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CD REVIEWS May, 2007.
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Thee Midniters Hot damn, chingadores! Here’s nineteen raw and funky stompers from Thee Midniters, the kings of East L.A. garage rock circa 1964-67. Driven by a V-8 quality engine of tight R&B licks, an impeccable stage presence (dig the cover photo of the band in burglar masks! Whoo!), and the soul-steeped voice of frontman Little Willie G., Thee Midniters set the hearts of vatos and vatas throughout the Chicano community of L.A. to blazing with cuts like the monster instro hit “Whittier Blvd.” (“Arriba! Arriba! AH-HAH-HAH-HAH!”) and the thunderous “Jump, Jive and Harmonize,” which helped the band build inroads into the white rock and pop scene of the period. Like every great garage outfit, Thee Midniters were capable of making mincemeat of warhorse covers (“Gloria,” “Money,” and a whomping live rip through “Land of a Thousand Dances” in front of what sounds like the entire high school girl population of East L.A.) while producing their own standout tracks, like the Stones-y “Never Knew I Had It So Bad” and “Thee Midnite Feeling,” which slips and slides on a greasy-hot bass riff while the twin guitars of George Dominguez and Roy Marquez square off in a fuzz-fueled death match. Muy caliente for vintage raunch hands, to be sure (especially those who dig The Makers), who should definitely check out the liner notes by L.A. music expert Domenic Priore for Thee whole Midniters story. – Paul Gaita
The Stalkers
-Sascha
-Sascha
-Holly
The Drip I avoided this record because the sleeve has a picture of a maggoty blond guy puking into a bucket. I don’t mind vomiting myself every now and again, but seeing or hearing other people vomit, or even pre-vomit gag, doesn’t really turn my crank, you know? So there this record sat, taunting me with the mysteries contained within, until today I bit the bullet and put it on, while strenuously avoiding actually looking at the thing (in the same way in which I avoid spending a lot of time investigating that damn monkey on the cover of Doolittle). “Pills” is enjoyable-if-slightly-generic rock ‘n’ roll, although I quite like the lead singer’s snotty vocals, but what the record really made me want to do was listen to the New York Dolls’ song of the same name, which I promptly did. The cover of The Victims’ “Annette” is pretty fun (with lyrics as simple as “I wanna fuck Annette,” how can you go wrong?), so all in all not a bad effort from this wrecked little band from Chicago, Illinois. I’ll probably leave it hidden on the shelf just to avoid the vomit, though. Ah well. - Holly
The Blowtops
“I’ve been dreaming since I was six years old…about being
normal”
- Stu Gibson
IGGY POP: The Biography –
Open Up And Bleed
The Iggy things’ still rampantly solvent shake appeal in the face of a couple of great records that begat the legend then a lifetime of lumpen, lethargic releases that smattered and be-shat said legend, suggest that where labels don’t know what to do with him, neither does the man himself, shorn of his Stooges and pal / endoresee / fanatical fan Deirdre Bowie. On the face of it you’d need to be a pretty poor writer to make the Pop parade anything other than a page-shedding read in the honour of Pop’s trouser-doffing escapades but Trynka excels on this with his considered, intelligently exhaustive approach that took a considerable ten year death trip to get to this stage (and around 500 interviewees). That the final twenty years is condensed into a chapter or two isn’t a case of scholarly redundancy but that it simply isn’t necessary once the psychological holocaust of his performances and personality are dealt with. -Stu Gibson
Pilotos More largesse rocking from the fertile breeding swamps of Sweden here. Realising that far too much garage-y same old same old was emanating from their homeland Pilotos set about fumigating the general area and stomping their rampant macho stoned-trucker rawk into the psyches of the effeminate garage dwellers. At times it works, but they do slumber from their almost Danko Jones-like groove into mid-tempo slog-rock lands too much on mid-set ‘Urban Blues’ and ‘Get Out Of His Way’. Maybe while they’re trying to find the right cheek to put their tongue into. ‘Blond Guy’ and ‘Malo’ motor along like a set of orangutans slamming at the Glucifer gig and ‘Not Alone’ swirls in a sea of frostbitten psychedelia quite superbly but a touch more speed would floor the ignition set by the fire-breathing vocals. -Stu Gibson
The Rippers Rock On! www.therippers.net
-Sleaze |
Hoodoo Gurus Australian garage-popsters the Hoodoo Gurus offered a breath of fresh air to Nuggets-minded miscreants like myself way back in 1984 with their debut CD, Stoneage Romeos, and it’s a pleasure to report that the record has lost none of its crunchy punch. Big single “I Want You Back” and sophomore single “My Girl” still shimmer with glimmering twang, and “In the Echo Chamber” and opener “Let’s All Turn On” will set even the creakiest hips to swaying with that combo of Surry Hills stomp and American longhair fuzz. I didn’t remember “Dig It Up” being so Cramps-y, both in tone (lurid, snarling guitar) and theme (frontman Dave Faulkner misses his dead girl’s touch so much, he unearths her for… well, you figure it out), but like the album itself, I sure enjoyed hearing it for the first time all over again, so to speak. This Deluxe Edition is the first release from the newly-reformed Gurus’ own record label, and tacks on three extra tunes: “Leilani Part 2” (the sequel to the band’s first single, which is also included here), as well as “Be My Guru) and a speedfreak live take on Sir Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love,” renamed here “Hoodoo You Love” (natch). Pretty essential for old cranks like yours truly who still carry on about the Lipstick Killers and Green On Red, as well as the current batch of Big Beat-loving lords and ladies. – Paul Gaita
Spermbirds Boss Tuneage  These German / American hardcore legends may have reformed
in a fit of millennial fervour but at least remained unreconstructed advocates
of harsh, melodic, irate anthems. This is the first CD issue for this 2004 album
and is a pure penicillin suppository for anyone slightly sick or suspicious of
street punk postures. Sneering and cynical though with a sense of purpose - not
just a set of half-copped slogans from old Dead Kennedys records. The
sheet metal guitars give the power-drill hardcore rattle at its heart, giving
songs like ‘Neighbourhood Relations’ and ‘Knifethrower’ a palpable sense of
urban disquiet and paranoia, culminating in ‘Hate Me’s Big Black
bull-terrier baiting stomp that lurches around wearing your ears as a necklace.
There’s rock’n’roll wriggling in these paint-spattered pants too. ‘Stop At
Nothing’ has a Cuban-heeled riff blow-drying it’s hair readying itself for an
audition to replace Paul Fox in The Ruts and the title track’s like
inviting Rose Tattoo round for a cup of tea in their ‘Assault And
Battery’ boogie-bastardising days. Acutely awesome.
-Stu Gibson
The Tank Boss Tuneage
-Stu Gibson
Chillerton Boss Tuneage
-Stu Gibson
The Meteors People Like You
- Stu Gibson
Bound For The Bar Just in case you’re feeling more zombiefied than Nik Fiend the friendly fuckers at People Like You have tooled up with the cattle-prods and rounded up some recent delights from their stable of delinquents and miscreants. These thirteen (it’s in conjunction with Lucky 13 clothes after all) tracks may not be your, mine or your mothers favourites but then overall PLY do leave you somewhat spoilt for choice. You wanna argue with Angel City Outcasts ‘Down Spiral’, Charley Horses piston-poppin’ baddie version of ‘Eastbound And Down’ from Smokey and the Bandit, how about fuckin’ with The Meteors’ Fenech whose ‘F Word’ is a comical and spot on verbal knuckle-dustin’ put-down to parasites and pipe-wielding pussies; or you fancy Roger Miret and the Disasters ‘My Riot’? Or to sit back and reminisce with US Bombs’ Clash-coppin’ ‘Heart break Motel’. There ain’t no winner, many of these bands could have had any number of songs (stand up – if you can – Demented Are Go whose ‘Destruction Boy’ is a better title than song when put against other tracks from the ‘Hellbilly Storm’ album and sonictemple destructifiers Chelsea Smiles, who, fuck it all ‘n’ fuck it, just encapsulate the errant erotic throb of Rock’n’Roll) and should provide many a moment of earnest discussion in bars and back-rooms from sea to shore as destruction boys n’ their Merry Widows strive to settle on the ultimate collection, the ultimate score. And they’ll be back, Bound For The Bar sometime in the evermore. - Stu Gibson
Ghost Club Hellsquad
- Stu Gibson
The Essential Whiskey Daredevils Knock-out
-Sleaze
Easter Bloodhounds www.easterbloodhounds.com
Calabrese Spookshow Records
-Sleaze
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I have to admit that between the self-consciously Un-PC name of the band and the
studiously grubby photos in the booklet I was prepared to dislike this. But this
Brooklyn band is the real deal, essentially what a lot of groups would like to
be, but aren't. I'm sure the Stalkers get tired of the "Back In The USA"
MC5/Stooge-0-matic comparisons but if the engineer boot fits, wear it.
"Yesterday..." is speedy garage noise with enough incipient pop hooks
(especially on "Circus Baby" and "Let's Get It Together") to keep things
interesting. "I'm Watching You" experiments with tough balladry to add a third
wrinkle. And vocalist Andy Animal's yowl at the beginning of "How Can I Live
Today" throws down the gauntlet to John Brannon (Laughing Hyenas/Easy Action) in
a way that should have been done years ago. Tuneful, sharp and to be watched.
(Dollar Record-Records, there's the now obligatory myspace page as well).
Cologne, Germany's Love Dictator maintain that "You don't need a vibrator, just
Love Dictator" and if that makes you smile, this CD is for you. Five songs that
burst through the speakers like silly-string loaded firecrackers, mostly about
sex or the band itself. Imagine KISS if they had ever manifested a sense of
humor, or been any good, cross it with Wrathchild's approach and....achtung
baby! (Check it out at
I’ve had this record by 
I’m in no way sure if this is new or has been collecting
dust at Sleaze HQ, waiting for it’s time to pupate and spread it’s pestilence
with a patience borne from confidence in it’s masterplan, as it was recorded
back in 2003. Anyhow, that just seems even more fitting for this collection of
demented and gone psychotic gyrations of mind and muscles that have morphed into
being in the recesses of some deviant scientists laboratory. Y’see, they even
have a song called ‘Violated Chemistry’. Suppurating blues saturated in waters
muddied and bloodied that’ll sweep you into eddying pools of swirling, delirious
incomprehension in the best banzai charging batterings of The Birthday Party
and The Blues Explosion…’cept old Jon-boy Spencer would implode back to
his ma’s house and swat up to re-sit his exams. Taut trip-wire guitars grimace
like the soundtrack to a garrotte-fetish banquet where the guests luxuriate in
divans made from the rotting derma of necrotising fasciitis victims, while
random infernos rage in a case of across town collateral. There’s horrorpunk,
full of clichéd clatter, then there’s this psychodramatica postulation of
deranged theses from warped factories. 
For a subject that could so easily descend into an onerous
yawnsome recount of orgiastic opiated opulence and squalid indulgences of trite,
oft-told tales from sordid tabloid scrapbooks, MOJO editor Trynka takes Iggy’s
music in hand, for better and worse, and concentrates on the complex chameleon
character of Jim Osterberg / Iggy Pop. Suave, charming, ambitious and highly
intelligent Jim is alarmingly, though maybe unsurprisingly, like Mick Jagger,
all social advancement masking the sadism of Pop, who is merely an excuse for
all-out twattery. Trynka has unearthed details of tests that the Oster-Pop
underwent in the mid-seventies to determine bi-polar, or other, traits of
psychological imbalance which result in the not so astounding revelation that
there’s no deviation there, besides those he wishes to delve into.
“Eight years in the making” screams, or weeps, the press
release, “beat that Def Leppard”. Christ getting head on the cross, Def
Leppard are the divinely appointed arbiters of taste, decorum and
devil-may-care riffery, Robert Frippery and Led Zep endorsed endeavours
in mid-wifery compared to this hand-wringing, whinging set of
soiled-undergarment excuses for a pop-punk fest. It actually will make you feel
sick. Then you’ll feel queasy and bewildered it is so unfunny. The only slightly
redeeming factor would be that they cover Cheap Tricks’ ‘He’s A Whore’.
Though that is, of course, nullified, neutered by the fact you can just get
Big Black’s version, or the Cheap Trick one down the second hand record
store. Don’t take this as exchange though, it might cause embarrassment to the
staff to tell you not to be so silly as to expect them to give you a peanut out
their arse for it. Horrible.
Debut full-lengther from
Pushing thirty with about the same number of albums to
boot, psychobilly progenitors The Meteors’ unswerving devotion to the
detour determinedly driven down by kingpin P Paul Fenech draws parallels to that
other revolving door from the same era - Motorhead. (Coincidentally,
there’s an ode to roadies as a hidden track). Sharing an obstinacy and aberrant
eccentricity with Lemmy akin to the zombies that regularly roam The
Meteors lair, siphoning songs from a bastard brew of rockabilly boogie and punk
mangled in masochistic mayhem, dragging spaghetti western soundtracks on a dance
of dusty decadence, these chest-beating holocaust-eers walk through deserts
where tumbleweed is razor-wire and tarmac made from teeth, while Fenech indulges
in irascible self-lionisation and aggrandisement. The violent comic-book tale of
‘My Slaughtering Ways’ and wide-boy territory-staking ‘You Want It I Got It’ may
see firewater being tread but ‘The Cutter Cuts While The Widow Weeps’ is a
mariachi band surfing the river Styx on the bones of The Ventures; ‘The Phantom
Rider’ summons ‘Ghostriders In The Sky’ be dine on by a deviant destiny; ‘We
Wanna Wreck Here’ is a partner in crime to classic bruiser ‘Wreckin’ Crew’. No
doubt the devoted will devour it deliriously but there’s plenty for newcomers to
the pit as well as enough meat on the bones to suggest that The Meteors
will motor head long into the affray for a good few years yet. 
This London via New Zealand trio may have hauled ass to
howl ‘round the hinterlands of the hungry underground but sidestep the
Shoreditch hip-breeze parade with their kilter-defying, cellar-dwelling, leaky
tap blues sluiced slicings that refract Royal Trux mixing the vicodin
with vitamins through reflections of the Gun Club and the Reid
Brothers rancour. Recorded over one day their approach bears more than
roughshod recording sensibilities in common with haggard ragged school expellees
Dave Kusworth and his cemetery-bound compadre Nikki Sudden,
crawling back to the coast with a knap-sack overflowing with woe and
folly. David Mitchell’s fractured strangulations bear resemblance to Kusworth’s
shattered cheekbone ache, helped and hindered equally by the air-evaporating
Mary Chain orgy of overdriven disarticulation of Denise Roughan and Jim
Abbott, none more so, maybe baby, than on the death-grinds of ‘Mother London’
and ‘Los Hombres Invisible’; the wilting in the whiskey fumed 3pm afterglow of
‘La Maree’ or sci-fi blues of ‘Darkest London’. Delve in and dig deep. 
A whole tractor full of
good-time hickbilly from some slanted shack in the wilds of Lakewood, Ohio.
Front slickster Greg Miller does a very smooth greased-back 
I don’t know if this will be
a stunning revelation or not, but I find most modern metal completely boring.
Snoozeville. Greasy kid’s stuff. Not this, though. Easter Bloodhounds is a
Boston band, steeped in furious riffage and battering drum beats, influenced,
I’m guessing, by the Isis tower-of-power. Possibly some Satan-worshipping
doom-ass bands, as well. The end result is a real feast of snakes. Imagine the
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion as bikers gripped in an episode of psychotic
depression. Immense. “Throw It All Away” is a sure-fire wrist-slashing classic.
Forget “Suicide Solution”, end it all with this one, its way cooler. If these
fuckers have something to do with the future of metal, maybe metal isn’t doomed
to terminal lameness after all. Stay tuned. 
The three brothers Calabrese
return with yet another clutch of horror punk tunes, all of ‘em dead-ringers for
“Walk Among Us” era Misfits, wrapped up in a spooky story about…well, see the
title for details. To their credit, the whole thing is flawless, and flows deep
and rich, like a 