is it’s money best spent on any Nikki Sudden / Jacobites record.
Finally
released on CD in the UK this lost classic from The Vibrators’ Knox and Hanoi
Rocks sees Knox’s songs dragged out the pub and administered to in inimitable,
intemperate Hanoi style. Wiped-out vocals propped up by plastered guitar picks
having a party all of their own inhaling the dark, heart-bruised aura that
descends when Knox hits his stride. Sharing similar roots it’s a perfect
collaboration, though it peaks, which it does fairly often, when it pirouettes
out of the silhouettes of Hanoi’s hallucinatory glam-glory, as on ‘Inner Planet
Love’ and ‘Black and White World’, which blow Saturn-sized smoke rings round all
but Hanoi’s very best. Perhaps best known from the Vibrators version,
‘Amphetamine Blue’ is classic 50’s angst and simply one of the sweetest little
Rock’n’Rollers ever. That it’s worth the price purely on the strength of those
three tracks says more for that triumphant triumvirate of gooey trash-punk than
any weakness amongst the others as both ‘Runaround’ and ‘Kiss It Goodbye’
tailgate them like contenders for world’s wildest police chases. The extra six
tracks are a true bonus too, particularly the campy ‘He’s A Rebel’. A quietly
colossal crater in the punk rock equilibrium, eternally undervalued but
infinitely inspirational. In italics. 
An
abundance of oddities to delve into more for the avid Nephilite rather than
neophyte, comprising as it does demos and dusty live clips. The demos unveil
cloaks of intrigue, with three versions of ‘Power’ (though one, the Power Surge
mix is a howler, as it’s transformed from it’s schizoid spaghetti western
psychobilly freak-out into a Nefilim thrashing lurch i.e. ruined), and two of
‘Secrets’. The live disc is exemplary, if somewhat perfunctory, as it contains
most of ‘Earth Inferno’ with a few rumblings from the land of ‘Zoon’ (the above
Nefilim album). The DVD features some of the cuts from the live set but the poor
quality means only the most possessed will find repeat viewing essential unless
you’re Carl’s mum showing off to her neighbours over tea and biscuits. However
the very very early performances from 1986 show that the Neph didn’t descend
Sumerian like fully formed, but played in the back rooms of pubs without the aid
of dry-ice which rather shows up McCoy’s alarming lack of charisma and presence,
which the interview bonus feature, no matter how interesting it actually is
(watch how uncomfortable he seems smoking), does nothing to alter. OK, the guy
had to contend with intricate swirling ‘Sleepy Hollow’ song structures but apart
from a few moments of whirling dervishly which resolutely fails to astrally
project anything he indolently bangs a tambourine, which doesn’t cause Ian
Astbury to crop up either, after which he stands stock still, wishing he’d
written some more lyrics, perhaps, or maybe he’s left his body to wander the
realms of the world outside, erm, Croydon. A more exhaustive trawl through the
outtakes drawer would have been more than welcome but as it is this is a great
little insight, however slight, into the ever mysterious nocturne of they – The
Nephilim. 
Dudes
from 
All I
know about hockey is that down at the rink around the corner from my house, the
“hockey dads” sometimes go berserk during their kids’ games and beat the shit
out of each other. So I’m guessing it is a fine past-time for rabble-rousing
street punks like our Philly friends the Boils, who really do offer up half a
dozen songs about playing hockey here. “Warriors on the Ice”, “I’m a Hockey
Fan”, “The Orange and the Black”, “When the Boys are Out Tonight”, all grubby,
raucous, tooth-loosening rock n’ roll anthems obsessed with dudes on ice skates
chasing a puck around. And I’m pretty sure that “Bullies” and “It’s the Life for
Me” are about the mayhem the fellas like to cause after a Flyers game. I can’t
relate to any of this, really, but the songs are tough, with big shouting
choruses and hard-as-granite guitars, particularly on the knee-breaking
“Warriors”. I think I’ll hand this over to one of the drunken dads down the
street and watch the riot start. 
Grave
Brothers Deluxe and Boxcar Satan are both rattlin’ garage-blooze demons from the
still-swampy disaster zone once known as New Orleans. In an effort to stem the
flow of suicide and rampant alcoholism the tortured town is currently suffering
under, the fellas have offered up this brief-but-effective 4 song EP, sales of
which will be donated to charities providing free mental health services to the
Gulf Coast area. And that’s noble shit, right there. The smirky irony of it all
is that neither band sounds very stable in good days, never mind after a year of
wringing out their sopping wet socks. It works, though. Boxcar Satan open with a
gravelly, ghost-train rendition of Charley Patton’s “High Water Everywhere”.
Grave Bro’s follow with a punchy art-soul work-out of Boxcar Satan’s own “Shoot
Down the Sun”. Then they belch up a raunchy, all hands on deck slop-through of
Huey Smith’s classic “Don’t You Just Know It.” It all ends 12 minutes later with
Boxcar whispering through the jazzy breeze of Grave Bros’ “Legs Rub Together”.
Great songs, even greater cause. Buy, don’t download, for once. 
Unsung
(well, semi-sung) Irish Guitar-Jesus Bernie Torme brings his squealing Strat to
the party with a new line-up of willing, wailing accomplices (M= John McCoy on
bass, G= Robin Guy on drums) and a fistful of tough, snarly new songs that rock
with all the wild gypsy abandon of his early 80’s daze. “Bitter and Twisted” is
snakeskin flash, “Rocky
Road to Dublin”, “Can’t Beat Rock N’ Roll”, and “Miss the Buzz” are all
heavily-accented old school glam-boogie , “Longer than Tomorrow” is a dark and
rumbling slow-burner, and the whole thing is a grand return to form for the longcoat sporting axe-master. Forget the clunky Desperado project Bernie labored
over for much of the past decade, as this Dee Snider-less slab of slink has all
the screaming acid-glitter overdrive you’d expect from ol’ man Torme, and
genuinely good songs, to boot. Sweet. 
