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CD REVIEWS January, 2007.
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The
Whocares
-Holly Bad
Preachers
-Holly
“Punch Me Hard” is a comp featuring Swiss bands that really like the word “Fuck”. So we can all move on, here are my recommendations. Bad stuff first. Come with me if you want to live… Turbotraktor “Anal Cunt” If you are gonna call your song “Anal Cunt” at least have the decency to use the words “Anal Cunt” in your song. Urban Junior “Music for the Asses” Iggy is gonna kick your fucking ass when he hears this song. Who am I kidding, Iggy’s never gonna hear this. Hoot “I Cry” Radiohead is good. You suck. Ramblin’Bomber “If I Hear or See Something” For fucksake. Make it stop. The Rambling Wheels “Mr. Fireman” I played this for a three-year-old boy. He promptly punched me in the face. Thanks. Okay, now on with the good stuff. The Boneshakers start Burning Sound off strong with Swiss-twisting nod to Sweden’s The Hives on “So Good”. The Watchmaking Metropolis Orchestra’s “Hin-Hin-Hin”. I almost drove into a ditch when I heard the rubber duck squeaking through this track. And I thought all the good drugs were in Amsterdam. Roy & The Devils Motorcycle “Do You Wanna Know”. Roy’s been around and he got some big love for my favorite delta blues man Junior Kimbrough. Green Fairy’s (code word for Absinthe) “Don’t Have A Mind” is a loud and angry standout. The Licks take a very respectable stab at Johnny Thunders with “Loosing Time”. Proceed with caution on this one and watch your ass…there might be a Volume II coming. - Cherrybomb
- Paul Gaita
“If you can’t stand the heatDon’t you gamble with the Devil” – ‘Getting Hot, Going Down’ Carny sideshow merchants with snake oil that sneaks into every pore and cleaves and caresses its wretchedly wanton way into crevices your dear old ma never told you about London’s unholy shakers of the sacrosanct and haunters of the hallowed the Urban Voodoo Machine come up with another five foxtrottin’ flings round the dancefloors of your darkest desires. Self-styled Mephistophelian maestro’s they may be but they actually pull off the hoodoo vibe, suggesting centuries spent in velvet draped vaults reclining on chaises longues constructed from the dust of long sleepless nights, lying in varying states of grace in opulent boudoirs from Roman decadence to romantic over indulgence that would make the most errant boho blush. Such star-burnt stints in the seven seas of sin lead these leery, lecherous, cocksure and swaggering bad seeds down the road apiece with a glassy-eyed gait…these finely coat-tailed gennlemen sure conjure up a sultry rancho deluxe to suit any soiree your sickness can stomach. So tango till your well and truly sore and They may sing ‘We Don’t Want Your Love’ but they may well end up fucking taking it anyhow. -Stu Gibson
– Paul
Gaita El
Guapo Stuntteam
www.videology-tv.com - Smutswamper
The opening, and also title track of the record, is another lame sing-a-long attempt where the Babies seem to care more about trying to write chants than decent rock songs. What separated the Babies from other Swedish rock outfits in the past was their punk/metal edge. Even on “Making Enemies is Good,” and “Stockholm Syndrome” it still sounded like the Backyard Babies. And even though those releases were nowhere near as strong as “Total 13,” there will still gems in tunes like “Payback,” “Making Enemies is Good,” and “Minus Celsius.” On their latest disc, the band recruited the Hellacopters’ Nicke Andersson to produce, and suddenly everything has gone all garage rock – in fact it actually sounds like the Backyard Babies if they were covering a Hellacopters record. There’s not much here to write home about, and that’s a shame. “Cockblocker Blues” is an alright track, and “Dysfunctional Professional” bears remnants of Babies’ past. “Roads” is the best (and actually mellowest) track on the album, and I suppose could be another track to include on a greatest hits record down the line. But honestly, this record is another disappointment for the band that many thought would ultimately be the saviors of rock. At this point, I simply don’t think it’s to be. - B.J. Lisko
-Stu Gibson |
Paul Stanley
- B.J. Lisko
“If you think it’s such a sin/ That I wanna get high again Well you can take my balls/And place them on your chin” – ‘9 Shots Of Bourbon’
-Stu Gibson
-Stu Gibson
Not worth helping them decide their direction. Crash and burn? Flash and pan more like. By ‘eck. I enjoyed that! -Stu Gibson
Imaginatively titled album, being number seven in 2007 no less, from German ‘institutions’ Harmful. Featuring ex-Faith No More ‘legend’ Billy Gould this album proves that while Germans may love rocking (witness the super ‘People Like You’ label, and others such as Noisemaker) they still like David Hasselhoff. About as harmful as Stone Temple Pilots and Blind Lemon and other grunge never-rans the opening ‘Old Mistakes’ makes Pearl Jam seem an inviting proposition, which is perhaps all that needs to be said on the matter. Apparently they’ll be going in ten, fifteen years time too. However, as they’ve been unheard of till now, maybe they’ll keep playing their shrivelled-gonad grunge-lite lollipop-dildo dreary rock in their own little netherworlds where they’ve been for the last ten years. I’d hope and pray but it won’t be needed. -Stu Gibson
-Stu Gibson
-Stu Gibson
His granite-chomping, pumice (and possibly the ‘Gravel Road’ he sings of) gargling lava-flow of a larynx lends the songs the authentically eerie hoodoo of mythical mystics like Blind Lemon Jefferson or Son House, the Resonator guitar resplendently scything it’s way cheerily through your consciousness, scarring your conscience more with it’s masterly tenderness than creaking tank-track dread. Like tangling with the eternal temptress and trying to tame the torments this exists in a shivering glade all it’s own, away from hod-carrying parodies of blues by any ‘Bert with a bottleneck Arcari wends his way like a wandering minstrel of yore, a barrel full of blues and wreathes of experiential wealth in a knapsack, through the muddied waters and dried up, dusty old riverbeds of your walking blues. Wondrous. -Stu Gibson
With initial attention mainly centring on frontman Billy Hopeless’ various states of distressed undress and Stiv Bators / Taime Downe Sylvester the Cat vocal style these reissues of the first two Halos albums can hopefully allow them to stand alone. Always far better than lazy-ass flabby journo jockstrap sniffing ad hoc hacks could conjure after hearing half a song the Halo’s (lest anyone who’s visited El Rancho Sleazegrinderio has completely lost the plot and paved over the potato patch in the allotments of addled) heady blend of Hanoi and ‘Live! Like A Suicide’ era GN’R mighta sounded glammed and tarted up to the follicly-challenged hairspray hangover of Hollywood, tossed out to tousled gullible refugees on that old boulevard of splintered schemes and black-eyed dreams to some but as always in the unending, eternal eddying torrents of this Rock thing’s temperamental travels through time and tradition their gruel-cheeked grit mixed with old bubblegum, urine-scented ice-cream and a sense of prankery grabbed the gaunt and semi-starved tramps like us that are left to rescue Rock’n’Rolls remnants from their suspended desolation. ‘The Violent Years’ originally seemed to sink somewhat without trace. If so it was undeservedly so following a lengthy reappraisal with these reissues. ‘Some Things Never Fall’ is a theme song of epic proportions zipped up and indignant and crammed into Ramones style couch-surfing trips, Senor Hopeless eyeing the world from behind his collars while, as with all their material, belying his moniker with sheer force of exuberant presence on the songs. Similarly ‘Last Of The 1%Ers’, while continuing Hopeless’ anything but hopeless way with a title, is a street-racing ride If anything, the songs on this record keep the Barracuda’s blissed-out surf sprayed power popping shaboogie from the schools of cracked pavements of the first album yet add a tad more complexity and subtlety. While the self-titled debut stands out overall these are both essentialities for the rock rollin’ reprobates, recluses and romantics. The lovely elegy to Mr Thunders - ‘Tracks’ – far supposes Mike Monroes clumsy ode to Stivney on that Demolition 23 record, and so what if ‘B.S.F.’ is a literal sucker for The Lords’ ‘S F ‘n’T’, think when a record last compelled you to dig out ‘Method To My Madness’, buy these, bounce and you never know you may end up going to work bare-assed and waving your bollocks at the boss. ‘Fucked From The Start’ maybe, but it sure was a great way to start. -Stu Gibson
-Stu Gibson
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Hard-driven, indeed…Belgium’s The Whocares will seriously kick your ass all
the way to Germany. “Hard-Driven Power” is pretty self-explanatory: it’s
hard, it’s driven, it’s power rawk ‘n’ roll. Nothing pretty here, folks,
just knock-you-around-and-not-give-a-fuck rock. And if I find myself wanting
a little more melody, well, just chalk that up to my girlness. The second
song on the single is a charming little ditty called, sweetly, “Gonna Fuck
Your Mom.” It’s about, well, fucking your mom. Fucking her real damn good, I
might add. With cum like a shotgun blast. Yep. 
Belgium
Garage
Punk from Switzerland? What? Yeah, I know…not fucking likely. 
Whoo dad! The Alarm Clocks set loins aflame in the suburbs of Cleveland with
a mouthful of snarling UK-by-way-of-the-Midwest punk whompers circa '66 or
so, most notably the Nuggets staple "No Reason to Live" and its flip "Yeah."
Thirty years and numerous strands of hair later, three of the four Clocks
(abetted by new guitarslinger Tom Fallon) have reunited for this lean and
lethal longplayer, which shows them not only in fine chops, but still
sporting all the snot and grit that marked their teenage wasteland years.
Singer Mike Pierce still sounds like he'd sugar up your gas tank for giving
him the hairy eyeball, and the rest of the Clocks lurch and fuzz with
admirable abandon throughout The Time Has Come's 14 tracks, which range from
snaky,
psych-flecked kiss-offs like "You're Always Near" and "Marie" to raunchy
rave-ups like "Feelin' Fine" and a tuff tear through "Like a Rolling Stone"
that's absolutely 100% folk free. Sure, they might look like guidance
counselors on a weekend retreat, but The Alarm Clocks have more raunch and
roll running through their veins than the entire
The only reason I'm even mentioning this disc is that years ago, I
interviewed Ms. Raven when she was still a teenager and one half of a
hapless Scandinavian pop vocal duo called M2M, whose career apex was landing
a tune on the soundtrack for a Pokemon movie. And I'm pleased to note that
she has grown up into an appropriately Amazonian young
lady and taken the path that most teen queens follow when the squeaky-clean
approach goes ker-flush: she's now a leather-clad Rock Chick, complete with
a band of tattooed modern rock mooks and a video (which is included on this
enhanced CD) for the entirely forgettable title song which features lolling
about topless with a gaggle of model types in what appears to be a tin box
while various creeps ogle them (Ms. Raven's front porch is covered awkwardly
with what appears to be very stiff hair extensions, so sorry, no celebrity
skin).
I’m
getting pretty tired of reviewing the Backyard Babies’ new releases. Since
“Total 13” it’s been downhill, and it gets even worse with “People Like
People Like People Like Us.” 
If you can get past the atrocious homoerotic cover art of Paul
Stanley’s new solo album, you’ll pretty much find a batch of homoerotic
fist-pumping inspirational rock that’s entirely overproduced and unnecessary.
Now, as far as Kiss alum go, this is the best release yet. That’s not saying
anything really to the regular readership of this site, but I suppose it speaks
volumes to all the Kiss nerds. No song on the disc clocks in over 3 and half
minutes, and each one sounds like it was specifically written for radio. Only
problem is, I haven’t heard any of these songs on the radio. Not even on
satellite radio. Take the weakest/most inspirational parts of Kiss’ “Psycho
Circus” record, and multiply it by 10, and you’re in the ballpark of “Live to
Win.” For fucks sake, Desmond Child even collected a paycheck for this to help
him write some of the songs. The whole thing just sounds pretty gut-wrenching.
I’m into some gut-wrenching stuff, but you can only go so far with it.
