Sleazegrinder

Kingdom of Fear (book review)

2012-02-13T02:17:00.001-08:00

KINGDOM OF FEAR: LOATHSOME SECRETS OF A STARCROSSED CHILD IN THE FINAL DAYS OF THE AMERICAN CENTURY
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
Simon & Schuster

King of the Original Gonzo ranters and one of our spiritual forebearers, Doctor Thompson's carousing, maverick style is imitated poorly by middle-class English-Lit majors and shameless sell-out, P.J. O'Rourke, almost as often asLester Bangs and Papa Bukowski, and all too often by those who completely miss the point about what it means to be a maverick. Louisville, Kentucky native, H.S.T. has blazed an uncommon trail across the decades, developing his distinctive voice as a social-commentator, freedom fighter and penetrating American sociologist, all while openly consuming vast quantities of controlled substances, staying a few paranoid steps ahead of the fun-police and consorting with a daunting array of infamous pill poppers, politicians, performance artists, and other subcultural subterraneans. Mocking abusive and petty authority; fulminating about corruption and greed; skewering the heartbreakingly corrupt hypocrisy of the monied in this country and generally living by his own rules, seizing the liberties we're all entitled to as sovereign-born human beings--but get beaten into believing are no longer worth fighting to defend. Now in his sixties, Hunter remains livid and appalled by this saber-rattling, illegitimately installed President ("goofy child president") whom he mocks with un-camouflaged abhorrence. His incendiary riffs on the Gulf War and it's endless, insatiably bloodthirsty current sequels are as indispensable, vivifying, and precise as ever. It's a shame that Thompson's acerbic observations and wry wit still seem so shocking. His no time to fuck around style of courageous whistle blowing and hyperbole-drunken auto-mythologizing still provide an unexpected jolt, lulled as we are, by the party-line liars and personality-free hacks we currently endure. Imperishably-established as part of the pantheon of American Myth, Thompson continues to jeopardize his own prosperity by provoking power and setting an example as to what it means to behave as though we're free in a free society, and the recurring consequences of being your own person. "Kingdom of Fear" is mandatory reading for anyone left who really still believes in authentic freedom and democracy--as opposed to craven authoritarianism, cosmetic rebellion,the anesthesia of constant consumption, capitalist imperialism and chilling Orwellian double-speak. As
-Pepsi Sheen

Flash Metal Suicide: Charlies Sexton

2012-02-10T03:30:00.000-08:00

Charlie Sexton
Pictures For Pleasure
MCA, 1985

"She can't tell the difference, anyway..."

Prolly only yers and Platinum Willie Broad got the yarbles to assert this, but that eighties record producer, Keith Forsey, fookin' rocked, babies. He was the author of the Simple Minds "Pretty In Pink" prom classic, "Don't You Forget About Me", produced Willie Rebel's landmark "Rebel Yelp" AND this heavily moussed whizkit guitarslinger from Stevie Ray country, Charlie Sexton's sensational debut album, "Pictures For Pleasure", a snarlingly raucous, cascadingly cool, bruised and brooding array of pouty, heartsick loverock. I think my earliest recollection of Chuck Sexton wuz a picture in "Rolling Stone" magazine's "Random Notes" column of this gaunt prettyboy pinup dude jamming with some kinda baby boomer dinosaur rawk royalty-either the Vaughan bros., or Keef n Ronnie, or the Eagles or Rod stewart er somebody-I don't recall exactly who. I know he played on Don Henley's middle of the road weeper, "Building The Perfect Beast" and I think he mighta had a tune on the "Wild Life*" soundtrack er somethin' (*DO look fer Ron Wood in that flick's party scene!) but like I said, my memory's all but shot from way too many years of fuckin' up and blackin' out. Anyways, all the Madonna wannabe/Cyndi Lauper chicks I fancied in those days wallpapered their rooms and lockers with pictures of this shouldabeena Stray Cat torn from the pages of "Smash Hits" magazine-we were all real big on creating these big collages of all our favorite rockstars, back then. Jimples of scotched tape metal heart throbs and 120 Minutes new wave queers -the Cure and the Crue, Billy Idol and Duran Duran. Charlie Sexton looked alot like a cross between Duran bassist John Taylor and Edward Scissorhands, but with a rebel boy James Dean countenance shades of Keith Richards. He smoked his cigarettes with style , sang like Bowie, had hair like Presley AND supposedly, he was always some talented guitar virtuoso, but you wouldn't know it from listening to his album, cos it was awash with synths, y'know? It all sounded exactly like Forsey's music for both Simple Minds and Billy Idol - especially on the glorious hit single, "Beat's So Lonely", with it's naggingly infectious chorus of "So Lonely/So Lonely..." What a fuckin' smash that album was-it still makes me taste the watermelon lipgloss on a certain long lost love's lips just hearin' it all these years on. She was one of those girls you always want back, who used to play it nonstop while we made out on her bed beneath the Depeche Mode poster. The second best song on the record, "Impressed", also rocks ("I am NOT impressed/I love you the best....just a bunch of losers, yeah they're so damn cool/ they got nothing in this world to live up to...") Somehow, I remember thinkin' on the chorus of "Impressed" when he shouts, "long list of victims!": I preposterously always thought that line was, "I missed the Beatles!",which seemed even cooler to me, but I'm the same cat who once thought the "Leps line, "I'm not foolin' myself" was the more Rick James-like, "Hot Rock Bootay For Sale!" , so, y'know, whatever. My Fruedian slip's a showin' again.

I'll Bet It's Lonely At The Top...
Charlie Sexton made a cuppla bitchin videos that got a reasonable amount of MTV rotation, including the cool as shit, black and white stomper, "Beat's So Lonely", and the sortof mediocre rockabilly ballad, "Hold Me" that was intended to emphasize his Elvis-appeal. After the album fell off the radar, he released a few more albums I don't remember so well, and formed a group with his brother Will called Arc Angels for awhile that all the cool chicks who dug shit like Chris Isaak and the Connells collected, but I don't remember any of those songs standing out much to me. I think he did "The Battle Hymn Of The Republic" instrumentally or something , but for me, he never managed to recapture the Ken Forsey produced lightning in a bottle magic of "Pictures For Pleasure". That one rocked just like "Rebel Yell" almost minus summa the space shuttle guitar wank. If yer hip to Quentin Tarantino's best movie "True Romance", you might recall that swanky rockabilly shuffle, "Never Been To Graceland". That was Charlie Sexton, too. We always respected him for having one of the best hairstyles of the eighties, after Neal X from Sigue Sigue Sputnik, who we also emulated back then. Flash Metal Bubblegum, really. If you dug solo Billy Idol, Charlie Sexton shared much of his whole vibe-the whole wan, anemic, black leather, curly lip, skull guitar strap slung super lowdown low, dangling ash on a Chesterfield, classic pose with some real slick songs to back it all up with. Like a teenage sleaze, a comic book tease, with yer art on yer sleeve. Last I heard, he was playing lead guitar for none other than Bob Dylan (and if you ain't heard ol' Zimmy's powerhouse "Masters Of War" in recent years, go listen to it a/s/a/p...) and if you ever dug yer flash metal on the sulking teenybopper Smash Hits/John Hughes movie/120 Min. side of the tracks, by all means, go revisit this sucker outta yer neighborhood cheapo bins and see how vividly it evokes all those shimmering, receding memories you've repressed about gettin' to feel up the girl with the feathered hair and b-cup bra who used to draw the Eye Of Horus around her eye in black liquid eyeliner and make you listen to Siouxsie & The Banshees. Oh, to be young and carefree again....

-FIN-

-Pepsi Sheen missed the Beatles

Dio

2012-02-08T04:41:00.000-08:00

Sacred Heart 1986-2004 DVD
Rhino

“You‘re Hungry for Heaven, but you need a little Hell”

Come and Make Me Holy Again...
People think I’m kidding when I say I like Dio, or, at the very least, that I’m being “ironic” about it. Well, first of all, irony is for punks, plus I think it’s against the law now anyway. And even if it wasn’t, I don’t do irony, baby. I really DO love Dio, and I am quite sure that “Holy Diver” is one of the greatest rock n’ roll rekkids ever made. I could give you a 17-point explanation why- probably will, at some point - but we don’t have time for that now, man. We got bigger fish to fry. Suffice to say that Ronnie James Dio (RIP) did not know strife, did not know pain or poverty or struggle (um, cancer aside), had never suffered a moment of fear, loathing, or self-doubt, and there’s a reason for that. Ronnie James, ya see, was a winner. He had been his ENTIRE life. The cat was a singer-of-songs and seller-of-singles since the late 1950’s, amazingly enuff. Back then, they had yet to invent metal, so he sang doo-wop, but whatever. And then he was in Elf. And Rainbow. And Black Sabbath! Whenever RJ got behind a mic, there were people there to listen. And crook their fingers into devil horns. And scream “DIOOOOOO!!!!” at him.

Since forming his solo band, Dio (nobody ever said he was humble) in 1983, RJD has become the official voice of heavy metal. I mean, when anybody anywhere just says it, ya know, “heavy metal”, whether it’s between gum snaps at a strip mall in Missouri or screamed in mortal agony in a bamboo cage in Indonesia, Ronnie James Dio is what they mean by it. His throaty howl contains not a trace of blooze, or pop, or country, or punk, or even teen-Dio doo-wop, anymore. It is one thing, and one thing only – METAL. And that takes conviction. And RJ was about nothing, if not conviction. Ronnie James Dio was so committed to heavy metal and all it stands for that he was willing to slay dragons with broad swords to prove it. I mean, c’mon, man, who else is gonna SLAY DRAGONS? You?

Nope. Just RJD. Keep in mind, by the way, that Dio flourished in the days of Poison and Bon Jovi and every pretty boy puffball hairspray band that ever trolled the Sunset Strip, and he was only like, 5 foot 2, and his hairline was always receding, and he had always looked like your uncle, the one that used to live in your dad’s basement whenever times got tough. But Ronnie James didn’t need looks, didn’t need make-up, didn’t need hair that covered his whole head. All RJD need was that big crazy voice, and his fuckin’ broadsword, and a dragon to slay, and METAL. And to hell with the rest of it, ya know?

And that’s why he survived, and thrived, through all those wasted years. See, RJD refused to change. Ever. Are you the same person as you were in 1983, assuming you were already born 1983? Of course not, right? Well, Ronnie James Dio was the same guy in 1983, and 1993, and 2003. Do you know what the name of his last (2002) record was, man? “Killing the Dragon”. I think that about sez it all.

Time to Burn
Which brings us to this DVD, “Sacred Heart”, which was shot in Philadelphia, in 1986, during the tour of the same name. There’s a supplemental interview included, shot in 2004, with Ronnie James and Sacred Heart guitarist Craig Goldie. Goldie just sits there like a mook, and complains that the audience booed him on the tour, ‘cuz he used to be in Giuffria. Personally, I think he should STILL be booed for being in Giuffria. Anyway, Dio, looking as rock as a dude your dad's age is gonna, says cool stuff like, “I didn’t have to do that much, I just had to kill the dragon. These guys had to play and play, while knights were running around the stage trying to fight each other.” Then he gives advice you can use today, like, “When ya get thrown into the fire, you learn to dance really quickly, or you burn your feet.” Then, mixing decades willy-nilly, Dio says, “I’m not gonna give ya a Beyonce song, or a Klymaxx song.” It’s OK, RJ, we didn’t expect you to, brother.

Then there’s the actual concert. It's shot with multiple cameras and deftly edited, but looks sorta murky (there's a whole lotta fog going on). It's certainly not unwatchable, tho, just a little fuzzy in places. The stage looks like the Flintstones, with lotsa fake rocks and fire, with a big crocodile-dragon napping quietly behind the drum riser. Although they were touring their second album at the time, Dio leans heavily on prior hits here, including a cuppla Rainbow tunes (“Long Live Rock n’ Roll”, “Man on the Silver Mountain”) and a Sabbath nugget “Heaven N’ Hell”, which is weird, since “Holy Diver” was pretty much a solid-wall o’ metal hits, but mine is not to reason why. Ronnie James keeps mentioning the dragon ‘tween tracks, like that’s what everybody was really there to see. “I know, you want to see the dragon. Keep watching…and listening…”

I don’t know what kind of freak pays $35 or whatever it was just to see a cable-operated plastic dragon flop around, but I’m not an ‘arena’ guy, so mebbe he was on to something. Anyway, the intro to “Sacred Heart” is a film of Ronnie James, with some kinda monster make-up on, inviting you to join him on his ‘journey’ to the “Sacred Heart”, which you can’t even refuse at this point. I mean, you're already there. The search for the “Sacred Heart” leads RJ to a giant orb with lasers in it. At one point, the laser is the devil. Then it’s a heart. Then the dragon’s head starts moving around, eyes glowing red, snorting. And the band plays on.

RJ has his sword, He’s swinging it around. His sword is a laser now, too. Everything’s a laser, even the guitars are lasers. Two gold statues come to life, like in that old Japanese movie, Maijan, and start shooting…well, lasers, at each other. Then the dragon’s ‘body’ cracks open, revealing his “Sacred Heart” ( a laser, natch), and RJ does something with it. That part was confusing, looked like he was humping it. Anyway, after it’s over, he starts singing “Long Live Rock n’ Roll”, so it all must work out in the end.

“Rainbow in the Dark”, Dio’s biggest solo hit, is saved for the end. It sounds great. All the songs sound great, even with the lasers and the dragon and Goldie wearing a cape, and even with Dio’s ad-libbing (“I’m the man, where’s my hand, here’s my hand!”), and even tho he has to mime everything (if he mentions ‘time’, you just know RJ’s gonna point to his imaginary watch).

Sure, motherfucker, all that’s kinda funny. Fake rocks are always good for a chuckle. But when the laughter’s over, there remains a triumphant Ronnie James Dio, shouting, with all authority:

“If you suddenly see what has happened to me
You should spread the word around
And tell everyone here that it's perfectly clear
They can sail above it all on what they've found
It cries for you - it's the best that you can do
Like a sound that's everywhere - I can hear it screaming through the air...

Long live Rock and Roll!
Long live Rock 'n' Roll!
Long live Rock and Roll!”

Say what you will, man, but here's the truth: DIO ROCKS. Always and forever. “Sacred Heart” provides ample evidence, if ya need it.

-Sleazegrinder

Number of the Beast

2012-02-07T02:52:00.000-08:00

Number of the Beast: All Star Tribute to Iron Maiden
Restless/Rykodisc

Not too sure if there's ever been a Maiden tribute album so far. Not everyone'd be brave enuff with the requisite moral fibre to try and nail these masterworks of metal mayhem and gattling gun guitar strafings. Or desperate enuff on the showing of this collection of mainly semi-retired fretboard hackers...whatever, tho, it IS almost uniformly fantabulous, and the overall calibre of songwriting throughout the Irons reign would baffle Bach, even if just for a few ticks. Not hard really when they stay true to the originals, but why alter perfection? Why the fuck not? Me, I'm still waiting for a psychobilly rendition of 'Aces High'. C'mon, it's just begging for Demented Are Go or OS Catalepticos to shoot it down....or worse.

Anyway old General Harry shouldn't be too pissed at this when he gives the troops a once over on the parade ground at Pacific Palisades or wherever, even Dee Snider's straining on 'Wasted Years' should be overlooked, and actually commended for valour as he does inflect more pathos and reflective feel, into it than Dickinson's panto screeching, especially as when the original was recorded he'd rather have been fencing, flying or 'writing'. Old self-mythologizing villain, the Nick Cotton-esque desperado Paul Di'Anno plays for the pipe on 'Wrathchild', still a great song that he obviously identifies with, but I'd rather have had 'Remember Tomorrow' given the production it deserves. 'The Trooper' is tackled by possibly the only men able to take this 'un over the top and not get cut down on their own wire...yup, it's those dastardly Motorhead barstads Lemmy & Campbell...Lemmy's howitzer firing breath actually benefiting the classic tale of an infantry mans death waddle in the Crimea.

Of course, with an album featuring Dio man Craig Goldie, Dokken's George Lynch and Paul Gilbert from Racer X, guitar pyrotechnics (or prattling, if you will) is to the fore. Yuss, I know, Maiden did it anyway but sometimes these chaps kinda think it gives them reason to go just that touch too much in the far-zone, where Maiden, especially Mr Murray, played far tastier solos than their stage-wear would otherwise indicate, as we all know. One thing with your hair, dudes, another on classic metal. Stand up (no surprises here, surely) Nuno Bettencourt who, to paraphrase Def Leppard, pursues some bludgeon widdle-ola on 'Aces High' like the eager new recruit forgetting to watch his wing in the heat of the dog-fight the songs warning of. D'oh. Go to the back of the benefit queue, or be a session muso or something. Whatever you do, bugger off. (Yes, old prejudices from rock club days die hard...get the funk out, indeed, damn him!). It also, quite criminally, guv, lacks the spiraling dive-bombing trem-arm trickery that soundtracks a Spitfires plummet to the green and desecrated land. Similarly on '2 Minutes To Midnight' and 'The Evil That Men Do', tho the latter has a much needed heaviness that the band swapped for synths on the '7th Son' record.

Best is the 'Holy Smoke' meets Skynyrd ballad 'Fear Of The Dark' intoned by Testament's Chuck Billy, and surprisingly the always slight 'Flight Of Icarus' fares better, falling between the way too slow, insipid watery soup version from the 'Piece Of Mind' album, sunning itself instead, even for just an instant, in the reflected glow of the prime rib sizzler on the 'Live After Death' set.

Of course, your willingness to inflict this upon yourselves will depend on your loving or loathing of Maiden. But as an album in itself it should appeal to more than Maiden completists, tho it coulda done with
a few more tunes in there, like 'Drifter' and 'Prowler' perhaps. Even if you're a passing rock / metal fan with a casual interest in our East End ear splitters it's worth a few bob of your Brown Ale fund. In the meantime n' by all means, do contact your local psychobilly heroes and press 'em to do 'Aces High'.

-Stu Gibson

Movies About Girls Podcast Episode 133

2012-02-04T22:28:00.001-08:00

Check out Sleaze's weekly comedy/rock n' roll/mayhem show!

Tonight, the gang takes on 1985's teen sex comedy classic, Weird Science!

Plus: Let's Fuck up the Podcast, the top 5 bottom 5 DVDs of the week, weird news, Songs about Girls, and lots more!

Listen/download HERE!

Subscribe on I-Tunes!

Or listen anytime on Movies About Girls Radio!

More fun: Leave us a voicemail! 617-300-0669!

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PS: Songs on tonight's show performed by:
Jennie Lee Lambert
France Gall
Randy and the Holidays
Jolliver Arkansas
Connie Francis
Astrud Gilberto

Thanks for listening! Next show: MAG Follies!

Flash Metal Suicide: Warfare

2012-02-03T03:39:00.000-08:00

WARFARE
Pure Filth
1984, Neat Records

While it is always fun to look back at the folly of youth and sneer, jeer, or cheer at hapless flash metal victims like Britny Fox and King Kobra, it really oughta be noted that only nerds, bumpkins, and the semi-retarded listened to that dreck back then. The shit we were into in the city back in the early 1980’s was more heat and fire than mere flash. It was hardcore rock n’ roll, like Slayer, Black Flag, the Misfits, Venom, Gang Green, Motorhead,Suicidal Tendencies, Metallica, GBH, Fear, Tank, Discharge, Corrosion of Conformity, stuff that stank of stale beer and cheap speed and promised blood and danger. Glam was exploding in the malls and suburbs, but on the streets it was all used leather, metal-plated boots, spikes, black jeans, long hair, and stolen booze. The punk kids and the metal kids were two separate and sometimes warring factions when roaming the neighborhoods looking for good drinking and screwing spots (the punk kids always had more fun, and more girls, and more drugs, which often made me question my headbanger allegiance), but everybody piled into one big sweat-soaked mass of teenage rampage at live all-ages shows, which is how the whole notion of ‘crossover’ bands like Crumbsuckers, DRI, and Agnostic Front– bands that were 95% punk rock, but with just enough screaming guitar leads to draw in the rivetheads, too – came about. And as much as the metal kids gravitated to the harder punk bands, the Mohawks loved Lemmy and Cronos and Celtic Frost and Destruction and Voivod, anything fast and evil. And that’s just how it went. I know that Dokken happened, because I saw it on TV, but there was rarely a Dokken sighting at the VFW Hall in Cambridge.

It wasn’t long before bands starting erasing the genre lines completely. The first two that really had an impact were both from England. Broken Bones was a jarring thrash n’ roll juggernaut formed by couple of the dudes in Discharge. They turned into a straight-up thrash metal band as the 80’s wore on, but they were a full-scale punk rock riot when they started. The other was Warfare, the meanest, loudest, most punk-as-fuck heavy metal band of the 80’s.

Warfare was from Newcastle Upon Tyne, the same town in Northern England that Venom hailed from, a band that would figure prominently in their history. They were formed in 1984 by Paul Evo (or just Evo, as he was known in the band), a drummer/singer who previously played with first-wave punks Angelic Upstarts. He was joined by guitarist Gunner and bass player Falken, which pretty much cemented what the band was gonna sound like. If your guitarist is named fucking GUNNER, heavy shit is going to happen.

Warfare’s sound was an ugly explosion of NWOBHM guitars blown-out for maximum fuzz, played at thrashpunk speed, with chugging battlefield rhythms and the hoarse bellow of Evo over the top. To this day, Warfare remains one of the most gloriously obnoxious sounds you’ll ever here, like Venom, Tank and Motorhead all fighting over the same scrap of turf with rusty knives and barbed-wire fists. Which makes perfect sense, when you consider their recording history.

Warfare signed to Neat records, Venom’s label, and released their first album “Pure Filth”, in 1984. It was produced – so to speak – by Tank mainman Algy Ward. I dunno if ‘produced’ is really the right word. It’s more like he lit the fuse and ran like hell. “Pure Filth” is a classic of bullet-riddled punk-metal mayhem, filled with howling, war-zone freak for alls like “This Machine Kills”, “New Age of Total Warfare”, and infamous noisefest “Rose Petals Fall From Her Face”, which also featured Algy and Venom.

“Pure Filth” put Warfare on the map, but their “Two Tribes” single, a rumbling, psycho-delic cover of the Frankie Goes to Hollywood song, got them in the papers. They started to sell a lot of records but, amazingly, had yet to play live at this point. They liked being in the studio better. Playing live was for pussies. But duty called, and they began playing gigs in 1985, and spent much of their stage time ruining it for everybody else, disrupting the other bands’ sets and acting as beastly as they sounded. In one infamous incident, they were asked to open for Metallica at the Hammersmith Odeon, but were expected to pay for their own expenses. In protest, they played in the parking lot during the show, where Evo threw his mic stand at the Odeon manager’s car and smashed the Warfare truck into several parked cars, resulting in enough damage to land him in court on criminal charges. Which just added to the band’s rep as bullet-belt wearing bad asses of the highest order.

In 1986, Warfare released their second album. Cashing in on their metal/punk crossover appeal, they named it “Metal Anarchy”, and cashing in on their image as speed-freak biker desperados, they got Lemmy to produce it. Again, ‘produce’ is a very high-faluting word for it. Can you imagine Lemmy actually sitting there, turning knobs, saying, “Ok, from the top, a little more sparkle on that one, eh, Evo?” No. Lemmy pounded booze with the fellas, and they made a monstrous fuckin’ record together. Motorhead’s own Wurzel even kicked in a few reptilian riffs. It sold 40,000 copies and Warfare didn’t bother to tour. Fuck touring. They decided to make another record instead. It was called, quite accurately, “Mayhem Fucking Mayhem”. Cronos produced it, and when Falken fucked off, Cronos played the rest of the bass parts, too. The album got caught up in record label hell, and was finally spit out, with barely any publicity, in 1987. By then Guns N’ Roses were becoming the biggest band in the world and rock n’ roll was pretty obnoxious all on it’s own, so it didn’t need Warfare so much anymore. They attempted to release a cover of “Addicted to Love” to revive the hordes, but were shot down by Robert Palmer’s publishers. Or by Robert Palmer himself, I wasn’t there. At any rate, they did one more album with Neat, 1988’s “Conflict of Hatred”, but it had fuckin’ keyboards and a saxophone on it. Not even a guest appearance from Venom’s Mantas could lift “Conflict” out of the mud of “maturity”. And it was at this point that everybody sorta forgot about Warfare.

They didn’t die, though. In the early 90’s, Hammer films was undergoing an ill-fated revival, and they had plans to open their studios again. That didn’t happen, but Warfare still released an album in conjunction with Hammer in 1990. It was called, imaginatively enough, “Hammer Horror”, but got no press, and fizzled out without mention. Evo eventually re-recorded the tracks with Algy Ward, and that’s pretty much what he spent the rest of the 1990’s doing, revamping old Warfare songs. “Crescendo of Reflections” was released in 1991, and contains new versions of old shit like “Blown to Bits” and “Metal Anarchy”. There’s also been two best-of comps since then, but the last new material Evo worked on in the 90’s was in Warhead, a short-lived supergroup with Wurzel and Algy. And that’s where the story ends. Mostly. A few years ago, Evo resurfaced in a punk covers band called Thieves of Fate with a couple black metal guys. Which, while reasonably bad-ass, is no metal anarchy.

So where is the Warfare cult? Motorhead is still rolling on, and probably always will. Tank’s fans never left them. Venom’s back, albeit in the same sorta way Axl wants to convince you that GN’R is back. So why not Warfare? In 1984, I was making my own “Pure Filth” t-shirts with white Hanes tees and black and red magic markers, absolutely convinced that their gut-churning hand grenade rock was the sound of the punk-metal revolution, and unlike a lot of the bands we worried ourselves over in the 1980’s, the Warfare sound is still as tough and volatile as it was back then. It’s uncompromising. It’s like a hard fucking in a bathroom stall. It’s like stepping on a landmine. Warfare was rock n’ roll in a combat zone. Which seems pretty relevant in these strange and terrible days.

Do yourself a favor and your neighbors a disservice and pick up a copy of Pure Filth today. You could use some mayhem fucking mayhem.

-Sleazegrinder

Flash Metal Suicide: The Boys

2012-02-01T04:15:00.000-08:00

THE BOYS
The BBC Sessions
Vinyl Japan, 1999
By Stu Gibson

"Deathwish Drummers and Suicide Kicks"

The Boys were by far and away the best 'punk' band of their time. As bold an opening statement have you ever seen, hmmm? Possibly also one of the best things released by Vinyl Japan too, incidentally. They may not be a typical Flash Metal contender, but they qualify for inclusion simply because they were so fucking good and also as they remain fairly obscure amidst the fake anarcho-politico bullshitto brow-beaters of the time. So in true Flash Metal tradition, we hereby herald another bunch of reprobates, beat degenerates and, in their case, classic songsmiths to boot who weren't punker-than-thou pseuds, or Oi thugs, but classic trash rawk'n'rollers with an innate ear for tunes and hungry tongues with which to taste 'em and lick 'em into shape. They had more in common to me with perennial US under-achieving geniuses The Flamin' Groovies. For, residing in their tight-pant pockets were scraps of all manner of great 'n' good streamlined songshapes from The Beach Boys, Phil Spector, Chuck Berry, The Beatles, T-Rex and The Sweet, with MC5 'Back In The USA' grit and garage fumed frenzy and Blondie pop nous and knowledge. Y'know - Rock'n'Roll. Jukebox jivin' good time music. (And also possessing a drummer as good as the more celebrated Clement Burke). Ribald raconteurs, ragged school graduates with honours degrees...

...The Boys were also one of the first of the punk bands to be signed and, if memory serves, some record or other they hold is that they were the first band to have a full-length 'platter' out, to The Damned's having first single. Something like that. Trivia 'n' tosh, really. Typically, they suffered at the hands of their label, NEMS, not really knowing what to do with them, having signed any old band it seems and then being dumb and not realizing exactly what they had on their hands. Or books. And while they were on said label all kinds of mishaps happened with the distribution so their well-received records couldn't be really received by the boy-hungry kids, as it were.

But for a little history first of all. Once upon a time there was a New York Dolls-y / Facesmess o' blues type of band in London called The Hollywood Brats. Yeah, I know, so you knew that, but what about the people that didn't eh? Think of them as they rush out to buy these raw relics of razzle dazzle Rockin'. They ground to a halt and two members of said band - Casino Steel and Andrew Matheson (not to be confused with star of a thousand TV movies Tim) – sruffled their way around London that summer of '75 and bumped into the cool as a cat named Matt Dangerfield, who'd knocked about in famous meeting-point-for-punk rehearsal room crew the London SS with Tony James and Mick Jones and others, who all sat around dreaming of shooting brown and being like

The Ramones and Johnny Thunders. Kind of like a UK Rocket From The Tombs, but without the gumption and get up and a go go to actually do anything. Worked out well in the end as we got Generation X (well, OK, coulda done without 'em but they did a few good things), The Clash, The Damned and, yes, indeedy people, The Boys. See, this Dangerfield character knew some other cats, with even better names than his (I used to be sooooo impressed with The Boys names when I got this record, as they sound like some Sarf Lahnden Victorian street gang) let's introduce 'Honest' John Plain, Jack Black and Kid Reid into the picture. Hi, guys.
'BBC - play our single please / You have missed us off your playlist'
- "T.C.P"
The reason, in case you're even remotely curious, that I'm writing this in relation to the BBC album is purely for the fact that it's the first one I came across several years ago, not that's it's necessarily the best one or the one to go chase after or anything, although as Flaming Star crooner Max Decharne says in the sleevenotes, it's great to have it released seen as the BBC seem to have erased far too much of the old archives. Guardian of our nations culture my ass.
I'd only ever heard of them in the tour programme for The Dogs D'Amour's Errol Flynn tour in 1989 (which, in typical Dogs style, they were still flogging on the following years Straighttour!) and to be honest never really bothered with rushing out to discover them.

However, twas after I'd moved to Manchester and spent several fruitless years and friendships trying to put a band together with this drummer called Simon that I finally heard them, as Simon was a big fan (he'd been in a Manchester punk'n'roll band calling itselfSuicide Kicks many years before). Many a cold autumn day was passed quaffing cheap-shit cider and stale morning beer wading through the guys gargantuan record collection. Unfortunately his stereo was buggered so I couldn't tape much of this vinyl Valhalla, if ya like, but it stood me in good stead just to hear all this stuff, be it The Lurkers, the Radio Stars ('All Kinds of Girls' - fantastic), Heavy Metal Kids. After a chaotic falling out sometime around 1998 all I was left with was a compilation tape he'd done us with 'Classified Susie' and 'Brickfield Nights' on, two of their best off second album 'Alternative Chartbusters' helpfully.

And so it was one summers day in 1999 that I was returning back from Hull and a visit to the parents that I popped into Vinyl Exchange, an awesome shop in the centre of Manchester which happens to be mainly CD's really, but yeah, whatever. Anyway I unearthed this then about to be released beauty and rescued it with the help of a tenner I'd bummed off ma Dad, and boy, was it worth it? Hi, there, the answer you're looking for is yes, wake up out there.

It featured both of the above two titles, and mouth-frothingly had 'Brickfield Nights' on twice (as the CD is a compilation of two LP's, 'The Peel Sessions' and 'In Concert'). 'Brickfield Nights' is just swoonsome, a brilliant tale of teenage nights hanging around and loitering, 'Every night we'd meet at the same place same time / Late nights spent kicking round a football / We carved our initials on the school wall' to the comical adolescent trying so (over)hard 'Then the girls came with their long hair / High heels and their make-up never quite right'. A never-ending tale of kids hanging out and trying to impress each other, parading around provincial English towns like it's the promenade in 'Born To Run', occasionally fighting, just that now they'd probably knife you for being a freak. As The Boys sing in this themselves 'Remember those dark nights / Down Brickfield / Never a blade in sight' looking back through the old rose-tinteds after too long in dismal grey late seventies Britain. An unusual nostalgia piece for a 'punk' band, but not when you hear its Phil Spector-esque Shangri-La's /Ronettes / Shirelles (take your pick) trying to coax a shy Brian Wilson away from the piano for a dance beat and perfect appropriation of early 60's pop with its innocent air and candy floss summer holiday skylines. A truly glorious moment in the whole history of this thing we call Rock'n'Roll.

I was even further made up as this album had 'New Guitar In Town' on it, a Lurkers song that Honest John wrote for them and was a single along with a masterly cover of 'Little Ol' Wine Drinker Me', that was pretty faithful to, tho far better than, the Hollywood Brats version. 'New Guitar...' is another real highlight. A Western themed anthem for a hot young guitar slinger roaming from town to town and their lure to the ladies.
But what I really remember with this record is the all too rare occurrence that as soon as I put it on - well, I seem to recall skipping straight to 'Brickfield Nights' and 'Classified Susie' - another storming song. A bored housewife takes to advertising for sex soirees while her husband's out at work, probably paying Soho whores in his lunch hour.

'Pretty housewife, 21 / Interested in daytime fun / A new vibrator / She wants to use it / AC/DC / She's not choosy'. This should be included on Punk dross compilations and revered likeThe Members 'Sound Of The Suburbs' - relishing the delight of hearing them in pristine CD quality, or any sort of quality really - that I was completely taken with them from the initial rumble in the jungle aggro-romp of 'Sick On You' (a sped up and speeded up version of a Hollywood Brats song, kicking the '73 / '74 glam stylings up the arse with its own stack-heels and adding some '77 snot 'n' gristle to taste a la 'L.A.M.F.') and the Steve Marriott meets John Malkovich's character in 'Dangerous Liasons' singalong 'Oh - Oh, oh, oh' of 'First Time', a not so gallant tale of how he's charmed some young wench out of her dress - Yes, the one he just manfully sicked on - and now she's telling him it's her first time and to 'Please don't hurt me'. Chivalry be damned. Hell, she was gagging for it anyway, mate. Pure Faces swagger, as aped by their younger brothers zipping round town on 50cc scrambler bikes, smoking tabs and starting fires after school drunk on two cans of hideous tramp radiator fluid. 'Cop Cars' is maybe a bit punk-by-numbers in hindsight, you know, ya gotta mention a song wiv ver pigs in, like, but is a good Clash-tastic rollicker that woulda been perfect for '77 I imagine, seen as it sounds pretty pert 'n' purty in 2005.

'There's A Subway To Heaven And An Underground To Kingdom Come'
- 'Livin' In The City'
From the very off it was a case of knowing 'Oh my, this lot are Gooood' and the attendant excitement of realizing that once more you've stepped out of the shit and into that gallery of goodness. Along with The Lurkers they could perhaps be classified as something akin to a British Ramones, if you're into that sort of thing, such is their punked up adrenalinized savage riproar thru classic Rock'n'Roll stylings whilst they still maintain a peculiarly British edge. They were also cleverer, more adventurous and, sorry, much as I like The Lurkers, but less lunk-headed than them, boogie-ing at almost unfathomable brake horsepower at times ('Tonight', or the supremely frenzied Chuck Berry Quo-punk of 'Livin' In The City', off the first, self-titled album) while still having a deftness of touch that is quite remarkable, what?

But ultimately, they make you wanna dance, and they make you laugh and smile and just plain and very simply make you happy. With the same kind of naturally exuberant glee that ran thru the Small Faces they pulled off pleasingly inane but brilliant lines like 'You've had all The Jam / Even Paul's old man / And all the rats in boomtown' on 'Backstage Pass' in a similar way to what Plain would bring to The Crybaby's. (A young version of Tyla was clearly impressed too, lifting 'Heroine' onto his own song, titled, with strange almost paranormal synchronicity 'Heroine', but providing a soon-to-be-classic Tyla bittersweet edge to The Boys 'When I needed you / You arrived on cue / Like the Heroine / In a movie' with 'Your love brings me down / Like a Heroine / Don't love the hero in the end / In the end of the film'. You could also go as far as saying Tyla's riff could, just could, have been written while listening to his dusty copy of 'Alternative Chartbusters', or someone's copy anyway). Unfortunately, this didn't translate wholesale into their Christmas transition into The Yobs. I've only heard this record once I think, at Christmas a couple of years ago, trying to protect my sisters sensitive ears, but I'd rather stick with The Macc Lads, meself, if anything.
And to show the similarities between this Rock, or Punk, thing and all its little subsections on later tracks such as 'Rue Morgue' they bring back the mad speed addled scenes of mods dancing as seen in Quadrophenia, not a hundred miles away from The Who, if they were any good, perhaps a heavier Small Faces (tho not Humble Pie who sucked worse than The Who. At least on a par with...) having a soul influenced melody within it's punk fuelled tale of bored youth looking for kicks with a French chick. I'm not sure these days you'd get away with songs based around the differences between English and French either, but that's the problem with today. One of 'em anyway. And that's The Boys for ya. Boys done good, out on the town, having a laugh and a drink and just so happenin' to be pretty fucking happening on the songs side of things too. Like The Crybaby's, that Plain later formed with Darrell Bath, there's a real air of old-time British provincial small town soundtrack to The Boys, something almost quaint. Hanging around outside the chippy, having a sneaky pint aged 14 in the old men's boozer that hasn't been redecorated since the war. Aaaah Rock'n'Roll sweetheart. As Ian Hunter sang - 'The Golden Age of Rock'n'Roll will never die / As long as children feel the need to laugh and cry'. Unfortunately it seems that kids ain't laughing and crying much these days but there'll be a little pocket of 'em somewhere, somewhere that The Boys will always find 'em. The Boys albums aren't an every song's a classic scenario but as a whole are bristling with razorsharp poppunk tunes that should have had a much wider audience.

"Boys Keep Swingin'..."

- Stu

Flash Metal Suicide: Fuzzbox

2012-01-30T02:20:00.000-08:00

We've Got a Fuzzbox (And We're Gonna Use It)
Bostin' Steve Austin
1986, WEA
By Pepsi Sheen

INTERNATIONAL RESCUE...
Speaking of girls who can't play, four foxes from Birmingham, England (Hometown of my top fave popsters, Duran Duran, the Jacobites, and Gunfire Dance) -Vickie Perks, Jo Dunn, Tona O'Neill, and Maggie Dunne parlayed their enthusiastic amaterism, and kooky fashion sensibilities into a brief but vibrant flash of pop glory in the mid-eighties. They were one of the many groups, along with early Redd Kross, and Jesus & Mary Chain, who gave our ramshackle rock punk crew, the courage to suck brazenly in front of people, back before we could really play. They were total Wendy James/Primal Scream media darlings way back in the new wave eighties, and we dug their whole trashy bubblegum, psychedelic punk-pop vibe, they seemed related somehow to other groups we dug back then, like Doctor & The Medics (who also covered "Spirit In The Sky", Dead Or Alive, and the Cult. I spent my early years in the land of sportsfans and child abuse, and really took a shining to anything that smacked of weirdo, rule defying individuality. The Fuzzbox girls really meant alot to me at the time. We used to pore over Melody Maker & NME from England and were utterly transfixed by alot of stuff that maybe hasn't held up so well, like uh, Scritti Politti, Kid Creole & The Coconuts, and Baltimora.

PINK SUNSHINE...
Prince and Rick James and everybody had their own girl groups that they produced and wrote songs for, so in a fit of my teenage megalomania, I briefly tried to get several of my witchy death rock girlfriends to learn instruments, and was billing them as Ruby & The Skate Pirates, it was a bad idea, primarily because it was a dumb name, I thought I was pandering to the thriving Ft. Wayne, Indiana punk scene that was full of Thrasher nuts and skate bettys, but also because none of these girls liked the same kindof music-one was into ethereal gothic wailing, and one was into hair-metal, one liked hardcore punk, the drummer was an abraisive,butch dyke who hated my misogynistic/cavalier way with these girls she also lusted for. It didn't help matters that I was seeing three out of four of them at the time. My narcissism knew no bounds back then, alot of them are still mad at me, and I don't blame them, but I am sorry.

I never hear much about Fuzzbox anymore, even though they cleared the land for alot of those fey K Records girlgroups Cobain & Co. liked so much. I dug 'em because they had a great sense of fun, and unapologetic abandon. Songs like "What's The Point?", "Love Is The Slug", "Rules & Regulations", etc., etc., just brimmed over with a gloating and cheerful disregard for weedling boys club musicianship, they were likeour own X-Ray Specs, or a goofier, dumbed down Slits. Punk and new wave were nowhere near to being mainstream in '86. Grown men used to become violent in the midwest when they saw Boy George on the cover of People Magazine. Billy Idol, and the Cure, Adam Ant, and Siouxsie & The Banshees were still extremely threatening to people, then. Four Cyndi Laupers drunk on their own frivolity, bravado, comaraderie, and laughs. Ade Edmonson from the Young Ones (*who also directed Zodiac Mindwarp's "Prime Mover" video) co-starred in their video for "International Rescue", and they were definitely a part of my Flash Metal Suicide teenage sleazegrinding years. But so was Bananarama.

-Like Tigers On Pepsi Sheen

Movies About Girls Episode 132

2012-01-28T18:44:00.000-08:00

Hey Sleaze-fans! Check out Sleazegrinder's weekly podcast!
This week, a short-but-sweet hour-ish long podcast wherein the gang shows up, cracks wise, and then splits.
Also, we revisit that time Jimmy Ether and I flipped out on menthol sticks.
And I talk a little bit about this movie:

You should see it!

Anyway, bite-sized fun!
Download/listen HERE!
Goodbye song by Bobby McClure
See you next week!

The Cheap Dates

2012-01-27T03:37:00.000-08:00

The Cheap Dates
Self-titled EP (2008)
Myspace

Four tracks and one’s a Joneses cover, which means the Cheap Dates have – bless ‘em – graced us with the gift of brevity. Extra points for that. Anyway, four went-nowheres from Columbus, Ohio, raised on Bomp and Creem, serving up effortlessly out-of-it NY trash rock in the classic Heartbreakers tradition. Teenage Crimewave sticks out as the hit of the set, but it’s not like the other three sound any fucking different. It’s just got the best title. So, yeah. Listen, they’re one of us. Support ‘em. Buy a t-shirt, if they have them. Ply them with booze if they stumble through your town. And don’t stab them in an alley. Unless they deserve it. Disregard the last few sentences if they broke up already.

-Sleaze

Three Day Threshold

2012-01-25T03:28:00.000-08:00

Three Day Threshold
Lost in Belgium
I Scream Records

So, somewhat inexplicably, Boston twang-pushers Three Day Threshold find themselves with a sizable and fervent clutch of fans in Belgium. New York or Milwaukee would have been easier, but what the fuck, a fan’s a fan, so they pack up their three-legged dogs and moonshine jugs and head east. The result is this lo-fi, hi-octane collection of live cuts from various pissholes in Belgium and Holland, complete with intros sputtered out in foreign tongues. If you are unfamiliar with 3DT’s heartbreak bluegrass, well, it’s pretty simple stuff. This is a band created solely to provide a proper soundtrack for that one night when you puked on your shoes and made out with your step-sister. In front of everyone. And bragged about it for weeks. How do you think that’s gonna sound?

So yeah, imagine that, only recorded through condenser mics on weird nights one million miles from home. They play Folsom City Prison and attempt their signature cowpunk stomper Gone at least three times. And they do a smashing versh of the shuffling Black River Gold that almost had me in greasy drunken tears, even though I haven’t had a drink in decades. Great stuff.

Bonus: buy the CD, and you get a free recipe for Flemish Beer Stew. Haha, what?

-Sleaze

Flash Metal Suicide: Glorious Bankrobbers

2012-01-23T02:24:00.001-08:00

Glorious Bankrobbers
Dynamite Sex Doze (1989)

The Glorious Bankrobbers were Swedish way before it was cool, man. They played sleazy glampunk way before it was cool, too- before it was even invented, practically. And, ya know, they named themselves the GLORIOUS BANKROBBERS – in 1983, no less- which just about every born-again redneck motherfucker punk n’ roll band woulda given up their Skynrd belt-buckles to have thought of first. Oh, and they looked and sounded like Guns N’ Roses, too. Before there was a Guns N’ Roses. Fuckers oughta be soaking up the retro-rock glory like the cock n’ roll pioneers that they are, but instead, the GB’s remain less than a footnote in the annals of rock n’ roll. Stupid fuckin’ annals.

Precious little skinfo remains about the early daze of GB’s existence, due in no small part to the fact they remained a homegrown entity throughout most of their career, but the facts of the case are that they released their self-titled debut in 1984 onSwedish label Planet, and then waited five years before releasing it’s follow up, Dynamite Sex Doze. Why? Who knows? Maybe they were just waitin’ for rock n roll to catch up with them, or something. The original GB’s album is a scarce commodity indeed, so’s all I can really tell ya is that they covered the Sex Pistols obscurity “Did You No Wrong” on it, and they had some truly bitchin’ song titles, like “The Best Speed (is rock n’ roll)”, “Psycho Asshole”, “Bloodshed Twist”, and “Young Alcoholic” (parts 1 and two- and part 3 was on ‘Dynamite’- mebbe that explains where they were for 5 years, in rehab).

Anyway, five years later- exactly at the time that glam metal was disappearing completely in a sea of flannel - the Glorious Bankrobbers released “Dynamite Sex Doze”, a might wallop of full-throttle cock n’ roll rife with rattlesnake daddy guitars that borrowed from Johnny Thunders and Steve Jones almost as much as they did from Andy McCoy, and the kinda spandex sex god vocals that was currently making Sebastian Bach a boorish tattooed millionaire. Ok, so lyrically they weren’t exactly cutting edge- “Hairdown” is about, simply, having long hair, and the chorus goes, “He’s got hair down to his knees/Whoa-oh!”- but at least they were consistent, as every fuckin’ song is about rock, and chicks, and booze. Usually all three. Songs like “Highway Raceway” (“Highway Raceway/Rockin’ all night and day!”) and “Spitfire” are punchy sleaze metal scorchers with hooky choruses and blazing rock star guitars, “Crazy Sioux” is a shameless- and, fuck, pretty goddamn successful- Hanoi Rocks rip-off, complete with a blazing harmonica solo, and gratuitous or not, they also do an entirely snarly cover of “I’m Eighteen” that nearly out-slithers the original. A couple of the tracks- “Good N’ Bad”, “Small Operations” - devolve into gooey pop metal, but what the hell, it was the 80’s after all. Mostly, it’s all killer, no filler, and it rocks like crazy- and not even in the “It rocks for 1989” kinda way, either, brother- it ROCKS LIKE CRAZY RIGHT FUCKING NOW. If ever there was a drop-everything flash metal suicide obscurity to dig up, it’s this one.

Unlike the debut, “Dynamite Sex Doze” did manage to get the GB’s a little attention from the rest o’ planet rock, which sparked the ballsy but ill-starred decision to leave Sweden and regroup in New York City. If they could “make it there”, right? Well, despite self-releasing a live album, “Live at CBGB’s NYC” in 1991, the Glorious Bankrobbers could NOT make it there, and sadly, they broke up soon after.

A year later, the entire band, minus lead singer Olle Hillburg, re-emerged in the Swedish psyche-grunge band Mental Hippie Blood, who released two albums before imploding in 1995.Hillburg joined that other Swede proto-sleazeglam band, Backstreet Girls, but quit by 1993. Dunno where the GB’s are today, but somethin’ tells me a reunion is just around the corner. Wink.

Oh, and if they were so fuckin’ bad ass, where’s the Flash Metal Suicide come in? Dude, they went GRUNGE and changed their name to MENTAL HIPPIE BLOOD. If that’s not a bullet to the spandex brain, I dunno what is.

- Sleaze

Advanced Demonology Podcast Lesson 3!

2012-01-21T21:04:00.001-08:00

This month's lesson: Winter. Here at Advanced Demonology East, we are balls-deep in snow, ice, freezing temperatures and darkness. It's a bizarre, awful, terrible way to live. Swilson got smart and moved to the West Coast. I am not that bright. I don't know what my problem is. And neither did a lot of tonight's performers, as you will soon hear. This episode, we present you with songs about winter, performed by a variety of artists from genes as far ranging as 80's acid punk to 60's soul. We've also got Mexican psychedelic rock, French femme-pop, dusty country, fragile folkies, and of course, all the proto-metal and occult rock you can handle as you favorite sorcerer-slash-broadcasters take you on yet another journey into the darkest corners of rock n' roll.

All this and more in Lesson 3 of Advanced Demonology!

Download/stream/listen HERE!

Stay warm (and evil) out there!

5ive

2012-01-20T02:32:00.000-08:00

*Note*": I began my professional writing career (after 20 years of fanzines!) in 2000. I'm pretty sure the first pro-published review I did was for this band. The interview is from 2001.

In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream
Like looking out the window to find planet Earth hanging there in the yellowed sky, like a million dollar paycheck in a world without banks, like a television that bites, the music of 5ive is genetically engineered to stimulate confusion and bliss in equal measures. Earthlings, in their desperate search for gravity, might label 5ive's music as "Stoner Acid Trance". But in space, where robots weep and galaxies implode on a whim, they call it a soundtrack for interstellar love scenes.

After many brain fever nights searching among the circuitry of the Matrix, I locate the geometrically skewed duo of 5ive, and they agree to a clandestine organic interface under the shroud of darkness.

A Crazy Man’s Utopia
Much like the infamous 'House of Long Shadows', the Pounding Room of 5ive may look like Purgatory's forgotten linen closet on the outside, but within it is vast and ornate, casting a warm aura of forbidden knowledge and nary a tinge of regret. Lit like an opulent opium den, hulking rawk machinery throbs throughout the space, it's angry red lights punctuating the murk. 5ive's mad tinkering of exotic squeal boxes have resulted in a pile of malformed circuitry that suggests ancient futurism, their black umbilical cords like watchful serpents, their gentle hum belying the raw power now sleeping lightly within. The walls are covered in crude pencil scratchings that appear to be Sanskrit. Nothing is as it seems. The 2 of 5ive notice my fly-to-the-web trepidation upon entering.
"the lights fuck everyone up", drummer Charlie Harrold ( not his real name) confirms.
"Yeh," laughs guitarist Ben Carr ( an anagram), we have people flowing through here all the time, but they don't stay for long. They say, 'I gotta go, I think I'm going to go blind, I need some light', but I think it's just perfect. I could stay in here all night. I bet you could, too." An invitation, a challenge, a warning.
On the dark side of the gloom, an array of plush couches in varying states of disintergration. It is explained that one of them belonged to infamous Satanist Anton Levay, and that he had made love to Jayne Mansfield on it amidst chanting and candles. But they will not disclose which couch possesses the essence of powerful sex majick, and we end up simply crouching on the corrupted, carpeted floor like conspirators around a campfire. Ben reaches behind him and plucks a guitar string. The sound filters through a squat tentacled Moog keyboard and shoots out with a corrosive squawk, tearing around the walls of the room as if trying to escape. "This is what we listen to instead of the radio", Charlie offers.

I've got to know what I'm dealing with here. Ben drives a sparkling white van. Only two kinds of people use these vehicles - Columbian drug lords and kidnappers. I ask 5ive about their criminal records. Significantly, Ben stares off into space, waiting for the next qustion. But Charlie’s toothy grin gleams with gunrack-for-Christmas mischief, and in an instant, it's obvious. Charlie is a motherfucker. The good kind, the kind that drags you out of a burning building, hoses you off, cracks open a beer, and lights a cigarette without the slightest bit of irony. "I've been arrested many times. You know, for having fun." The lights flicker again. The chuckling of knowing ghosts. And this terrible true tale begins to unfold.

Ladies and Gentlemen, We Are Floating in Space
"We don't play weddings, we make art." Ben boldly states, and it's true. The music of 5ive resembles the bursting of Gas Giants and the laughter of insects, hardly the fodder of easy classification. "If I was talking to 'Joe Asshole' on the street", he says, "I'd tell him we play Stoner Rock. But it's bigger than that. It's vast. It's infinite."
Certainly, concepts like heat, madness, and the silent marching of wolf spiders all figure into the 5ive sound, but what of more terrestrial pleasures? Charlie lunges. "Dude, do you want to hear this?" That's what I'm hear for, Jack. "I am the fucking king of classic rock, man. Straight up. Records upon records upon records. After a show, we go home and play some Brainbombs first." I don't know from no 'Brainbombs', but Ben quickly straightens me out. "They reek of their own..." he's too excited to finish the thought. "They're serial killers, they're tough as nails. You gotta get jacked into the Brainbombs. I don't know if they're Swedish, but they're Swedish to me." Well, alright. Charlie continues. "Definitely some Stones, and as the night rolls on and the buzz kicks in, the Who 'Live at Leeds' always comes on. Metal. Pink Floyd..." "Ummagumma", Ben interjects, "will fry your brain." I knew it. At the heart of any band that gets tagged 'Space Rock' is a Pink Floyd fetish. Personally, I have a few problems with the prog rock kings. Like the way they dress, for one. "But they were a completely different band before 'Dark Side of the Moon'", Ben explains. "'Saucerful of Secrets', 'Ummagumma', they were tough, brutal records. And that's at the core of the 5ive sound. That's our roots."
"But our sound is always changing and evolving," Charlie adds. "A piece of artwork is never really finished."
I can't help but to notice 5ive's penchant for finishing each other's sentences. It's obvious that they're close. Maybe too close, like evil conjoined twins. Both are quick to agree.
"I wouldn't do this with anybody else", Ben says. "This is the first band for both of us."
"We’ve played with other people in the past, but nothing worth mentioning", says Charlie. "We have a pretty open studio, and people jam with us all the time, but 5ive will always be just the two of us."
Another free floating blast of space junk bursts from the speakers as Ben offers some advice. "If someone wanted to form a band, I'd tell them to find your friends, people that share similar interests and musical backgrounds. It makes the whole process so much cooler."
Charlie adds some 5ive history. "We've been together two years. We started playing acoustically, but stringed instruments weren't enough, and I picked up the drums. It just progressed from there."
"And every time we learn something new about ourselves, it gets added to the mix", says Ben.
The sleek 21st century 5ive live experience is a low lit, high decibel, blissed out orgy of exotic sound, half strategy, half improvised atmospherics. But what of last century's model, the birthing of 5ive into screaming life? A sly smile forms on Ben's face. "We don't remember our first gig, any of it. I think I was on my knees at one point. A friend of ours said it was almost too rock'n'roll. I know it was too loud, but I don't remember the rest of the night at all. I'm glad we rose out of the murk of obscurity, but I'm also glad that no one remembers what we were before what we are now, because there's no need to. We keep changing all the time, and I don't always know where we’re going, because it's bigger than us. 5ve music has a life of it's own."

You Are Mistaken If You Thought It Was Dr. Jeckyl Under This Mask
Like supersonic crank dealers, 5ive have specific rules of engagement, and little room for compromise. Ben testifies. "People need two things, unfortunately, from bands, which I have no interest in providing. They need lyrics. They need to associate the songs through lyrics and titles. The other thing they need is pictured of the band, to relate the people with the music. Well, I'm not interested in that jazz. I mean, I'm all for pictures. Just not necessarily of us."
"Yeh", Charlie agrees, "we don't need our pictures on the records, or any bullshit promo shots. We're not here to dictate visuals. It's open to interpretation."
The analytical reader will be quick to point out the fatal flaw in 5ive's shroud of secrecy. Unless they plan on unveiling a new look incorporating wrestling masks or corpsepaint, when attending a 5ive show you will, in fact, be staring at our heroes for 45 minutes. "We like to play in the dark", Ben offers. For the record, and to satiate the curious, Charlie looks like trouble. Ben doesn't, but Pontius Pilate had short hair too.
The duo have recently released a 3 song ep to prepare the unsuspecting populous for their upcoming album. Keeping in step with their brazen attempts at commercial suicide, the cd and it's songs remain nameless. Should the band really expect fervent Mega City 5 rockers to shout "Track 2!" above the din at O'Brien's? "Oh, we've got titles", Ben dismisses, "We just don't use them." Charlie adds, "we name them so that we know what we're playing, but we didn't bother putting them on the record. I forget why."
"Because", Ben explains, " we have 8 or 10 songs, but they're only recognizable up to a point. Then they reach a crossroads, and who knows where we'll go with it? So they won't ever be the same anyway."
I begin to wonder if a straight answer is even possible at this late hour. Throwing caution to the wind, I decide to ask the one question they informed me was off limits - the band's name. 5ive consists of Charlie's drums and Ben's guitar. Even if you count the enchanted moog that serves as 5ive fuzzy electric pulse, the band is still two members shy of their namesake. What kind of madness is that? "Damn it." Ben spits. "That cannot be disclosed." Charlie's lips are looser. "A few years ago, I was experimenting with these bizarre art forms..."
"Stop right there!" Ben demands. "You're going to blow his mind. Just make up your own story, man. It'd probably be closer to the truth anyway."
A Planet Where Death Shows Movies
Ben picks up his guitar again. Suddenly, bizarre noises begin spinning around the room. He plays the familiar opening riffs to Black Sabbath's "Electric Funeral", but like a Supernaut gone haywire, it quickly fragments into a different beast entirely. Building new rockets with old parts.
"We have no interest in making money playing music", he continues. Sure it'd be nice if we did, but we're artists."
"Boston's such a punk rock town anyway", Charlie says. "Every band in town plays Misfits covers."
"we don't play any covers", Ben adds. "We can't, really. And even if we did, they'd come out so fucked up, we'd have to tell you what they were."
So far, in the two years that 5ive have occupied this puny planet, the live immersion has been conducted about a dozen times. I ask them what the parameters of audience reaction have been to their unique sound.
"People have thrown bottles at us", Ben states.
"Recently, we played a rock show at the Linwood, then got in the van and drove to Providence to play Deep Heaven, a psychedelic space show, all in the same night. That was our first real 'rock'n'roll' experience."
"It was awesome", Charlie remembers. "At Deep Heaven, we just set up and started jamming. People sat on the floor with their heads right in front of the drums. Even the people that were in the back drinking came up front to rock out."
"we definitely like having people up front when we play", Ben says. "I don't really care what they do, as long as they don't touch my gear. People get stoned and they come up and start grabbing at my fucking pedals. Then it's not so cool. But we can hang with lots of different kinds of bands. One of our favorites is Warhorse. Nobody goes to see them, either. (laughs)"
That, of course, is all about to change. Tortuga recordings will be releasing 5ive's full -length album. Just as soon as they stop recording it. Tales of marathon, all-night, drug fueled madness in the studio are circulating around town like a computer virus. Charlie does nothing to dispel the myth. "We just recorded a song with Mike from Warhorse", he tells me. "It's 63 minutes long."
Meanwhile, the band continues to carve out new sonic landscapes while maintaining the standard lifestyle of esoteric excess. "The 5ive lifestyle?" Charlie ponders. "Drink all day, hang out all night."
"Stay out until 3:30 in the morning, get up for work at 5", adds Ben. "Every weekend of my life is a rock'n'roll weekend."

I'm starting to feel as though days have past since I entered the snaky lair of 5ive. I've got to break the Voodoo trance, lest my mind wander into some terminal freak-out alley that I cannot escape from. The rest of the questions I had prepared are spilling out of my mind like rose petals raining on a dead man's hands, and I think I'm going to go blind. I can easily imagine hapless truth seekers trapped here forever in 5ive's cruel labyrinth, crawling on their knees through the deep pile carpeting, searching feverishly for drugs that don't even exist, lost in the wooshing swirl of possessed feedback. Before fleeing, I ask for any last words. Ben doesn't hesitate.
"Our music takes you somewhere else. Even if you don't want to go there."

The spaceship leaves in 5ive minutes.

- Sleaze

Too Hot to Handle: The Story of UFO (2005)

2012-01-18T07:42:00.000-08:00

MVD

Initially, the idea of a whole DVD’s worth of vintage live UFO performances and talking head clips just sounded exhausting to me. I mean, besides Pete Way’s stripy spandex ensembles, there’s not a whole lot to actually see with this band. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how vital UFO actually were to rock n’ roll in their ludicrous amount of years in operation. I mean, nobody really thinks about UFO very much these days, do they? Certainly not in the US, where only a handful of tracks (Too Hot to Handle, Doctor Doctor, Lights Out) ever got any radio play. But the UFO legacy does not rest in hit singles or even it’s numerous spin-off bands (Motorhead, Fastway,Waysted, MSG, Mogg/Way, etc.), but in it’s Spinal Tap-esque crotch-grabbing grandeur. Whenever we think of 1970’s ‘arena rock’ these days, it is difficult to peg down exactly who we’re talking about. The prototypical arena rock band in our mind had to have lots of guitar solos, crazy lighting rigs, groin-exhibiting shiny trousers, flowing manes, and many, many songs about girls who give good head. Now, who do you think that describes, Triumph? Too Canadian. REO Speedwagon? Too many satin shirts. Nuge? Nuge wasn’t a band, it was a right wing maniac in a loincloth. No, the arena rock band of our mind was UFO. They even had a cowbell-heavy song called “Rock Bottom”! And we gotta thank ‘em for all that. It’s not easy being THAT GUY, never mind THAT BAND, you know?
So, with my newfound respect for these shirtless Brit show-offs, I dove into Too Hot to Handle, hoping for a few tinfoil-wrapped cucumbers or “cold sore” outbreaks to justify my above rant.

I did not find any instances of either. What I did find was about 5,000 hours of German ruff tyrant Michael Shenker’s noodly solos, and three very sober band members (Shenker, Mogg, Way) methodically drawling out their less-than-gripping history. There’s also a few quotes scattered about from various members of Def Lep and Iron Maiden. Both bands lay claim to heavy UFO influence, and since both bands have lots of noodly guitar solos, we can safely assume they mean it, maan. Otherwise, you get seventeen live perfs, shot in various, ahem, arenas, and spanning a good portion of their early-mid career. The interview bits were shot much later; “The Story of UFO” was originally released in Japan in 1994, and that looks to be the era of the yakkity-yak. I imagine that this whole package is boner-popping to hardcore UFO-heads, but to the Plebian viewer looking for the arena rock in their mind, this may prove a little underwhelming.

Hmm. Maybe it was Nazareth we were thinking about. Supertramp? Bloodrock?!

-Sleazegrinder

Rock City Crimewave

2012-01-13T03:29:00.000-08:00

Here's some local sleazy rock journalism I bashed out a decade ago. I don't know what happened to Sticky, but she's probably still hot. Rock City Crimewave broke up, Roadsaw's still together, and it's still not a good idea to talk about the Masons....

"I don't pray in churches, baby" - Iggy Pop

"Rock and Roll tried to ruin my life." - Supagroup

It all started because Tim Catz wanted to bang Sticky. Tim is the former/future Roadsaw magnate who recently emigrated to Los Angles to become Tinseltown's latest Bukowski in training. But at the time, he was just another sleazy rock journalist thinking with his dick. We were sitting around the 'Weekly Dig' offices, pitching story ideas, when he came up with the notion that we ought to write up some features on local rock artists. He would, of course, take on Sticky, the statuesque, raven-haired rock goddess that supplies lucky Boston bands with hallucinatory sex monster gig posters. Going with the ruse, I volunteered to interview Ian Adams, Rock City Crimewave's psychotronic front fiend and noted flyer and t-shirt man. The interview was conducted with typical smarm :

"Well, we were all in the same church group, it was a beautiful thing. See, my dad, he started the first snake handler church in Massachusetts. He got bit by a copperhead snake in the backyard while gardening..."

So, your dad is a snake handler?

"No, my dad is a Presbyterian minister. But I was in this bar once, and I was really loaded, and I started the snake handler myth, and I went into detail about, like, the folding chairs, and I was going on and on, and I couldn't let myself off the hook, and it was Rob from Quintaine Americana's girlfriend, and...."

At some point, we eventually got around to discussing the inspiration for his rather cryptic art.

Hey, my editor said not to mention the Masons.

"Ok."

Well, why did he say that?

"Because whenever we're at a party together, Joe and I get to talking about how, when I was young, I visited a Masonic temple. My dad was a grand knight in the Knights of Columbus and he took us to an Ecumenical pancake breakfast one morning. My sister and I were bored, so we snuck into the temple. There were things that I saw there that related to events that transpired later in my life. And I don't think he can handle it."

Wild. Does Masonic imagery crop up in your artwork?

"Absolutely. The Rock City Crimewave logo is a good example. It's pretty much all Masonic symbolism. The skull and crossbones is from the Knights Templar, and in a lot of Masonic rites the skull is there to represent secrecy, but also in a deeper sense, it symbolizes rebirth. So it comes from this encoded myth, where one of the Knights Templar supposedly had sex with a corpse, and came back to the body to find the head of a baby between the crossbones of the legs. And it's supposed to represent some ancient cult's belief in resurrection..."

That's deeper than I thought, man. I figured you just jammed as many tattoo cliches as possible in one logo.

"Well, the whole thing is structured like that. Even the angles of the thing are symbolic. It's Hermetic, in fact."

Is any of it so secret you can't even talk about it?

"Yes. I'm letting all this stuff out slowly, so that I don't blow too many minds at once."

I slapped a pseudo-provocative title on the thing (Fuck Art, Let's Fuck: Ian Adams on the aesthetics of lesbians with machine guns), and everybody was happy. Until the week after the piece ran, when the following letter to the editor appeared in the next issue:

"To those parties affiliated:

I have been reading your publication for some time now and I find it quite enjoyable. However, I have noticed a trend in, shall we say, "esoteric hearsay." In this weeks issue, the article "Fuck art;Let's fuck" caught and held my undivided attention. Clever title aside, "Sleazegrinder" and Joe of the Weekly Dig, and artist musician Ian Adams should be forewarned. There will be - and always have been - those that oppose your views and will try to silence you.

The organization, of which you speak, Mr Adams, go far deeper that even you may realize, regardless of your father's involvement. I am pleased to note that you are knowledgeable when it comes to this particular subject matter. Well informed, you are not. The Grand Order of Masons, the Knights Templar, the Knights of Columbus and any other ancient society of this nature may not appreciate you speaking freely in regards to insider information. Perhaps when Joe told "Sleazegrinder" not to mention the Masons, the interviewer should not have pressed the topic. The question was even raised as to whether some of this information was "so secret you can't even talk about it." Perhaps, Mr Adams, you should have stated your assent to this idea much sooner during the interview and left your audience to wonder in ignorance.

I am aware of at least two members of the Weekly Dig staff being involved with said organizations. Being something of a researcher, I know their status, their affiliations, and even their particular areas of expertise. However, I am one of impeccable decorum and will not reveal any connections or identities here in this correspondence. Nor will this information ever be used for malevolent purposes. Nevertheless, because of these particular affiliations, I find it necessary to suggest that no further mention be made of this topic. My Organization does not mind the offhand arcane reference, but we would greatly appreciate the same level of decorum from you that we have shown those on your staff involved with us.
Please understand that this letter is in no way to be taken as a threat to yourself or anyone affiliated with your publication. One of your staff, actually, has proven themselves highly valuable to our efforts. Because of this, I am writing merely to caution you with the age-old adage: "Loose lips sink ships."

Respectfully yours in esoteric pursuits, Illiel "

A couple of days later, I'm at work, when I spot my arch nemesis, Norm. I won't get into the specifics of why I don't like the guy; let's just say that he's a jackass on many levels. He also happens to be 33rd degree Mason. He's not nearly hip enough to read the Dig, so I knew it wasn't him that actually wrote the letter, but it was, after all, one of his people. So I harassed him about it. Two weeks before, Norm and I were standing in the middle of a Mercedes dealership parking lot, waiting for a ride. It was so hot, the asphalt was bubbling at our feet. To distract myself from the nagging thought that I was going to die from heat exhaustion waiting for the stupid van, I started up a conversation with him, with typically disastrous results. I was talking about how the Masons had killed Kennedy, a half-baked theory I picked up from the book "Apocalypse Culture" when I was a teenager. That's when he causally mentioned that not only was he in the brotherhood, he was, in fact, a grand poobah. Which did nothing to bond us. So here I was, with this weird pseudo- threat hanging over my head, when I confronted him. "Hey motherfucker, you better call off your dogs in that secret society of yours." He claimed to not know what I was talking about, so I showed him the letter. "Listen", he says, "In any group of people there's going to be renegades, people that go against the established order. I don't know who this guy Illiel is, but I wouldn't worry about it." "So", I say, "the Masons don't really have any interest in me?" He smirks. "Oh, I wouldn't say that." The next day, Norm hands me an email that he'd gotten that read, in part, "Subject 18999435, Ken McIntyre, observed on Saturday, 7.14 at 5:20 p.m. on Mass. Avenue in Cambridge, accompanied by unidentified blonde female, approx. 5'9". Step up observation on female subject?" I laughed it off. I mean, I'm easy to find, after all. Norm laughed too, saying it was some greasy joke, but who really knows how far the tendrils of the Masonic conspiratorial octopus stretch? Meanwhile, Ian was conducting his own spin control, and the next week, his rebuttal was printed in the 'Dig':

"In response to the letter that appeared in your last issue [ the strange potentially veiled threat potentially from a Mason or member of another secret order]:
Dude, Any of the Masonic, Hermetic, or otherwise esoteric beans I may have spilled can easily be found in your local library. Please try to remember the purpose of the brotherhood is to enlighten, not to threaten outsiders. That's precisely why organizations like the AFAM, AMORC, Templars, etc get so much heat. As a matter of fact, years ago, the worshipful master of the Tri-town temple suggested that I start my journey with the book "Born in Blood", I think it's a good one for anyone interested to start with. Above and beyond that, chill out.

Love,
Ian Adams Grand Archeteuthys, CC "

So far, no black cloaked assassins have dragged either Ian or myself into the nearest alley to silence our cult busting derring- do forever, but the night is young. I only hope that with all our efforts, Tim scored with the chick in the leather pants, and that it was delicious.

- Sleaze

Flash Metal Suicide: Vain

2012-01-11T02:27:00.000-08:00

Vain
No Respect
Polygram, 1990

For some reason, I was immediately captivated by this sleazy San Francisco hair lot and their big budget video for "Beat The Bullet", which saw these primped out metal models poncing around some big city sidewalks, checkin' their make-up in the shop-front windows, and frolicking about, pursing their lips, under neon lights, like ya do, and well, I was initially impressed with their singer, Davy Vain's nasally, Vince Neil-influenced, gutter whine and poses.

"Hey you! I'm no fool!/What you got going? What you got going?/You've got temptation eyes
What you got hiding? What you got hiding?
You've got a way to make me feel- Like I want to be with you!
Just a little more than hypnotized, But if I do what I wanna...
(chorus)
Get down on my knees/Praying to the lord that I beat the bullet/Get down on my knees
Praying to the lord that I beat the bullet
New York, L.A., Frisco
Boy, they got something- boy, they got something

Now I've been around this world/What's it got for me? What's it got for me?
You got temptation in your eyes/Now one and one is two
Just a little more than hypnotised/But if I do what I wanna
(chorus)
Baby baby what you got hiding/What you got going? Will I beat the bullet?
Oh you got more you got more more/Than a man could want..."

..Looking back now, I'm pretty sure I mostly just liked their clothes. I paid hell for it, too, cos yasee, at the time, I was already caterwauling, myself, in this band called VAIN DAMAGE, and well, the guitar player was this dangerous art-rocker curmudgeon, who slept in a rodent infested basement, on some canvas drop cloths, and smelly piles of black G.B.H. t-shirts. At the time, he was listening to stuff like Scraping Foetus Off The Wheel, P.I.L.'s "Metal Box", Skinny Puppy, Big Black, White Zombie, early Raging Slab, "Hear It Is" by the Flaming Lips, and the Fast. He had a cat named Acid and a tarantula named Darby, and extremely little patience for glamour puss poseurs from the West Coast. We were kind of having our own cultural war, back then, as he was a bit older, and therefore, understandably more knowledgable and partial, to the English rose glam rock of the seventies, than the whining corporate sleazesters of the late 80's. I was somewhat redundantly always trying to get him to see the validity of Van Halen, Hanoi Rocks, Faster Pussycat, and Guns 'N' Roses, while he was always digging out rare pictures of Hanoi Rocks for me, "Young, Beautiful, Talented, and Rich?" from old N.M.E.'s and Melody Makers he kept stashed in the closet, but always trying to teach me more about the Clash, and Patti Smith, The Wanderers, and theVelvet Underground. In a way, I figure we both won, cos he eventually took to Faster Pussycat, and I ended up learning to dig most all of his Forced Exposure stuff, not involving Steve Albinior Ogre and Dwayne (RIP). He now plays in a glammish, high octane, NYC sleaze-rock band, while I sleep in a rodent infested basement on some canvas drop cloths, and smelly piles of black concert t-shirts. Sometimes, life is weird like that. Oh, yeah, so we ended up havin' to change the name of our band, too.

VAIN came outta the S.F. glam-metal scene that also gave the world JETBOY and the SEA HAGS. They played shows with Guns 'N' Roses, Poison, and Skid Row, and took the world, or at least the pages of all the heavy metal magazines, like Metal Forces and Kerrang!, by storm, with their pin-up looks and yep, infectious, whiney sleaze rawk. Davy Vain, also somewhat strangely, produced two albums for Bay Area thrash-merchants Death Angel at the time, and has continued to work in that capacity with young bands like Romeo Is Dead.

No Respect appealed to the same legions of fans worldwide who'd embraced Guns 'N' Roses, Poison, Skid Row, Ratt, and the Crue, but their follow-up album, "All Those Strangers" was abruptly dropped by Island Records, who were getting their asses kicked by the hair-metal corporate juggernaut, Geffen Records. DAVY VAIN went on to form ROAD CREW with ousted Guns 'N' Roses drummer, Steven Adler (Rumored to be righteously back in the studio,working with Izzy Stradlin, as I type this!) using the old name of one of Steven's early bands with Slash. Steven, God Bless 'Im, carried a bit of a reputation with him in those daze, and had sadly been reduced to a smarmy Dennis Miller punch-line: "How fucked up do you have to be to get KICKED OUT of GUNS 'N' ROSES? For doing too many drugs?!!" Davy Vain replaced Adler with former Lords Of The New Church drummer Dany Fury (Also of Kill City Dragons!) and made a third album called "Move On It", I believe.

Altogether, there have been at least four or five albums worth of Vain material, or solo Davy Vain material, featuring ex members of Vain and Road Crew, some released on obscure Japanese labels, but all widely available on-line. Try Glitzine's message board if you're thoroughly interested. Glam rock fans really do split hairs over which bands were "authentic" "Sleaze", as opposed to which bands are "poseur" "hair bands", don't we? Davy Vain has somehow maintained a passionate following throughout all these years of ups and downs, releasing "In From Out Of Nowhere" a few years back, and I remember the big buzz it generated in the mascara'd underworld.. If you find "No Respect" in the cut-out bins somewhere, you might as well snap it up, cos it WAS loaded with catchy, well-produced snotty sleaze metal, ("Icey", "Beat The Bullet", "1,000 Degrees", "Laws Against Love") and they're better than TUFF or ROXX GANG...Me, I'm still a hold-out for old Junkyard or Cinderella!

- Savage Henry

Holly vs. Rikers: The Sleazegrinder "Interview"

2012-01-09T13:01:00.000-08:00

Any self-respecting music journalist knows that interviews are best conducted when all participants are well-rested, well-hydrated, and well-prepared. But this isn't music journalism. This is motherfucking rock 'n' roll, man, and the following interview with Rikers, a great new band from Toronto, Ontario, was drunkenly scribbled down on the backs of old Matadors band flyers with a green medium-point Sharpie that I borrowed from the bartender. (As an aside, I am a fine-point girl myself.) So strap in, fellow sleazesters, and let's do this, shall we?

I just looked over my green Sharpie notes. Yikes. It appears as if a little exposition is necessary before we begin...

I had given the first Rikers EP (which you can download for free here) a quick listen, and I liked the lush, shimmery, sway-and-stare-at-your-Chuck-Taylors vibe the band had going on, and, since my dude was out of town last Thursday night, I grabbed my motorcycle boots and a couple of hot girlfriends and headed downtown to check out the band.

A band was playing when we got there. (I don't know who they were; we were drinking.) And then Rikers hit the stage at 11:20. The keyboardist wore sunglasses, the lead guitarist wore a sweet 70s 'stache, and frontman Ryan Kennedy wore a fur collar over a beer t-shirt. Very rock 'n' roll. (As an aside, some of these details may be erroneous. The bass player may have been the guy with the mustache. And Kennedy's t-shirt may have been a tank top. I was well on my way to hammered by this point. Some nights are just like that, can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?)

Despite the fact that the winter school night crowd was minimal, Rikers played an amazing set of 80s-inspired new wave (including a panty-dampening cover of "So Alive" by Love and Rockets) led by Kennedy's dreamy vocals and veteran stage presence. I don't know how old he is because he wouldn't tell me, and I don't know what other bands he has been in because I forgot to ask, but my money's on a few years spent in dirty basement clubs honing his craft. And the band was tight, man. Tight.

After the show I used my not-inconsiderable Sleazegrinder credentials (along with the fact that one of my hot girlfriends is the Music and Promotions Director at the local university radio station) to wrangle this drunken "interview" out of Ryan Kennedy.

Pre-"Interview" Interview:
Holly: Do you feel comfortable representing the band?

Ryan Kennedy: Haha! Did you see me up there?

H: Excellent point, sir.

RK: Where do you want to do this? Should we go upstairs?

H: Sure. It's pretty noisy down here. [The four of us tromp/stumble upstairs to the bandroom and sit/collapse onto various secondhand seating options.]

"Interview":
H: So, did you get your shirt out of a case of beer?

RK: No, I got it at [something about a relative's secondhand clothing store in Peterborough].

H: Did you deliberately choose to wear a t-shirt that at one point came out of a case of beer?

RK: I hadn't planned on it because I pulled it out of my bag. [I'm not really sure what this means, or if
I'm deciphering my Sharpie scribbles accurately. Let's move on...]

H: How old are you? Or is it not fair to ask?

RK: It's not fair to ask.

H: Haha. Okay. [At this point, recognizing my imminent doom, not to mention being an old pro at the interview gig, my radio girlfriend jumps in.]

Radio Girlfriend: What is your favourite place to play?

H: [thinking] Good question!

RK: I like the El Mo [that's the El Mocambo] and the Horseshoe [which I always type as "Horseshow"-this was no exception. These are both excellent dirty clubs in Toronto, although the Horseshoe Tavern may be the smelliest in the country. Rock 'n' roll is many things, but freshly-scented it is not.]

H: What items are on your rider?

RK: In all seriousness, [For some reason, that's as far as I got in my notes, although I had lots of
room. There may have been something about sandwiches. Possibly some fresh fruit. Also, at some point during the interview, the guy with the mustache came into the room to grab something out of his bag. I told him I liked his mustache. He might have thought I was joking, because he left rather quickly. I was serious. I really like mustaches.]

Radio Girlfriend: [Coming to my rescue again.] Are you planning on releasing a full-length record?

RK: We're working on a couple of EPs that will be released in March.

H: Cool. I liked the first EP, but it is more mellow and shoegazey than your live show. Man, you were so great! Were you impressed that we recognized "So Alive"?

RK: Ha! Yeah.

H: That was an awesome cover. By the way, how do you feel about the penises in the bandroom?

[This deserves an aside. The bandroom at Call The Office is painted black to cover the countless cock-and-balls drawings made by drunk boys in bands. Visible beneath the paint, like the crouching woman in Gilman's "The Yellow Wallpaper," is a gigantic arching penis. Since I was sitting directly across from it and Kennedy was sitting directly under it, I found it rather distracting. Plus, I don't know if I've mentioned this or not, but I was pretty drunk.]

RK: [laughing] Yeah, that is a big penis, isn't it? [Or something like that. I forgot to write it down. We did talk about dicks for quite a few minutes.]

H: Do you have an Eiffel Tower penis? [In silver marker below the Gilman arch is a rather creative drawing of a cock-and-balls shaped like the Eiffel Tower. The workings of the male mind never cease to amaze me.]

RK: Yes.

That's it. That's all I have. Sweet mother of fuck. I did manage to keep the sleaze in sleazegrinder, though, so, you know, there's that.

Thanks to Ryan Kennedy for being a good sport, and thanks to Rikers for putting on a great show. During the month of January, the band is playing residencies in Toronto at The Garrison on Wednesdays and in London at Call The Office on Thursdays. Do yourself a favour and check 'em out if you're anywhere near Downtown Canada in the next month, download the Easter Eyes EP, and watch for two new EPs this March. This band is going places, trust me. I'll keep you posted...

Apache

2012-01-09T02:40:00.000-08:00

Boomtown Gems
Birdman

San Fransicko partying pouters come in compact fun-sized packet that yuss, early seventies camporamic glam in any damn colour you want, darling, and a few yet to be invented. Bypass any notion of the similarities to Bob Geldof’s Rats, though there is slight resemblance to their superb second Tonic For The Troops album, and never once will you have to pause to reflect on what one tit or tat was nicked from (well, ok not exactly true but you gonna argue with Wooly Bully or Psychotic Reaction) though you can place them proudly in the silkily polka dot n’ paisley pantheon of Brats, Dolls, Ramones, Alice, even The Gun Club and biker fumes. Snarling n sniping this is a swaggering glitterball from gutter to groin that will make you touch your hips and maybe even wish they’d let you.

- Stu Gibson

Flash Metal Suicide: Alien

2012-01-05T03:38:00.000-08:00

Alien
Comic Fantasy
Mongol Horde, 1983

"Earth to Alien, Earth to Alien- Aaargh!"
- from the inner-groove inscription on "Cosmic Fantasy"

There has gotta be so much more going on with this band then what we’ve been left with. The problem is, ya see, that at the time they were around, no one really gave too much thought about Alien and what they were up to, because there were zillions of other flash metal bands running around with tattered spaceman threads and loony cosmic-headbanger lyrics, and who could tell one from the other? I mean, nobody coulda predicted that Alien’s lead singer would go on to front one of the greatest rock n’ roll bands of all time, before flaming out completely in a fatal bike wreck a few years later, or that their bass player would end up bein’ the only prime-time actor currently sitting on death row in Florida.

Most assuredly, even Alien themselves woulda chuckled at that far-fetched notion. But goddamn if that ain’t EXACTLY what happened, Fred.

Mongol Horde was a short-lived but quite memorable New York-based heavy metal record label that released only 4 EPS before folding- Alien’s “Cosmic Fantasy”, Takashi’s“Kamikaze Killers”, Thor’s “Unchained” , and Virgin Steele’s “Wait for the Night” (all 1983). All 4 records have become highly-sought after collector’s items, and all 4 were popular at the time of their release, so it remains a mystery why the label closed up shop within a year of its formation. I dunno who the Mongol Horde dude was, but the fucker’s gotta have some good stories. At any rate, whilst all four bands had some degree of flash to their image, none of ‘em were glam-metal in the traditional LA “party rock” sense. Thor, of course, was a part-time superhero from Canada, who blew up hot water bottles and bent steel bars between crunchy, Sweet-inspired cartoon-metal tunes. Virgin Steele boasted an authentic guitar hero in Jack Starr, and an alarmingly high-pitched soprano, Dave Defeis, on vox, and a ‘classic’ metal sound that had more in common with the British Maiden-baby bands then with anything stateside. Takashi, despite the Japanese name, were a buncha white guys, and they also played ‘true’ metal, i.e. powerful, Judas Priest-inspired stuff. The only band on the label that flirted with outright Flash Metal was Alien, and that was mostly cuz of their outlandish stage attire.

Speaking of the Sweet, they are a good reference point for Alien’s look, if everyone in the Sweet was as off-the-charts flamboyant as their bass player, Steve Priest, was, and if they lived on the set of an old sci-fi flick from the 60’s.

Traditional metal-wear like spandex, studs, and leather crashed headlong into capes, shoulder pads, purple jumpsuits and space-boots to create some sorta half-assed ‘cosmic glam’ look that resembled a mangled Angel after a long, hard night. But what the hell, it was 1983, and stuff like that was acceptable.

The band consisted of Frank Starr on vocals, Brian Fair and Rikk Kristi on guitars, Damien “The Beast” Bardot on bass, and Roxann Harlow on drums. Although it’s kinda hard defining gender in these kind of circumstances, Roxann really was a girl, and having a female drummer was not only extremely rare, but rather progressive-thinking for a metal band in 1983. I suppose you’d expect that from highly-evolved visitors form another world, tho, right? Musically, they vacillated between glammy cock-rock and chugging heavy metal, usually in the same song. Frank Starr’s vox were much higher then they would be in subsequent bands- high-pitched caterwauling was big amongst the spandex faithful in the early 80’s- but otherwise, for low-budget, regional metal, it’s pretty solid, fulla fire and energy and a predilection for seamlessly melding contemporary thundercock songs and lyrics into weirdo space-sex themes- see “Star Lover” and the climactic (ahem) title track for evidence of such. But classic? Oh, fuck, no. This is a Flash Metal SUICIDE, after all.

The EP starts with a minute and a half of bubbling, sci-fi synths called “Space Prelude”. The writing of this intro is credited to “Alien”, but there’s no mention of synths on the back cover- mebbe they just lifted it from an old episode of “Outer Limits”, or somethin’. At some point in there, the machine-gunning flash metal riff cuts through the murk, and “Cosmic Fantasy”, part 1, takes shape. Although Bardot’s fussy bass-lines step on the rest of the song for most of it’s running time (Bardot produced the rekkid, natch), the dueling guitars are pretty fuckin’ amazing, as is Starr’s dramatic upper-register screech. Ok, so it sounds hopelessly dated 21 years later – my wife actually winced when she heard it- but for crusty ol’ headbangers, it rock the way you remember it.

“Star Lover”, about fucking space girls, of course, is more straight-ahead flash metal, crashing, bashing cock rock with a 70’s arena-ready chorus. Side one’s closer is a 4 minute ode to Alien’s own rockability, “Headbangin’” : “We’re a hard rockin’ band, we play as loud as we can”, etc. Some great twin axe-action on this ‘un, and yeah, I know, it’s pretty stupid, but as I have mentioned before, all METAL bands had to have songs about how METAL they were. That’s just they way it was, man.

“Don’t Say Goodbye” was Alien’s stab at commercial success, a woeful pop metal number that finds Frank and Roxann trading off vox, and the band sounding exactly like Journey. And I mean exactly. Maybe this is what killed off Mongol Horde. Anyway, it’s probably only awful if you plunked down yr $8 (more like $80 now) expecting METAL, cuz I kinda like it now, in a wobbly, “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” soundtrack sorta way, but I absolutely hated it in 1983.

Crazily enough, the EP ends with “Cosmic Fantasy”. That’s right, the song you just heard 3 tracks ago. It might be a little different, possibly a little longer, but it’s the SAME SONG. I can’t imagine what the reasoning for this was. I mean, any band can come up with more than 4 songs, can’t they? Umm, maybe THIS is what killed Mongol Horde.

Oh, and the EP finishes with a short burst of backwards-masking. To keep ya from pacing the floor all night, the message is thus: “We are Alien, we are Alien, we are Alien, we are Alien...Alien, the intergalactic gods of heavy metal, we are here to imbed our music in your minds…”

Now ya know.

Sin - Starr and Kristi on the right

Soon after this EP was released, Alien broke up. Seein’ as they only had four fuckin’ songs, I guess that wasn’t so much of a loss. Frank Starr and Rikk Kristi both left New York and headed to LA, where they joined a flash metal band in progress called Sin, led by ex-Steeler/WASP bass dude Rik Fox. A demo tape of ‘em is floating around the planet, but they never officially released anything (a two-song pic disc, “On the Run”, was released on Azra in 1983, before Starr and Kristi joined the band), and Sin, too, soon folded, re-emerging in ’86 as Jagwire without Starr, Kristi, or Fox. Alien’s other guitarist, Brian Fair, joined New York thrashers Hittman with ex-members of Takashi and nuclear-metal goons Attila.
Roxann Harlow quit the music biz and became a successful business woman. Frank Starr, of course, went on to join the biker-boogie legends the Four Horsemen, where he took his business of rockin’ a little too seriously, resulting in a series of lengthy jail sentences and several motorcycle accidents, the last proving fatal. Frank Starr died in 1999.

And what of Damien “The Beast” Bardot? After Alien, Bardot went to Florida and started a successful acting career, eventually landing a role on Miami Vice, as well as in the ’86 film “Band of the Hand”. Although details are sketchy, Bardot somehow found himself involved in a violent robbery in 1987, and was charged, and convicted of first degree murder. Although he maintains his innocence, Bardot was sentenced to death, and remains on death row in Florida. Which is officially the weirdest end that any ex-flash metal cat has come to so far. Talk about living up to yr nickname…

In terms of pure listening enjoyment, “Cosmic Fantasy” is not worth the exorbitant collector-scum prices it’s currently fetching, man, no way. But as a weird, tragic rock n’ roll artifact now tinged with death and murder? Well, then I guess it’s worth plenty. Fuck, I guess you better own this, just in case.

Oh, and Mongol Horde dude, please write in. I have so many questions!

-Sleazegrinder

The Sleazies

2012-01-04T02:25:00.000-08:00

Trite Ditties and Meaningless Crap
Pelado Records

Obviously, any band with the gall (balls? whatever) to name themselves “The Sleazies” are all right with me. If I had kids, I betcha that’s what everybody would call ‘em, the Sleazies. Also, these cats are from Providence, a mob-riddled, run-down city that appears to be held together by duct-tape and steam, which I like. Can’t be a Sleazie without comin’ from somewhere sleazy, right? Anyway, after a bitchin’ single or two, the sleazy ones managed to stop snorting anything on the top shelf of their parents’ medicine cabinet long enuff to lay down 11 tracks worth of funny, snotty, kinda-evil punk-junk to really spazz out to, baby. Fans o’ the Dwarves, the Pagans, the Sex Pistols, and lotsa other really cool ‘The’ bands are gonna go nuts with this one, cuz it’s exactly what used to make punk rock so much fun – chemically damaged terminal adolescents playing catchy speed rock and saying ‘fuck’ a lot. Their pogo-frenzy hit from a few months back, “I Wanna Operate on Myself”, cracks this ‘un open like a ripe skull, and it’s all Meatmen-style gross-outs and Generation X headboppin’ teenpunk swagger from there. Highlights? “My Kid Drank Poison”, the most rockin’ ode to accidental infanticide since Alice Cooper’s “Dead Babies” and the savage porno punk of “I Wanna Fuck Your Mom”. Dude, my mom’s like 60, ya know. Guess that’s they they call ‘em the Sleazies.

- Sleaze

Flash Metal Suicide: Blackboard Jungle

2012-01-03T02:26:00.000-08:00

Blackboard Jungle
I Like It Alot
1992, self-released
By Stu Gibson

LA's Blackboard Jungle are contenders for the ultimate FMS, especially among the US contingent.
Having being unsigned puts them up there with the UK's Soho Roses. Before it all gets Euro (or Pan-world) vision, I'm not saying that the unsigned status qualifies them for retrospective glory above and beyond anyone else, but that both the Roses and the Jungle put out excellent, dribblesomely great sleazepopglampunk type records on their own with no help from any fucker but themselves. Their fairly brief website offers few tales in terms of biogs and events and things, and at time of writing I've not heard back from the guys to see about filling in the gaps, so shall we plunge headlong into the heady heartland of downtown LA and sift thru the smog and wheezing winos to the time a wee CD was pressed up after some demos were produced by one Mr Brett Muscat of Faster Pussycat fame, sometime in the early 1990's?

H-o-okaaay then.

Fast forward a few years to the not quite as smoggy streets of Manchester, England, circa 1995 and a young would-be wino (tho he didn't know it then) had, unfortunately as it turned out - tho the small factor of this record was the only good thing - met another young chap called Nick (sort of, as we shall soon see) through the eternal swell of adverts for aspiring musicians that plague every town. We had a chat and a 'jam' or two with a guitar player by the name of Roger before hooking up with a drummer called Simon. The long and the short of it is I ended up trying to sort out a band with Simon for longer than was necessary in the stubbornness of youth, or idiocy, or the stubbornness borne of general stupidity, who knows at this fair and far remove. Bloody good drummer tho. The other two fell by the wayside but it was this character called Nick that was the catalyst for this piece and who we should be centering on for the time being for 'twas he, dear sleazoids, that had a taped copy of the Blackboard Jungle record. Now I was intrigued by the name (he, naturally, as you may soon be able to discern, had never heard of the insanely famous and pivotal film from whence their name derived) so didst copy said tape, which I still have, and then over the years enquired of folk who passed me by (by that I mean people I knew legitimately. I didn't take to wandering about Manchester with a sandwich board on asking if anyone had heard of Blackboard Jungle. They'd have thought it was advertising some new doomsday cult.), none of which could help me discover who this intriguing, and bloody damn good I tell you, band were.

'You Talk Shit About Me. I Talk Shit About You...'
This Nick guy wasn't too keen. He was far too gone down the road of stupid glam. He had a tattoo of 'Nax' on his shoulder, top of his arm, and when asked why, he would come out, as you do, with some deluded dreamtime garbage about how he was called Nick Andrew Smith but thinking that Smith was too common changed the 'S' for an 'X', giving himself the all too rock'n'roll cool moniker of 'Nax'. Way to go, man. The drummer bloke, Simon, used to love it, and laugh and shake his head in wonder why he wanted to name himself after a make of crisps AND THEN TATTOO IT on his person!!! (I enquired after Sleaze as to whether you Statesiders have these - Nik Nacks - and apparently not. Not in New England, any road. They famously, and rather fabulously, come in really stinky flavours like Scampi and Lemon; Nice 'n' Spicy (the best); Spare Rib and putrid cheese feet (made that up, but ya get the picture?)). We went to Manchester's 'premier' Rock club Jilly's Rockworldone summers night and, hell, I thought I wore daft clothes - creepers, drape coats, winkle pickers, vomit paisley patterned shirts, and at that time, disastrously long hair - but never ever did I think that anyone actually wore zebra skin lycra pants. Pleeeeease. Shiny PVC, ohhhh yes, super slinky, slippery and fine. C'mon, look in the mirror, son.

Zebra print! It was the end of a strange, mad day, maybe I was stoned, or too young and stupid to shout out how bad it was, but I'd had an afternoon of him playing me 'songs' so maybe I was simply speechless. Without any hint of embarrassment, or self-effacement, or anything approaching a sense of realization that you sucked, I had this barrage of songs that could, really, looking back, have slightly altered the course of history as they might have made Davy Vain blush and become an alt. country crooner. Perhaps I'm too English or something, but there's, I dunno, there's Paul Stanley, and then there's Nick Nax from Bath, y'know. 'Nuff said. I wanted to be in a band like The Dogs D'Amour, who were unique, have a bit of spin 'n' style of your own, not bullshit sub Motley Crue Sunset Strip shit about, 'Ooooo She said I wore her out / I banged her on the bus and I made her shout' without any sense of humour, tongue in cheek silliness at all. Oh well, it was fun looking back for a moment. He didn't actually write that line, but pretty close, ad infinitum, for a whole double album or so's worth. Man, how dumb am I? We coulda done a Manics! At least an '...Illusion'!

'I Was Just A Fresh Young Thing...'
Maybe that was the problem, and I'm been too harsh. I wrote shit songs in my younger days (hem hem, yuss opinions still vary!) and still can't anywhere near sing so who am I to say? Well, so what, it makes me laugh looking back. And anyway, plenty of bands wrote, and write, horn-rimmed Rocka's but they had, or have, the ability do it well, whether it'sSoho Roses or Danko Jones. The Blackboard Jungle guys weren't quite so fresh but hell, the played like it. I couldn't believe it when I read that this album is a self-release during my googling around after these guys recently. This is quite simply a very, very good record. Deceptively clever, very well written and put together songs (were they session guys? Hmmmm, I wonder). What staggers me, and has done for the last 10 years, is that they sound so of their time and place but in the songs and the lyrics have a sensibility, or -ilities, at least a few steps removed from the general wanna-be scumbucket guff of 'The Strip'.

The album opens and closes with place-name songs, opening with 'Chicago', which underneath it's bruised black belly of lost boy dirty psychedelia lies a lovely, gently rollin' country stroller that wouldn't be looked at sideways by Steve Earle. Fact is, he'd probably marry the fucker. It's a cold-kissed hungover dawn, deliciously melancholic causing you to kiss the can and toast another wasted day, as the skin tightens round the bones on your face.

This glam darkside is one of their great strengths. The whole record is kinda sombre, yet stirring, a coastal Harley ride in Big Sur, wind and seabreeze flowing through your hair...or have I been sucked into an advert for 'The 25 Greatest Biker Tunes for Stockbroking Cowboys'?...Almost at times not a drag strip away from where Faster Pussycat were thrown off the train as they twisted from 'Wake Me When It's Over' into the 'Whipped!' record with songs like 'Jack The Bastard' yet then doing 'Friends' and the AOR 'Non-Stop To Nowhere'. Similarly our boys from the Jungle piledrive their way through the burning bins, murdered devils and dolls, knife sharp nightmares and smokin' sleaze of downtown Chicago and take a drive out to the country blastin' Skynyrd and sippin' spirits on 'Forever You And I' and 'My Old Friend'. Just on the right side of mawkish - 'An old friend on the telephone calling up to say 'Hi / Man I miss you hope you're doing fine'. Anyone who's ever been there screwed up and over for whatever sin or reason and has a call outta the blue will know right off that it ain't sickly sweet pseudo sad eyed heartstring tugging country sap. And you. Yes you, Mister Bassist Britt, I can hear you rehearsing 'Ziggy Stardust' riffs on the fadeout. Tsk! 'This Time Last Year', a mournful tale slumped on the throne of remembrance - 'Oh this time last year a friend of mine was still alive' - too rattles along on a moonlit cruise through desolate small towns of wee small hours sadness and again I hear a hearkening keen like Mr Earle yet also here the melancholic minor chord musings of Tyla's best solo work (like 'Nocturnal Nomad') flowing silently through the sun-tinged long-grasses with witchdoctor whisperings like 'Oh this time last year so many memories were born / But today my blood drips from their thorns...' They wend in and out of these on some slick somersault-inducing rockers like a big-budget matrix-type car chase sequence.

'Generations', a Rose Tattoo chantalong and tailor made for the drummer to do some arm in the air stick-twizzling that introduces itself like a SWAT team coming round for a chat and 'I Like It A Lot' are purpose built for the Rockclub and as such are sturdy little blighters that have lasted the test. The title track been a turn of the 90's Chilli Peppers funkmetalglam work-out that is, unfortunately, one of the few, and minor, disappointing moments on the record (along with 'River Of Love' which is just too hackneyed LA barrel-scraping shit fron the shoe for me), despite it's almost slipping into Love/Hate's 'Slave Girl', as it were. (Strangely 'River Of Love' almost enters GN'R's 'Rocket Queen' for a slight slip of a whip at the beginning. What is it with them and other bands song girls? What is it with my head?!).

Only a slight setback, purely cos it's not up there with the likes of 'Chicago' and 'Paint A Picture'. Oh yeah, did I not mention that yet? 'Paint A Picture', which is downloadable from their wee website, is verily 'n' forsooth a roadmasterasphaltblaster, to nick a few words from Steve Earle. A scorched black tale of bad love for a 'psychotic little thing' - 'Paint you a picture of myself / Paint it from the inside out / I ain't no Picasso / This'll have to do / Psychotic little thing / I still want you' - it further shows off their winning way with a pop melody and hook, nevermind their mantra-chanting choruses, Andy McCoy woulda given up smack for it. Almost. Weirdly, disturbingly so, makes me think of Mike Patton dancing like a chicken on fire in the 'From Out Of Nowhere' video. 'Prettiest Ones', as in 'The prettiest ones always hurt so bad...' is a similar case in point too. The 'Under The Bridge' style guitar work here either shows the RHCP influence mentioned above or shows the prevalence of Kiedis and co's intrusion without invitation into the lives and ears of us mortal millions. For the record, tho, and actually on the record itsgoodgodself, Mr The Guitar Player Dave Zink is pretty damn impressive. Nothing too ridiculous and so bad it's not even comical a la CC Deville wannabe flash, but some well-placed flash noisescapes and carcrash chunksolos and harmonic helicopter rotor blade riddles of economic splendour and deft touches (there's one, just one, little bent/slide note on the breakdown of 'Forever You And I' that is springy light Thai beef salad exquisite). Similar to the prevalence of the Chilli-bloody-Peppers is the extent of Waxl's all-encompassing effect on people up and down lands of all shapes and sizes. Singerman Kerry Price has a touch of Axl's singing form the back of somewhere round his top jaw and nose style, which Kiedis has a bit too. There's even the odd drop of Mike Patton about it too, and I remember a whileback thinking the vocals were at times hinting at Dan Reed. But thankfully it's been so long since I heard the little I've ever heard of Dan Reed and his fucking Network that I'm not sure if that's the case anymore. See? sometimes being a Flash Metal case helps, as time goes past and you get looked on even more favourably.*

As it started the record closes with a placename song. This time 'California', about, as untold millions of people have done before and since, heading way out west to 'lose myself in California'. This is a really nice atmospheric tune, shuffled along on tickertape train drums and like the Harley ride before is something akin to some vampires flying about the moon-soaked coast looking for those fresh stockbroking biker boys to feed on, as waves break and roil hundreds of feet below. Creates some mythic twilit half-world that would have worked well soundtracking the vampire film 'Near Dark'. And how many LA hairmetal strip assholes (or strip-searching assholes for songs) woulda written something so Johnny Cash/ Earle of Steve country as 'Caught a tear in my Dad's eye as I left home'? I'm not sure if it had a particular effect on the younger me as I'd only just vacated the premises a year or so before that, and I didn't 'lose my faith' to a girl in a topless bar, as this chap did. (was he ripped off? A weird euphemism for virginity? Or was she so dumb it made him lose his faith in the human race?). My run ins with strippers have always been insanely irritating, mainly because the one that used to, and maybe still does, frequent The Salisbury that I used to venture in for an afternoon tipple and sweaty sandwich, was always on the verge of some breakdown or other.

'Sometimes I Think This Town Talks Too Much...'
So the Blackboard Jungle tale closes after a short and sweet sojourn to the last days of sleazepopmetallin' - Hollywood style. A shame but an apt demonstration of the old adage of luck 'n' pluck, and the fact that there's always some tosser that'll get there instead. Such as Roxx Gang, who, if memory serves, were still able to put out a record in 1991, and these guys couldn't get a deal. Tragic. At once one of the best LA streetjunk bands (indeed, they apparently won best unsigned band awards a few times) whilst been pretty unique in that slender stabling, they were perhaps a year or so, or maybe even a few months too late off the block as the grunge Godzilla was stomping down on LA from Seattle and wildhaired AandR arseholes were, well, inverting themselves to move their asses and turn into some sanshoed, slacker cipher. And it was a time BC too,** , where anything remotely Rockin' and glam tinged was just excised from media attention. A whole wad of demos and records, live and studio, and vids are available, which makes me think I should update my old muffly tape, nicely priced from their website and the guys all play still in various Cali bands***, reuniting for a show once a year to commemorate these rather great tunes. Bless 'em. 'The biggest littlest band to ever come out of Los Angeles'.

-FIN-

-Stu Gibson
*To be perfectly honest, and probably quite boring, I actually saw some Dan Reed Network on a vid someone had of old VH1 metal shows and Power Hours and so on. Horrific.
**BC =Before Crue. Before they were literally rehabilitated in the general publics mind and are now feted and worshipped for being shit, talentless muppets, kinda like a sleaze Spice Girls, or Big Brother contestants. Cos it's funny and oh so post-Crue now, ha ha.
***Including the awesome Substitutes, who are probably the most criminally unsigned band in California 10 years later. These fuckers have no luck.

Advanced Demonology Podcast Lesson 2

2011-12-24T13:25:00.000-08:00

Hey - Sleazegrinder and his haunted pal Swilson have an occult rock podcast! Check it out:

This month's lesson: Demons. And what better time than Christmas to play songs about Satan's gremlins? Christmas brings out the demons in everyone. Thusly, a night of demonic bellowing awaits you. But that's not all! We've also got long-forgotten acid-folkies, demented loner-rockers and psychedelic outsiders, groovy dollybirds and Detroit freakrockers, drug-damaged punks and mustache bandits playing flutes through giant stacks of Marshall Amps. All this and more in Lesson 2 of Advanced Demonology!

Download/stream/listen HERE!

Flash Metal Suicide - The Birthday Party

2011-12-22T02:30:00.000-08:00

The Birthday Party
Junkyard
1982, Missing Link Records
By Stu Gibson

'Fucking Rotten Business This.'

No shit, sunshine. The Birthday Party landed in London in 1979 after fleeing post-apocalypse Australia, their barren, desecrated homeland. The nightmarish visions they saw there were relayed to the folk of the totally unaware and unsuspecting UK and filtered down to OK, so part of that is from Mad Max but they ain't a jalopy ride jammed full o' junk away from those customised go-karts used to hare up and down the desert in those films, breathing radiation fumes and sicker than the sole survivor. They brought this menace of rumbling, earth-shattering cataclysms with their music too, eventually finding a home in the burgeoning goth scene springing up like bats outta the belfry at the time. And also like every other 'goth' band of the time they vehemently denied ever been so, despite old Nick Cave's hair putting Robert Smith's barnet of a few years later to shame in the shade. Of course, just like Bauhaus were taking the piss out of all the goths that became goths precisely because of Bauhaus. Poor old Pete Murphy's still hung up about it (literally, it seems, check out the comedy interview in Uncut, June '05). Oh yes, did I forget to mention (did you not know?) that The Birthday Party were the irrepressible old devil's first band? Back when he was large of barnet and full of enough drugs to kill Keef'n' Iggy in one hit. They actually began life in a more sedate tho' still contradictory, manner under the moniker of The Boys Next Door. Now, I'm not gonna be all pseudo-knowledgable and sit here and say 'Yeah it wasn't as mental as The Birthday Party, maan', which, by all accounts (or the two I've read anyway) they weren't, as I've never heard this early incarnation and frankly my dear readers I couldn't care less. But I can take it as read that twas only after they arrived in London and starved in a scummy house somewhere that madness found them and festered on them for a good few years, forcing them out into venues the world over to screech, wail and generally try to rid their poor possessed souls and bodies of the infernal forces that had taken control of their skinny ribcaes. Such as heroin. And alcohol.

'Welcome To The Car Crash'
they trooped over to London in the bright, hopeful era of 1980 to fuck things up a little, our denizens of random destruction, fucked themselves up completely then hit a slight nail of luck and were able to start surviving and perform some vicious primal scream...not therapy, just plain primal screaming would do for them, they didn't care about ever recovering. They were a mess both physically and musically. And these apocalypse dudes would also inadvertently show Bauhaus for the art school pansies that they were. However, tho the invaders would never write anything as sublime as 'Dark Entries', the native wusses would cower as their tedious noir 'Spy In The Cab' was taunted and then trounced by lolloping juggernauts like 'The Friend Catcher' (interestingly featuring a Suicide-ish riff that Spacemen 3 would base their entire 9-minute plus nightmare drone 'Suicide' around). A weird, no, hold on, the most bizarre alien swamp stew of bestialized blues, a few dying fragments of rockabilly after they've ransacked rockabilly HQ razing it to

their own version of Hell, ditto a few pieces of free jazz clinging to a mountain edge with pleading eyes having its fingers being lifted off one by one, it's last vision one of Nick's leering visage, Captain Beefheart, Pere Ubu ('New Picnic Time' era), The Stooges on some seriously bad acid to toss out an old cliche, possibly The Fall too who at times walk a similar line of willfully ruined rackets. As played by5 monstered Aussies in their own little worlds and not, seemingly, the same song at the same time (kinda like The Replacements instrument swapping but in a forreal bizarro jazzo 'Funhouse' mode - of which The Birthday Party deliver a shocking end of world version on the 'Live '81-'82' set, which is honestly seriously disturbing) with a relentless dynamism, an energy so restless that it suggests a serious hyperactive disorder all round...a cold, alienating, ugly arctic squall at once disorientating yet seductive. No wonder they got so recklessly into smack, they probably needed the extra drugs to straighten out and get on an even keel after subjecting themselves to what came out when they picked up an instrument.

On top of all this Cave screeched, brayed like a very pissed off mule and occasionally crooned but generally sounded like somebody was alternately crushing his voicebox as you would a paper bag before binning it, and shoving, or trying to, horrible instruments of torture up his back passage like a puppet of De Sade. Like Lemmy said about being used to the Rock'n'Roll lifestyle and colossal volume, that you get used to it in a way you'd get used to someone coming around and hitting you on the head at 7:30 every morning (tho' I, for one, aren't particularly sure about that one), you become accustomed to The Birthday Party, like you get lured into a great, or rather good (there's precious few great ones) horror film, enjoying the sensory battery to the extent where what you get off on is the sheer intensity, chaotic lunacy and violent excess. Akin to the old adage that you're irresistibly drawn to a car wreck and have an insatiable curiosity to seethe results. And then they invited us to this savage, and depraved disco diabolique! Their gigs were apparently pretty violent affairs. I can imagine, Cave's insanity seen on Bad Seeds gigs is testament to what went on at Party gigs. Reading the 'Bad Seed' biog, apparently Cave wasn't averse to jumping into audiences to give someone a quick clip round the earhole. As can be heard on the 'Live '81-'82' album where Nick, presumably replying to some sarky heckler just utters 'Yes, I like your hair too sonny' with a tasty hit of malice.

'A gross gang of ghost types...'

I heard The Birthday Party for the first time, after reading about them, and hearing them mentioned in whispered asides, finally in 1992. When you're a youngster it seems to have been loads of mentions and they take on a romantic semi-mythical status. I only ever managed to get 'Big-Jesus-Trash-Can' on a free tape compiled by John Peel from his favourite Peel Sessions issued with Select magazine (for he, rather unsurprisngly, was quite taken with them). It tied in with it being around this time that 4AD, Mute or whoever the fuck it was, issued the 'Hits' album, that I always intended to get and never ever did. Phewww. I actually got a taped copy of it a few years back and I think I've played it about twice, and I might play it once while writing this. Maybe. Y'see, 'Big-Jesus-Trash-Can' is an awesome calamity, where all planets aligned and all The Birthday Party's kinda coalesced into something actuallyr esembling a song. Almost like listening to some old Rockabilly but after the radio's been chucked underwater, taste-tested by a Great White and systematically smashed against a wall by Jerry Lee Lewis, whatever slivers of a song remains...
Or perhaps it's just simply their most accessible song and I'm a big jessie who can't handle his noise.

Complete abandon yet, a sprightly Captain Beefheart riff, like insane laughing hyenas atop a thunderous, malevolent, angry bass and drum combo (the rhythm section usually at least sounded like they were playing the same song in the same room) while Nick rants about some semblance of a story featuring oil and Texas and, quite possibly, Elvis, ('Wears a suit of Gold (got greasy hair)'). I loved it and still do which is why I always so disappointed when I got around to more Birthday Party records. Not that they're crap. In fact, at times they can be great, for a few seconds or minutes anyway, they're just... I guess it's the same mentality of people who listen to Miles Davis' free jazz skronk noodling and enjoy it (or claim to, man). 'Bitches Brew' is utter bollocks, I don't care how clever iti s. before I get going...I picked up 'Live'81-'82' a few years ago too, and again realised that glad the party went on without me. I was a happy wallflower in this instance, for, whilst being quite agreeably insane and noisesome it's far too much hard to play very often. It's almost something akin to a good friend, that you hang out with every so often (maybe they live out of town), but when they have a few drinks they think it's a good idea to beat living crap out of you, before buying you a drink. But music that's played by a whole family of such people. As much as I love Big Black, JAMC and so on listening to The Birthday Party is more out of a to see if I've got more amenable to it or if it's still like a ghost in the closet to a child that you shut the door on asap. It is a case of 'it' and not 'them' as it's almost like the spawned a monster, scraping and screeling guitars howling like tortured animals. Or the birth of a hungry alien, or prehistoric reptile, or prehistorcalien reptileeven, crawing for mother.

Demented Are Go
So we come to 'Junkyard' - their second album proper, after 1981's 'Prayers On Fire'. Why 'Junkyard'? Two reasons - a/ cos it's got 'Big-Jesus-Trash-Can' on it,b/I don't have 'Prayers On Fire'. Actually, I didn't have 'Junkyard' till last weekend, when I burnt it off my girlfriend. But when I was young and poor it was the one I wanted. Good enough? Crashing straight in like a motorway pile-up with 'Blast Off', huge canyon collapsing basslines, tinny guitar scars Cave and co sound like they're etching sketches in sheet metal. A frantic, garbled, deranged funk freakout that they slopped out every so often (such as the earlier 'Zoo Music Girl'). It strikes me as a soundtrack to Mr. Cave's 1989 novel 'And The Ass Saw The Angel', perhaps due to the title being along similar lines, but also cos that makes about as much sense as, well, The Birthday Party in general.

No, really, because songs like 'Hamlet (Pow, Pow, Pow)' seem to be narratives, however distorted, cut-up and nonsensical they may be, of strange, perverse creatures in small towns you only thought existed in your nightmares.

Surging powerlines like a moray eel shooting out it's cave and back quick as a flash. Like Big Black without the tunes, I've always thought. I read in the 'Bad Seed' biog that by the time of 'Junkyard' heroin had such a grip that focus had been lost as well as the necessary energy levels required to churn out such high-intensity music, especially from the vertigo inducing feelings it causes anyway, just listening to it sat down, never mind rehearsing and writing it day in and day out. It's not a bad record, but doesn't stick in your head much, I guess cos while you're playing it it's simultaneously battering brain cells into oblivion and it's a pretty cold, unloveable, unfeeling, unemotional landscape they populated, leaving you feeling as though you've just listened to an aural lobotomy. But it has it's high points with 'She's Hit', a supinely spooky crawl I take to be documenting the aftermath of an overdose or murder, a sort of warped 'Fever' with Johnny Thunders woozy OD guitar scratches, wailing wall vocals creating a definite macabre theatre of the grotesque, cold as a corpse and 'Dead Joe', presaging Big Black's 'Jordan, Minnesota' or 'Bazooka Joe' by three years or so, muddy river corpses strewn in its wake...battering ram bass blasts from Tracy Pew, razor thin guitar cuts (that Big Black co-opted along the way too), slashing at you like the scenes of poor l'il ol' Jesus in 'The Passion Of The Christ', at times reminiscent of Bauhaus' 'Of Lillies And Remains' (perhaps they were both taking the piss out of each other for being the bigger goths) then at others mutilating classic Chuck Berry lines. The title track itself is a lumbering behemoth, a slow, cruel torture - 'hack hack hack hack hack this heavenly body' - like being used as a punchbag and enjoying it. Brutal. 'The Dim Locator' has a waltzy, sarcastic, taunting guitar line and is bounced along on a rockabilly swing rhythm to be another of their more accessible tunes. '6" Gold Blade' is an early example of Cave's murder ballad obsession ('I stuck a six-inch gold blade in the head of a girl...Oh baby, those skinny girls, they're so quick to murder') and 'Release The Bats' is a clear example of the earlier mentioned piss taking of Goths ('A hundred fluttering in your skirt...Her legs are chafed by sticky wings') and is another demonstration of their hairspray assaulting mutant flailing tribal funk as thought they were also taking a dig at young Adam Ant. Actually, probably more like taking a whip to him. Cave going into his best Iggy impressions ('Eeeurrghhh!') and chasing the song around like a circus master having a breakdown.

Weirdly, I've never recommended The Birthday Party to anybody I don't think, 'cept to sample some sheer mad creepiness, but their vicious nightmare vision is a nasty, sinister, sadistic pleasure. A musical soundtrack to a Bucking Bronco rodeo ride, indeed, one craaaaazzy fucking ride. Man. And the influence of their nightmarish post-apocalypse nuclear holocaust paranoia lives on as seen in bands like The Membranes and Gallon Drunk through to The 80's Matchbox B-Line Disaster and Manchester's own purveyors of slightly wonky bonkersbilly blues gunk JackieO today. And of course John Robb then of The Membranes would christen his gang of soul punk revolution Rockas GoldBlade. Tho' size is undetermined.

-FIN-

-Stu Gibson, who IS quite fond of the other kind of birthday parties. With cake, you know.

Jaded Sun

2011-12-21T02:23:00.000-08:00

Gypsy Trip
Sian Records

This further crunk of classic rawk excavated from Ireland’s increasingly reinvigorated tradition of boisterous blues snaps at, if not through, the heels of Glyder’s trip through Thin Lizzy’s shires and The Answer’s cliché clawing from Led Zep. A bluesier and, paradoxically, slightly more individual effort, for all the references you can sift through, be it Free, Humble Pie and even Kingdom Come. Sure, there’s bluster n’ fluff a plenty but they do the AC/DC kinda cramp kinda well on Breaking Through, thankyou, and Hey You, Faces bar-ward shuffle to be served by the Quireboys on Can’t Stop but glossy grunge of He Knows Home and ball-shrivelling ballad Crave mire it in meandering MOR. But ‘tis undoubted commercial clout that sees it clogged by singles that almost write their own video scripts that should see them cemented in success, especially stateside and on fields of Euro festivals.

- Stu Gibson

Dropkick Murphys

2011-12-20T02:25:00.000-08:00

The State of Massachusetts EP
Cooking Vinyl

I decided to listen to the new Dropkicks EP when I was hungover. Not deathly hungover-there was no danger of vomit-but lazily, lethargically hungover, with a slight dehydration cramp in my right calf. But I'll be damned if rollicking opener "The State of Massachusetts" didn't make me want to grab the almost-empty bottles from the counter, drain the dregs into a glass, slam it all back with a shudder, and then do a slam-dance jig. (I didn't, due mostly to the lethargic nature of the hangover, but I really really wanted to.) "The Thick Skin of Defiance" would have kept me dancing (had I actually been dancing) and "Breakdown" would have had me scrounging around in the back of the fridge, hoping for some leftover beer. And then, mercifully, "Forever" came on, a melancholy-but-hopeful ballad backed by haunting Celtic flutes-the exact sound of my hangover-so I stayed curled up on the couch. Lovely.

-Holly

Dimmu Borgir

2011-12-19T03:02:00.000-08:00

World Misanthropy (DVD)
Nuclear Blast

The second biggest black metal band in the world break the bank on a stunning 3 disc DVD set of their shrieking, industrial strength devil rock, and by the end of this exhausting ode to the spoils of high gloss Satanism, you'll know the boys in black better than their own girlfriends. Disc one takes you deep inside their triumphant "World Misanthropy" tour, and when I say deep, I mean that besides the impeccably choreographed and executed live renditions of wordy caterwauling like "The Blazing Monolith of Defiance" and "Kings of the Carnival Creation", the disc is littered with snippets of goofy rock band on tour hijinks, including a hotel bathroom trashing and plenty of tour bus torture. Maybe it's the swanky coach, or just the luck of the high cheekboned, but Dimmu possess none of the fabled "unrelenting grimness" associated with black metal bands, coming off more as politely mischievous rock and rollers out for a laugh than they do Satan's left hand henchmen. Lack of bloodshed and virgin killing not withstanding, the live clips are massive, towering infernos of haunted fun house excitement, crisply photographed and edited, like an awards show extravaganza from the shores of the river Styx. Disc two is live festival footage, raw and heavy, the third disc is bonus audio tracks from Japanese pressings and elsewhere, and it's all wrapped up in a package that unfolds into an upside down cross, like Danzig with a budget. Since you're going to Hell anyway, you might as well do it with style, sinner.

- Sleaze

Goathorn

2011-12-16T02:26:00.000-08:00

Voyage to Nowhere
Goathorn on Myspace

This was the best heavy fuckin' metal record I heard in 2002. Canadian doom-demons Goathorn liked to drink and play thrash metal, but doing both at once is what they dug the most. This record is the result of all that angry debauchery, and it sounds like Pentagram playing "Ride the Lightning" with that crazy fucker from NME on bass. The riffs are absolutely relentless, like tattoo needles carving desperate cries for help right into your skull, and it's all so heavy it feels like the floor's going to cave in. Jason Decay's vocals are rife with acidic phlegm, as he spins one tale of cosmic disillusionment after another- no redemption on this voyage, that's for sure-and the rest of the band is equally potent, a power trio in the purest sense. The album's highlights have got to be the title track, with it's Iron Maiden/High on Fire signature riff running headlong into a wall of pure doom that doesn't let up for almost 8 minutes, and the Venom-ous punk metal instrumental closer "Death March", which would impress even Cronos and the boys. "Voyage to Nowhere" is an absolute monster. Don't hesitate to ride this horn.

PS: The band broke up in 2006 and Decay formed the still-running Cauldron in its wake.

- Sleaze

The Caliban Sessions

2011-12-15T02:36:00.000-08:00

Caliban Sessions #1

No, not the Taliban Sessions. That would have a completely different vibe. What we've got here is a loose configuration of Norwegian Super-rockers- members of Black Debbath, The Cumshots, Thulsa Doom, and the Oslo Motherfuckers, among others- freaking freely in El Doom's studio. Think of it as a "Desert Sessions", only with no desert, just frozen tundras and plenty of that fucked up Scandinavian liquor that makes you go blind if you drink it too fast. And unlike Kyuss and pals, these cats ain't a bunch of pot-smoking hippies, so there's no stoner-jazz on display. There are bongos, though. Opener "Your Hair used to be as Black (as my Bloodshot Eyes)" couldn't possibly be as good as it's title, and it's not, but it lays down a nice bed of hard charging freedom rock accented with boss WAR percussion. Elsewhere, "Rebellion Riders of a New Generation" sounds like Lou Reed jamming with Mike Monroe and Aerosmith, "Little Hippie Girl" is a soaring powerpop track with an insane new wave keyboard banging away in the background and a Rick Springfield (!) guitar solo, "The Genuine Caliban Grooves" is an organ drenched slice of super-soul power, heavy on the groove and peppered with a goddamn flute, "Ride that Bullet Train" is rip-snorting arena grunge, and the epic closer "God Stood Me Up" is every stoner rock song ever written, played all at once. The Caliban Sessions is like being on a subway train that stops in a different country every three minutes. It's exhausting and exotic, and like nothing you'd expect from a gang full of fuzz metal pushers and blood drinking death n' rollers. Unless you expected flutes.

- Sleaze

Iron Savior

2011-12-14T02:31:00.000-08:00

Condition Red
Noise Records

Condition Red is my favorite power metal record of all time. Now, it's true that I've never had a favorite power metal record before this one. In fact, I've always thought the whole pompous genre to be the stuff of day-dreaming adolescent males, cashing in on the emotional safety net of dungeons and dragons fantasies because they're scared of girls. And it still is, mind you, but Germany's Iron Savior has managed to crawl out of the Rune throwing basement to flex their armor in the black sunshine, and it's a joyful, bracing noise indeed. Chugging guitars, sounds like hundreds of them, come flying out of the speakers like black arrows of death, aimed straight at the heart of all those that play false metal, as well as anyone else in their path. The soaring rhythms gallop and crash like apocalyptic horsemen, and Piet Sielck's classic full octave pipes belt out chest thumping Canterbury tales about valor and honor and all sorts of things that none of us actually possess. I'm pretty sure that I'm on the side of the "God of Depravity" that Iron Savior seem intent on vanquishing, but there's nothing wrong with a little respect and begrudging admiration for the enemy. Besides all the war dances and victory songs, "Condition Red" even includes a (limited edition bonus track) righteous power ballad filled with steam and bluster called "Crazy" which the wife tells me was originally by silky soul man Seal, but sounds remarkably true to form. Despite the dubious company bands like Iron Savior keep, "Condition Red" makes me want to strap on kind of chest plate, pick up the nearest broadsword, and go out smiting an arch foe or two. And not in a gay way, either.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

- Sleaze

Brothers of Conquest

2011-12-13T02:29:00.000-08:00

All the Colors of Darkness
Go-Kart Records

I had this Satanic 70's tuxedo once. It was black, with flared legs and a blood red ruffled shirt with big pointy collars like Ming the Merciless. I don't know where the sadistic designer expected you to show up wearing this thing, except for maybe a cock-fight, or an Italian snuff film shoot? Anyway, one night I got drunk and put it on and decided to go show it off somewhere. Imagine that, I ended up at the rock show. Half Cocked were playing, and I wanted to impress their foxy singer with my slinky threads, so I stumbled into the Paradise club, dressed up to get messed up. Nashville Pussy were headlining, and right in the middle of the night's festivities were these Kentucky fried rock savages, The Hookers. I was early, so I watched the bands' sound checks, and after seeing the boss t-shirts the cats in the Hookers were sporting, decided I wanted one for myself. I staggered over to the merch guy, and I said, "Hey man, I want a Hookers shirt, but I want one like you've got, with 'Rock and Roll Motherfucker' on the back." He says, "Sorry man", in that 'Aw-shucks' southern drawl, "Those are just for the band and crew." Then he tries to hustle me one of their one-sided flying skull shirts for 15 bucks. But you know, I'm drunk. "C'mon, man", I plead, "I'm out here on the front lines, I'm in the trenches, I need one of those shirts." He just shrugs. He can't help me, bro. "Dude, look at how I'm fuckin' dressed here", I point out, tugging at my double-wide collar. "Isn't it obvious? I'm not just a rock and roll motherfucker, I'm the Goddamn last of the rock and roll motherfuckers!" He did not sell me the shirt that night, but thus was the Sleazegrinder motto born.

What's this got to do with the Brothers of Conquest? Everything, man, because BOC were the Hookers resurrected and super-sized.

Whereas the original band was a Johnny Thunders-bolted swagger punk band that somehow mutated into Slayer on a paper thin budget- their flashpots were soup cans the night I saw them- The BOC took that same Satan metal punk n' roll premise and chainsaw sculpted it into an inarguably potent force of leather and spikes rock and roll. I mean, this is serious business, and BOC slams your skull right into their big ballsy hooks and yanks you around like a panicked Barracuda, hanging on by a bloody thread as they mess you up but good with sizzling guitar villainy and a lusty battle roar- these are Rock Star songs, baby, Buckcherry wishes they wrote these kind of catchy riffs and rousing biker gang choruses and death-defying redneck Hellparty anthems. The whole thing brings to mind a line from that other, reaper baiting BOC- "On your feet, or on your knees"- because those are the only options "All the Colors..." gives you. You'd better decide which side of the revolution you're on before you push play, because the results will be both swift and brutal. If you've ever wondered what 10 years of cheap drugs, horror movies, the road, Venom, Chuck Berry, and backyard Satanism sounds like, well here it is, in all it's ragged glory. All hail the Brothers of Conquest, for they will lead us to victory in the rock and roll war. Or at least to a really bitchin' beer party in the woods.

PS: And then the Hookers got back together. Life is a circle.

- Sleaze

Burner

2011-12-12T02:22:00.000-08:00

One for the Road
Arctic Music Group

I never expected to hear any band straddle grunge and death metal in the same career, never mind the same fucking song, but Burner are operating under a whole new set of rules. This Floridian supergroup, littered as it is with ex-death and thrash metal dudes ( Paingod, Monstrosity, Divine Empire) still retain an edge of razor wire extremity to their sound, infusing elements of the more virulent strains of metal- think Obituary- with southern styled hard rock- think COC and Black label Society- for a bracing set of bullgod American death n' roll. Admittedly, the death metal barking that explodes without warning throughout the proceedings is a little jarring, but old habits die hard, and they add an unexpected edge of ferocity to "One For the Road". For the most part though, they lean more in the direction of muddy, sun-baked grooves than they do mosh-pit mayhem, and it's a rebel flag waving roar of booze, fast cars and all night fist fights, with at least one chest thumping classic in the awesomely titled "Five Pills (and a bottle of whiskey)", complete with Zakk Wylde guitar squeals and a "By God, I'm the Man" refrain that rivals Nashville Pussy for dangerous redneck macho thunder. Elsewhere, there's the out-right cock rock of "Whiskey Dick", the Alice in Chains meets Cannibal Corpse (!) death grunge of "Broken", and the gas guzzling outlaw anthem "Rollin' Disaster" to keep you speeding down the highway and howling like an enraged monkey. "One For the Road" is one for the bad asses.

- Sleaze

Cripple Creek Fairies

2011-12-09T02:19:00.001-08:00

Curl Up And Die
Transistor 66

The dudes from The Cripple Creek Fairies like to wear Snoopy vs. The Red Baron-type old aviator hats and glasses, which I think is kind of cool. Must get kind of hot onstage, although not as hot as a teddy bear costume, or one of those Gwar outfits, or even KISS makeup, I guess. For shtick, it's pretty good, and I'm not usually a fan of the gimmick. But I digress...

So the band hails from Calgary, Alberta, which is one of the western Canadian provinces. I lived there for a few years when I was a kid. Calgary is known for its annual Stampede, which involves a lot of cowboys competing in cowboy competitions: hog-tying, bronco-riding, baked bean-eating, that sort of thing. The Stampede is a big deal. But I digress again...

In case you haven't figured it out, these digressions are really just my way of procrastinating: I played this record a bunch of times because it didn't immediately suck me in, and even after the repeated listenings, it still hasn't really sucked me in. Nice heavy basslines, some wailing guitar solos, and pleasantly-whiny vocals that just don't add up to a lot of excitement, for some reason. But I guess that's just the way it goes, sometimes. Ah well...

-Holly

Flash Metal Suicide: Britny Fox

2011-12-08T02:23:00.001-08:00

Britny Fox
Britny Fox
1988, Sony

Anybody raised on radio in America's suffered endlessly through that old Foreigner rotter, "Jukebox Hero" about the hard rocker kid shivering out by the backstage door in the heavy downpour-well, that was me, sometime in the late eighties, traipsing through the filthy winter slush of a Detroit Rock City heavy metal parking lot in my black leather jacket with the skulls painted on the sleeves, biker boots, Circus Of Power rising sun t-shirt, probably, underage with a flask fulla cheap vodka cos we used to think you couldn't smell it*, hoping some platform booted older rock scurve would sneak me in with 'em to the venue. The tour bus pulled up and it was a real "Almost Famous" moment I s'pose as a cluster of fat girls in stonewashed denim with glasses and bad hair appeared out of nowhere to welcome the band. Britny Fox came off the bus like all the third-string rock doods of that time, all regal and cocksure, smug, and solemn in their Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam style, poorly assembled velvet glam metal pirate duds. Bewigged and "ready to rawk". These are the kinda corporate wank bandwagon chasers that ruined rock n' roll for so long. More hardened, Philadelphia factory town lookin' redneck/Jocks begrudgingly trussed up to look like Wendy & Lisa and sound like every other mediocre AeroKiss copycat hack bar band on the planet. Hilariously, no poignantCameron Crowe/Jukebox Hero celluloid scenario panned out for me, cos I figure they could sense I wasn't really there to see them anyway. When one of the blonde guitarists strutted by in his wig and doofy trenchcoat and I asked if he'd help me evade the strict +21 door policy, he mumbled, "Sorry Kid" and the single leather glove wearing roadie slammed the heavy backstage door behind the 'Fox and their mostly unattractive, small entourage of groupies with a heavy clang. It was snowing, so I pushed myself back around to the front of the building where a line was forming, downing my rotgut vodka on the way and promptly hooked up with some other concert trash loitering 'round their vans and Trans Ams and accompanied them to their nearby crashpad/rehearsal space to watch their Janes Addiction rip-off band thunder through a song called "1-900 Jesus" (the band was Murder City--and I was mad cos MY band was gonna be called MURDER STARS after my hero Stiv Bator's Lords Of The New Church song, "Murder Style", yeah- I was mad about the Murder Junkies and Murder Dolls, too. I've finally let go...) and then, not being much of a pot smoker and resenting all the elaborate vocal processing foot pedals the Murder City singer had to help him sound more like Perry Farrell, I drifted back towards the show, all good 'n' sauced up on Peppermint Schnapps, and was approached by two drunk and "foxy" older women, both hot blondes, who were immediately, taking me by the hand, and lavishing me with praise and kisses, referring to me as their, "purple velvet boy" cos, uh, my trousers this goth chick had so kindly made me, and these broads were luckily shit-hot Detroit scenester/photographer/makeup artist types who did all the ads forNoir Leather and knew the door people and got me effortlessly waved in, probably even stamped "high" cos they fed me foo foo girl drinks all night and it seems I fell in loves. I think I remember some ducky young punk locals warming up the crowd-it wasn't the Happy Death Men, but somebody like 'em, probably, performing a shithot revved up version of the Stones' "When The Whip Comes Down". All my memories from that era are a blur of rotgut vodka, peppermint schnapps and overpriced foo foo girl drinks, but I'll never forget being chumped by Dizzy Dean and the boys. HAR! And come to think of it, I guess IDID end up getting my Penny Lane moment. (Hello Linda and Monique xo)

Britny Fox were one of the many, many poor man'sAerosmith's of the corporate hairband juggernaut, not REALLY glam rock in the purestDolls/T.Rex/Bowie sense-though I seem to remember all the cash-in metal merchants picked an old classic to bludgeon (Sweet F.A. ruined "Taxi Driver" by Hanoi Rocks, Krokus used to do "School's Out"**, Great White and Quiet Riot andJoan Jett, come to think of it, based their whole careers on 70's glitter rock covers! etc. etc.) and I seem to remember Britny Fox doing "Gud'bye To Jane" at some point, Britny were far from being another poorman's Stones or Aerosmith, really, they were the poorman's Ratt or Cinderella, almost. I think their bewigged guitarist Michael Kelly Smithwas actually an original member of Tom Keiffer'sCinderella at some point.

In fairness to the 'Fox, I did dig their tune "Girlschool" -hell that mighta been back when another one of my fave rockers Mike Monroe was dating the Girlschool broad. Or was that Lemmy?*** Anyhoo, Dizzy Dean Davidson had that eighties metal screech and could howl along with the rest of the alleycats, probably somewhere in between Keifer and that weirdo with the braids from Roxx Gang. There were alot of bands goin' for that Kiss without the makeup look-you know-kinda hairy chested, gold necklace, black plastic pants from Lip Service and a bad velvet trenchcoat from a smalltown's local theatre tropes production of "The King & I" or "Man Of La Mancha" or something. The brunette vocalists, according to noted metal guru, Tracii Guns' logic, just never had the bitch magnet appeal of all them Jani Lane's andTed Poleys and that's why Poison outsold L.A. Guns, and the vocalists who looked more like Paul Stanley than David Lee Roth got lost in the shuffle when glam rock was being exploited and mutated into that sickly strain of lifeguard metal powerballadry I call "Secretary Rock". By the time clowns like Kip Winger---lemee say that again for emphasis, "KIP." Kip Winger, Joey Tempest, Mike Tramp, Mark Slaughter, and their ilk started squeezing into the day glo tights, the chairs were on the table and I was out the door baby . Everybody had their party anthem and then their three power ballads. Fortunately, aside from "Long Way To Love" or whatever, I can't seem to recall many of Britny Fox's weary road ballads, but I figure they musta had three or four songs like "Long Road", "Long Way Through the Halfway Valley Of A Long Cold Winter On The Way Back Home", etc., right? Just horrible-all those hairbands destroying glam. In order for these sinister U.S. gone global imperialist, bloodthirsty corporations to keep propping up all their capitalist myths of "fair and balanced coverage", "freewill", and "equality", they always need us dumbed down five dollar an hour, eternally in-debted wage slaves and slave class carpetbaggers ("now hiring smiling faces"=no benefits, piss test, background check, personality profile questionaire, credit check, five fifty an hour with no affordable housing left almost anywhere...) to have our illusions of "choice", cos that's what keeps us coming back for more: Coke or Pepsi, Coke or heroin,Britny or Cinderella, Britney or Christina, the Strokes or the Hives, right? Sadly, it's usually all the same hollow shit at the end of the dreary workday.
The Fox' main legacy might be that their faceless bar band glam-metal probably only really succeeded at kinda legitimizing Cinderella, though Dizzy Dean did probably help sell some satin frocks and flowered leggings from one of them overpriced boutiques they used to have on Melrose. Heck, the Fox even made Danish second stringers like D.A.D. (and their spaghetti western hard pop twang and spark shooting construction helmet) seem incredibly fresh and compelling and exciting and original in comparison. I mean,KISS were ALREADY unmasked by then, y'know? What d'ya need Tuff for if you've already been POISON-ed? Whadya need Britny Fox for if you already own "Night Songs" and the positively essential, "Gypsy Road"? I'm sorry to be so hard on the Fox Network, but us aging Flash Metal Causalities kinda got to call 'em as we see 'em. Last I heard Dizzy Dean had formed another band called BLACKEYED SUSAN, then another one called "LOVE SAVES THE DAY". (Apparently the lyrical genius behind "Girlschool" happened by the famous 2nd Ave. thrift store in NYC at some point, and said to himself, "That's IT!" which begs the obvious question about how many trustfund junkie chic artschool Pussy Galore wanna beez considered naming their noise bands Gem Spa, thinking their being really imaginative and witty like those clever, Murder Stars" Har.Har.)

Ain't it strange how every shit hairband can still make some kinda remote living off having once had a video air on Headbangers Ball? Even when little alleycats like me were violently sick of all that fake corporate glam spew being pimped by the end of the eighties and even somewhat into the nineties, for many of us, the nasally, brooding, Hootie Howl of grunge was no solution, either! I basically spent the latter haffa the eighties seeking out my own alternatives to Flotsam & jetsam and Autographand Two Bit Thief. I'd traded in Jetboy for theJetboys and instead of referring to mags like Metal Forces, Metal Hammer, Faces Rocks, Hit Parader and Rip for my flash rock kicks, I started to follow and get really excited by the trashy
FLASH PUNK REBIRTH that was being documented in more underground zines like Flipside, Ready To Snap, Full Blast, and Sonic Iguana. Real rocknroll never dies, it just goes back underground.
After the glut of Britny Foxes we had to contend with back when Poison, Bon Jovi and co. were ruining rock n' roll for all of us, it was thrilling the see the static-y technicolour sunset alit with all kindsa REAL ROCKNROLL roman candles: Smack, Soul Asylum, Material Issue, Clawhammer, the Replacements, Action Swingers, The Goops, The Campus Tramps, Flies On Fire, Pillbox, Lazy Cowgirls, Redd Kross, Das Damen, Fluffy, Imperial Drag, Celebrity Skin, Hello Disaster, Divinyls, Cheetah Chrome and the Ghetto Dogs, Uncle Sam, Leaving Trains, New Model Army, These Immortal Souls, Jacobites, Bounty Hunters, Snatches Of Pink, Suicide Twins, Nick Cave,Godfathers, Earth 18****, old Flaming Lips, Fuzztones, Jesus Christ Superfly,Manic St. Preachers, Junk Monkeys, Flaming Stars, the Hangmen, Tommykockers, Slow Motorcade, the Joneses, the Viletones, the Comatones, Pontiac Brothers, Love Spit Love, the Ultras, etc. etc etc Nowadays I'm down to a shoebox full of cheap cassettes: the Leps, Roth, Peter Murphy, no kidding, that's about it. I like this Glam band called Silver, sick o' Jet. Dysfunctional, depressed, one of the millions left behind. It sucks. So take heart B.F. I'm sure you still got loadsa fans who love you in Japan. Why can't I find a used copy of that Slum Lords album or the Soho Roses?

Further: Britny Fox official site
-Pepsi "Fashizzy" Sheen Will Wk. For Dental

*True. And SO fuckin' wrong. Just ask my first half dozen employers.
**AND Ballroom Blitz!
***It was Lemmy. Which is the official default answer for all flash metal trivia questions for now on.
****Earth 18, you Trex ripping-off motherfuckers, please get in touch. Your Flash Metal Suicide is waiting.
-Sleaze

Some Girls

2011-12-05T04:24:00.001-08:00

Heaven's Pregnant Teens
Epitaph

Here’s what I really liked about this one: I was actually scared to listen to it. When I pushed ‘play’, I had that face on, you know, the one-eyed Popeye stance you take when you can clearly see the baseball that’s gonna smash you in the nose, but it’s coming so fast, you can’t get out of it’s way. The steely resolve of the clearly doomed. After all, Some Girls is comprised of the crème de la crud of the San Diego destructo-punk scene. It’s positively lousy with members of noise art terrorists The Locust and riot-baiting hardcore meathammers American Nightmare, to say nothing of The Plot To Blow Up the Eiffel Tower and Give Up the Ghost, so highly combustible fuck n’ roll is bound to happen. And it does, sorta. As their drummer, Sal Gallegos, so succinctly put it, this ain’t no “cupcake shit”, but it’s really just noisy hardcore riddled with a few diseased sounding artwhore guitars. The first real groove doesn’t kick in until track twelve, “Religion II”, a growly graveyard stomp that brings to mind the lunatic lumberjack death punk of Killdozer; but before and after, it’s just a relentless battering of angry metal-punk with pained screaming tossed over the top. And that’s ok, it’s just not all that SCARY, ya know?

Then again, I’ve never been to one of their shows. I’m sure the pit is fucking terrifying.

- Sleaze

The Pagans

2011-12-01T02:59:00.001-08:00

The Blue Album
Smog Veil

A fitting companion piece to Pagans’ vox-ist Mike Hudson’s auto-bio “Diary of a Punk”, The Blue Album finds the Cleveland OG punks on their wheezy second wind, plying their shabby trade at a college gig in Madison, Wisconsin in 1988. The sound is buzzy and the perf is sloppy, but since there’s scant Pagans material to sift through, it’s still worth the 17 or so minutes it takes to listen to it. Contains the classicks “She’s a Cadaver” and “Us and All Our Friends Are So Messed Up.” Also contains a pretty funny band photo, wherein the band looks like hippy versions of their skinny, sneering, 1976 selves.

- Sleaze

Throw Rag

2011-11-30T02:20:00.001-08:00

2nd Place
Acetate Records

Throw Rag are veteran LA scenesters, veritable gods-among-hipsters who have boiled under the surface forever with their combination of snake-handling death-country, balls-out rawk and Cramps-ian pukeabilly. This tasty slice of psycho-Americana is chock-full of washboard-scraping shanties like the charming Bag of Glue and Johnny Big Nuts that will have you dancing around the trailer with a bottle of lighter fluid in one hand and a match in the other. They’re like the Supersuckers with emotional problems. Bonus live cuts too, just to show off why they pack ‘em in every night.

- Sleaze

Blowback

2011-11-29T02:16:00.001-08:00

Morningwood
Record Heaven

Buzzing Swedish stoner-rock, dipping freely into the Sabbath well to accent their psych-tinged mini-epics of melody and fuzz with moments of gone-blind heavy-osity. Unlike a lot of pot-pounding knuckleheads these days, Blowback is pretense-free, uncomplicated, a zillion miles away from math-rock. They simply turn that shit up and groove. Dig the deep, loping Living or Yesterday is Gone for prime-examples of their free-flowing craft. It’s music for afternoon couch-naps. I take a lot of those, so I’m into it, man.

- Sleaze

The Erotics

2011-11-28T04:17:00.001-08:00

Rubbish
Trash Pit Records

Mike Trash has a new band of scoundrels backing him and a fistful of battering new hell-rockers like Terrorize You and Get Away From Me Motherfucker that stomp all over the semi-power balladry of their previous 30 Seconds Over You LP and reveal Trash’s inner-GG Allin. While most bands slide into some form of respectability over the years, our man Trash has gone exactly the opposite way – the Erotics haven’t sounded this evil for nearly a decade. Classic, mean-spirited sleaze-rock.

- Sleaze

Dead Hookers

2011-11-23T03:40:00.001-08:00

The Burial/The Rebirth

Dead Beat Records

This looks exactly like a stoner rock record, down to the spaceman font and the psychedelic skull inside, but it ain’t. Which is not to say that weed wasn’t involved. Probably it was. But it sounds like lots of bad chemicals were involved, as well as a bunch of wounded childhoods and maybe a lengthy psyche-ward stay or two. The Dead Hookers are from Wisconsin, the serial killer capital of the world, and they play frightening vomit rock that sounds like Mudhoney trapped in Hostel 3. Muted guitars, screaming, dirty fuzz, the works. It’s nasty garage-scuzz rock scraped right off the sewer floor. The title suggests a concept album. I’m guessing the concept has something to do with smashing you in the nose and leaving you naked and freezing. Crazy, man.

-Sleaze

The Blacklist

2011-11-22T02:32:00.001-08:00

Total Blacklist

Drug Bust Records

Stunning, call-the-cops riot rock that really does sound like it's trying to kill you. It’s everything you expect from Australians, only even scarier. Like the Road Warrior and Razorback in one raging madball of psychotic rock n’ roll. Personally, I know that I cannot possibly live up to a song like Death Cheetah of Death or Ice Titan. I’m just not that bad-ass. You, however, may be up to the challenge. If so, pick up Total Blacklist immediately and then hurl yourself off the nearest roof. If you manage to get up afterwards, you deserve to be a Blacklist fan. Fucking incredible.

Blacklist Website

- Sleaze

Tommy Rivers and the Raw Ramps

2011-11-21T02:09:00.001-08:00

Self-titled
December Records

I bet Tommy Rivers wears really cool shoes, like those Italian jobs with the buckles, and I'm almost positive that he smokes his cigarettes with style. Tommy's one of those rare cats that exudes an easy rock star charm, and I'm sure that every Saturday night in Memphis you can find him in some sleazy rock dive, sauntering around with his dressed up/messed up mop of hair, flowered shirt and jangly guitar, a big friendly smile on his face, and plenty of stories to tell. If ever there was a cult hero waiting to happen, it's old man Rivers here. Tommy's got the sympathy and the taste to name his band after T Rex's best song, and luckily, they live up to the boast. They play soulful ballads and semi-acoustic sleaze rock and bliss pop and melancholy glitter folk. There's talk of lost loves and found friends and plenty of Sunday morning-coming-down odes to the perils of rock and roll decadence, and they even manage to slip in a heartfelt Christmas song, and it's all drawled out in Rivers' gentlemen rogue croon. He sounds like a Southern Nikki Sudden soaking in a rainy afternoon, or a moonshine swilling Tyla, or maybe a dixie Westerberg lost in a sea of scarves, with an ace band of gypsies, tramps and thieves backing him up, like the Black Crowes without all that hippy jam band jive. This record isn't even new, by the way, it's dated here as being from 1998, but you and I both missed it first time around, so it's making the rounds again, getting a second chance to shine. And it does, baby, like a diamond.

- Sleaze

Butch Walker and The Black Widows

2011-11-17T15:27:00.000-08:00

The Spade

www.butchwalker.com

The Butch Walker most of us got acquainted with was the power pop, anthemic rocker from Marvelous 3 who knew his way around massive hooks and the formula for hit songs. Since trying and unfortunately failing commercially with songs for himself that ended up being massive chart toppers for Pink, Avril Lavinge and Fall Out Boy, he’s stripped it back quite a bit and sounds more like Jesse Malin or Ryan Adams then the Warrant/Def Leppardish style he had for the M3’s “Ready, Sex, Go” album or even his first solo effort “Left of Self Centered.” “The Spade” is probably about as close as we’re gonna get to vintage Butch, specifically the song “Summer of ’89” which single-handedly makes the record worth buying. It’s not his best, but it’s far better than the melancholy approach to the last few. 6/10

-- B.J. Lisko

Michael Monroe

2011-11-17T15:15:00.000-08:00

Sensory Overdrive

On his latest solo effort, Hanoi Rocks frontman Michael Monroe is back with all the swagger of his heyday. “Sensory Overdrive” is a hard-driving rock ‘n’ roll record full of big choruses and includes some of his best material in years. “78,” “Superpowered Superfly,” “Later Won’t Wait” and “Modern Day Miracle” are full of grit, glitz and chalked full of melody. Other moments – “Bombs Away,” “Got Blood” – are punk and fresh. Lemmy makes a cameo on “Debauchery As A Fine Art” and the track chugs along like a fist-pumping Motorhead anthem. The slower numbers including “All You Need” aren’t quite ballads but are heartfelt and as catchy as Hanoi’s best numbers. Whether his old band gets back together remains to be seen, but if they don’t, Monroe solo more than fills the void. -- 7/10

– B.J. Lisko

The Hookers

2011-11-17T12:37:00.000-08:00

Horror Rises From The Tombs
Green Mist Records

Just when we thought all hope, life and light has vanished, The Hookers rise again after reuniting from an eight year split to bring even more piercing, pitch-black darkness into the B&W leather color scheme across the crusty punk/metal wastelands. Horror Rises From The Tombs is compiled of 12 ground and grave breaking new releases and 3 live bonus tracks. Kentucky born and bred, deathly live and freakishly undead, these decomposed, metalhead outcasts have really outdone themselves with this mighty sheath and heathernly, swift sword comeback stabbing down the throats of innocent bystanders who have yet to get with their 17 year program. The R'NR Outlaw took a walk through long periods of darkness with other side projects, such as, Blade of the Ripper and bounced back full of blood and scraped knuckles to form the underground, cult classick, Brothers of Conquests, only to find his true origins once again with the heavy metal, thunderous monster he brought to existence in 1994.

Long term side effects resulting from listening to Horror Rises From The Tombs include; drum punctured, ringing ears enough to drive a steer of diseased, cattle mad; harshness in throat from screaming to the top of your lungs to "Crypt Of The Living Dead"; shortness in breathing from getting sucker punched from "The Clock Strikes 12"; blurrred vision from drinking to "The Lying Witch"; goosebumps from standing, "At the Grave Of Stoney Tombs"; Dizziness from thrashing your sweaty hair in your face upon hour on in repeating, "Black Past:". Grinding teeth and windblown hair from blasting, "Two Wheels"; Unnatural high from clinching this entire album in your hands to hold and have with you until the end of time.

The more and more you steer and drive this under your record player's needle, the more and more you realize its not recommended for the weak at heart, stomach and reality period. Eat Hookers! Breath Hookers! Shit & puke Hookers 'Until the Day you Die'

~Smutstrutter

The Thriller Memorandum

2011-11-17T02:14:00.001-08:00

Various Artists
Cherry Red Records

This brilliant compilation of spy jazz and crime surf and secret agent fuzz and dangerous curves had me checking the dashboard of the Mazda for the hidden button that launches the stealth rockets out of the rear bumper. What we have here is the swingingest sounds from obscure spy thrillers and TV shows and exotica records from 1962-1972 all cleverly packaged in one easily concealed, pin-striped, silencer-fitted hip flask of retro-cool. It would be quite the impossible mission to mention every highlight on this absolutely necessary collection, but some of the many choice cuts include the flute and vibes driven slow burner "Yes and No" by Des Champ, the midnight creeper "Ghost Squad" by the Tony Hatch Orchestra, which consists of one lonely whistler and a skeletal jazz band, the Spaghetti western meets surf city guitar and bongo frenzy of "A Night With Nuki" by the Brian Marshall Orchestra, and the funeral band goes Bossa Nova swing of the "Penthouse" theme by Johnny Hawksworth. There's also some easily recognizable tracks on deck, like "The Saint" theme by Edwin Astley, "Live and Let Die" by David Lloyd and his London Orchestra, and "Mission Impossible" by the Mike Hurst Orchestra. Man, I feel cooler just typing all those cats' names out. Listen, if you're not down with go-go dancing dragon lady Kissy Suzuki, you better pick up the Thriller Memorandum, but quick. The dossier included will explain everything, just make sure you destroy the evidence before the Reds or the Pinkos or somebody gets their filthy mitts on it. Martinis and buxom Siberian double agents optional, but encouraged.

- Agent Sleaze

Wolfsbane

2011-11-17T01:20:00.000-08:00

Wolfsbane Save The World
www.wolfsbanehms.com

I’m not really sure where to begin here. It’s been such a long time since I’ve heard a true album. Not a few good songs here and there with the obligatory filler, but an honest to goodness rock ‘n’ roll album start to finish. A record that not only gets you off your ass and swings and moves and energizes with the god damned passion that made you love music in the first place, but also completely reasserts your faith in the rock 'n' fuckin' roll that got you completely addicted to begin with.

Wolfsbane, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, titled their new album “Wolfsbane Save The World.” I’m here to tell you it ain’t no joke. From the opening guitar of “Blue Sky,” all the way to the haunting and huge “Child of the Sun,” to album closer and a single they released earlier in the year “Did It For The Money,” this album was almost two decades in the making and somehow Wolfsbane has made it worth the wait.

Singer Blaze Bayley’s true passion may be heavy metal, but on here is positively charming as he croons and sings with swagger belting out very melodic hard rock ‘n’ roll with complete ease. Wolfsbane have always had that tinge of Roth-era Van Halen and a trace of Black Crowes, but Van Halen and the Black Crowes never wrote a record this good. How bold of a statement is that for you? And while “Teacher” may strike even more similarities to DLR, Wolfsbane takes the rock further, the melody further, the backing vocals further and the songwriting further, too. “Starlight” and “Illusion of Love” are positively anthemic. So much so the latter sounds like a punked-up version of "Bat Out Of Hell." The hooks on both will give you goose bumps, the hair on the back of your neck standing up just long enough before they slam you back to the womb again with slamming riff-raff, stories of being born in the “Smoke and Red Light,” and that “Everybody’s Looking For Something Baby.” Every song sounds like it could be a set closer, building and building with immense anticipation before completely crashing over the top and ending in spectacular fashion and fanfare. Wolfsbane has just written the record of not only the year, but also of their career and quite possibly everyone else’s too. Motherfuckin’ 10/10

– B.J. Lisko

Hermano

2011-11-16T02:14:00.001-08:00

Only a Suggestion

Teepee Records

There are more than a couple moments on "Only a Suggestion" where I'm convinced that this is the greatest fucking rock record I've ever heard, and the only thing holding me back from heading over to the nearest tattoo parlor with a xerox of their hog nose logo right now to have my devotion inked into flesh is that Hermano- that's "Brother" to you, gringo- isn't actually a real band. I mean, they're not cartoons or anything, they're just more of a side project than a do or die army of rock. Caught in some kind of unholy contract quagmire with Rick Rubin and his American Records saboteurs, John Garcia had been forced to put his post-Kyuss Uber Rock band Unida on hold- but the rock must roll on, so Garcia slipped in through the backdoor a couple of years back with some heavy friends- including Steve Earle (Afghan Whigs), Dave Angstrom (Supafuzz), and Mike Callahan (Disengage)- and after trading rough demos on the road for a few months, got it all together for this mammoth riff fest, a one-off Super Rock jam session with no other aspirations than to kick out the jams, brothers and sisters. So there's a good chance that this is not only the first, but also the last Hermano album, since everyone's back with their primary gigs*. But hey, we could all get hit by a truck tomorrow, so who cares what happens next, because what's happening right now is that a bunch of like-minded die hard rockers with talent to spare got together with a big sack of million dollar riffs and said, with all religious seriousness, "What would Ian Astbury do?" If he wasn't so worried about his retirement fund, sweating out the piss poor sales of "Beyond Good and Evil", and quitting the business in disgust for the hundredth time, he'd be rocking the fuck out like he's supposed to, full tilt and with wild abandon, just like Hermano does here. That's right, it sounds like the Cult. Sounds like Unida and Supafuzz too, and for the duration of its 8 supersonic odes to bad drinking and good times, it's absolutely perfect. I've heard rumblings of discontent from the stoner rock faithful because Hermano ain't as sundazed and liquid as their heroes Kyuss and Queens of the Stoneage, but you know, those people are on drugs. All I can tell you is that "OAS" is blasting as we speak, and I just buzzed the doors of a state trooper doing 85 on the turnpike, and I'm laughing, baby, because I'm so drunk on full throttle heavy ass rock and roll that I don't even care what happens, and isn't that what we're all here for in the first place? Sure, this Hermano trip is Only a Suggestion, but so's keeping an equalizer in the glove compartment. I'm assuming you know what to do next.

-Sleazegrinder

*It was not. They made a couple more. -Sleaze

Brand New Sin

2011-11-15T02:25:00.001-08:00

Self-titled
Now or Never Records

Kris Weichmann, one of Brand New Sin's 3 (!) guitarists, reckons that this album is like "The first drink and alcoholic takes after walking out of rehab; it feels fucking great." Take it from a guy that's had that drink a dozen times, he's telling the truth. BNS are from upstate New York, although they've got enough Dixie in them to trade licks with COC, which it sure sounds like they're doing here. The sound is pure Southern riff and roll, the same white trash biker metal choogle that Isabelle's Gift and Gonzalez have mastered, only BNS have upped the ante with the triple threat axe grinding and the kind of over-amped production usually reserved for heavyweights like Ozzy or Priest. The sweaty, boozy thunderboogie comes thick and fast, wrapped around meaty hooks that boil around in your brain like bad ideas that won't go away, and the rousing choruses are prime fist pumping, Saturday night hell raiser material. There's plenty of slide guitar and a few moments of outlaw country-tinged power ballads on deck, as well. Christ, they even look like trouble. I don't even have to mention Lynyrd Skynyrd, Thin Lizzy, or Halfway to Gone, do I? You really can't find a more authentic slice of heavy ass rock and roll than Brand New Sin, brothers and sisters. Highly recommended.

- Sleazegrinder

Devildrunk Leer: Me n' Tyla

2011-11-14T02:11:00.001-08:00

Here's a wee drunken reminiscin' ramble...

...that I posted to the Dogs yahoo groups list back in June this year after someone wrote in about a gig they saw somewhere in London (Highgate, I think it was) when Tyla had a wee violin player (as on Spike n' Tyla's Hot Knives track 'Lost in a Crowd Of One') that I added to, pulled apart, and sort of better-ised, a bit. What results is a few salvos of wine-scented scattershot salutations to a few of Tyla's solo gigs...

....I don't remember that particular gig, and before you start thinking "What's this stoopid twat writ in for then?", I saw Capt T in Wolves (The Varsity) with the violin player, have some great pics, even tho on a shitty £30 camera, twas I believe November '96, so yeah Libertine era gig...T, as is/was his wont, coming on dressed to the nines, ending up shedding his marvelous purple (or was that last Dogs tour '94? - shit don't get me started on that bout of heartbreak, maybe it was black then, yada yada) long kinda frock/western duster coat probs after the first song....oooooo, let's scratch those dusty brain cells...yup in tradition handed down by his own hand, twas 'Last Bandit'.... and then waistcoat, and shirt soon after, (well it's hot up there and a man's gotta flash his tatts)....seriously stoned (or newly recruited and just concentrating very hard!) bassist with him, who even managed to break 2 bass strings - I had a bassist did that once but this fucker was a pro so all due respect...at this gig T was seemingly and unsurprisingly full of speed (kept headbutting mic stand - try it - it fucking hurts!) and at end of set jumped, literally, on that gorgeous fucking Gretsch White Falcon. Some people cheered...as with a lot of you's here, we know not just how beautiful they are but how much they fucking cost. I will admit I fucking walked off at that (only to the bar, but I was seriously disgruntled....fuck yerself up, but leave the bloody guitar alone...hey, hey, all in all it's his, and he still seems to have it, 'less we've all helped him buy another!...and back then they were a bit cheaper than now...yawn sorry to be ananorak....late night n red wine n all)....can't remember set lists and so on and really who cares, of course he played 'How Come It Never Rains' and 'I Don't Want You To Go' at the end, interspersed with other such classics and what was then newer stuff....'Ballad of a Broken Heart' and so on. I think it was at this gig that I managed to actually miss the opening barrage by choosing precisely the wrong time to take a piss but there we go.

Also saw T at a hotel in Wolves that may have been called The Underground (the venue, for it was a basement bar, not the actual hotel) that was a small acoustic gig in '95 perhaps....beautifully set up, candlelit tables etc etc...T's relatives (I dunno and don't really care but mum, sister, auntie?) seemed to be there, doing the merch, T played a fucking blinder after we'd not seen him/heard owt for a while - since the abortion of The Dogs last tour in summer '94 (only a year but time seemed to last longer then) where he played an acoustic set and I think The Dogs only managed about 2 songs - y'know the way he raises those shoulders and wheezes out some dynamite jet poetic raptures, exhaling the embers of memories and dreams shrouded in smoke and stale red wine, cocking his head to one side to get the note out, the lights conjoining with the shadows cast by his hat and dancing around the dimly lit room to give an almost devildrunk leer to his features. Was truly great, relaxed and intimate, apart from me and my aforementioned mate, Max, almost got in a fight with a bunch of kids sat behind us who kept saying loudly to each other "Do you think he'll be sick during this one?", "I saw the Dogs once and Tyla collapsed, it was soooo funny". Things like that. Kinda the usual, like arseholes on message boards complaining that Tyla was better when he was as near to death as the length of a drape coat as he is sober(ish), forgetting that this is someone's life they're living, not a cartoon crutch for your vicarious pleasures. Dicks, T had a case of Chateaux Neuf or however you spell it and spilt half a bottle, either through missing the table when putting it down or just knocking it with his arm when playing his guitar, then they burst into laughter...we were like 'Fuck you.' Oh how funny. Having said that tho, it was pretty damn cool that he can just call to his tech to go get him another bottle. After the gig, to his great commendation, T walks over and sorts things out, like 'There's gonna be no trouble don't care what it's about'...we just thought and I still fugging do for such "die hard" Dogs fans to laugh at him spilling drinks etc etc is sick. The age old Thunders thing on the In Cold Blood book "Yeah yeah I'm gonna die tonight...." and they all cheer, blah blah. I also unwittingly managed to nick Tyla's pint, being all poor n stuff I mineswept a lonesome pint from the bar then the big guy wanders over, proffers a puzzled look and enquires as to who indeed could jolly well have had the bare faced cheek and tenacity to nick his pint. I owned up, but he let me keep it and bought another....musta been a good gig....I also asked him to sign something for me which after a quick scraffle thru my pockets turned up a bank statement which he turned over, looked at, grinned, and said something like 'Shit, you haven't got much money have you?', in the odd, old man's almost Burroughs-esque nails scraping a blackboard gait he sometimes adopted. He also asked where I'd come along from, and extended his thanks politely when I said I'd traipsed along from Manchester. Then he didst wander off somewhere and I did too, probably thanking fuck that he didn't kick off for keifing his pint!
At this gig tho, the man himself wandered over to a few tables after it all had died down, things were being tidied away and people were trailing back onto the streets of Wolverhampton, us included - the last remnants as ever, and muttered in his Sarf Lahnden / Deep South America by way of the English Midlands Texas Drawl "We off to get pissed then?". "Errm okay" replied we. Who's gonna say to the guy, 'No, thanks for asking anyway, actually got an early start in the morning, so I'd rather not go for a beer with your friendly local Dog idol'. Went up to the hotel bar, our T put on his best politest 'I'm really a poet' voice "Would you mind staying open for me and my friends, I've just played a gig downstairs...." and dumps a fucking huge roll on the bar. "What we having then?" "Tetley" says I, "What are you from facking Yorkshire or somethin?" says our hero, "Yeah" says I. Erm, listeners, that was about the sum of our conversation! I fell off me stool at one point, oh me gooawd, don't do that in front of your idols, okay it was (o' course) "Darn't warry mate I always do that too!". The only other piece of chit chat I recall was him regaling us with the very long telephone number type figure which was (is?!) what he owed China Records...something from the half remembered haze suggests £347,856. When there were few fags left amongst the small group, he gave us his keys and bade us go upstairs to his room and get a box, a box of 200 fags, that is, not a pack of 20 like in the UK. Brilliant! Either he was too pissed to care which I rather doubt or he was in a jubilant mood (ecstatic at been back in Wolverhampton perhaps?), or just lazy, but I remember being impressed at the time that he'd trust people to venture into his room with all his shit in....well, Jack (that put paid to the scandalous rumours of the time that he'd been professing to have quit the spirits....tho he has now so he got there in the end. Maybe he got sick of drinking with idiots from Yorkshire who asked him if he'd fancy selling his hat and quit soon after) and a very nice hat, which I recall in stupid drunken fan mode asking if he'd flog it. Not a good idea! Naw, he was polite about it, while probably thinking 'What a twat!' ha ha.

Are we bored yet? I'm having a right old whale of a time, itching ma brain...saw T at York Fibbers, I think sometime like 2000, also great, less boozed, very self deprecating, almost like a fucking stand up show, obviously in great spirits as it were, again acoustic. Tyla meets Tony Hancock bumping into Frankie Howerd at the bar "Ooooooo noooooo, no Jack for me". A kid - no, not me, literally, honestly not me this time - kept shouting for "Wait Till I'm Dead" (obviously methinks a great song. I never saw THATmany Dogs gigs being 12 when Dynamite came out and I first heard the devilish lil barstads, but I don't think they played it live that much, correct me if I'm wrong - and if you've been arsed to read this far!

Awwwww, bless you if you have) and at the end T just laughed and goes "Fack, haven't you gone home yet, mate? I aren't facking playing it!". Some others kept on asking for 'You Can't Put Your Arms Round A Memory' which he didn't even bother to comment on. Silence being louder than words and all that. Should really be able to remember more about this particular gig seen as Max drove down so in a spirit of brotherly stand-togetherness I joined him in only drinking the legal 2 pints (I was probably also woefully skint but hey,) but I can't. Mr T came out for a pint afterwards but this time we declined to bother him, jesus, he probably never knew how lucky he was! I'm sure we heard him call for a lock-in too...just our luck as we weren't fucking drinking. Probably karma from the events in Wolves.

I've see similar things, another gig in Wolves, again Nov 2nd (almost like an annual Tyla day in Wolverhampton back then it seems. I think they should do this. Have a local bank holiday, but then Noddy Holder and the otherSlade boys might get jealous and want their own, too. Just cos they had some hit singles tsk, cheeky blighters, then that twat who did Babylon Zoo would come slithering into view, desperate for another chance at a come-back), perhaps '97 this time, acoustic and T paused during 'Satellite Kid' after the first line - I always recall this to people, mainly people who've never ever heard of The Dogs let alone Tyla and therefore think I'm not all there, maybe I'm not, but Rock'n Roll sounds like heaven to me, so I know which universe I prefer - so yeah, he pauses and I pushed to the front and shouted A G or D, whichever it was, and he just stuck his thumb up, and went something like "Shit, cheers" and carried on! Kinda like 'Kirsten Jet' - gimme an Eeeeeeee...Went to this show, again with Max, but also with a chum from school, Mr Alistair Foy, who wasn't, by any means, a Dog lover. I think he liked things like Chris Rea or something, and he's a lawman now, so it seems likely. Anyway, the sarky so and so amused himself by making observations that Tyla sounds like Rod Stewartand voicing loudly the fact that the songs all use the same chords...in a hall full of partisans I kinda tip my hat, or hair, to that lack of concern and care.
Endured Ginger's godawful cacophonical Clam Abuse cataclysm too, to watch Tyla support at Manchester's Band on the Wall in summer '99, the last time I saw him I think so maybe the York gig was actually '97 or '98....anyway I thought he gave a very disinterested, half-hearted performance...for Tyla to play and wear very boring togs - plain black leather box coat I recall - seems to suggest this to this cat....almost like well it's a short half hour support, it's Ginger's show (if you could call it that) so I'll play a few things n fart about n fuck off with ma drink money...no banter (that I guess the luxury of headlining gives), just a perfunctory trawl through some Dogs classics and 'The Only Girl...' off his then pretty recent 'Nocturnal Nomad' album. I was miffed tho that he didn't play 'Johnny Silvers' despite me shouting myself hoarse for it, which I informed him of, to be rebuffed with a (true) 'I can't play everything'. True, but you could pop in a request. However, my mate Gaz disagrees and thinks the old chap was on top form that night, so maybe I'm wrong or he's just not as discerning as me....I'm sure we'll keep on discussing it over beer n bruises for times to come.

& in T's bestest Ian Hunter voice, or just plain old Honest Ian Hunter voice...
That's aaawwwllll. Bless you all!

-Stu Dynamite

Venomous Maximus

2011-11-11T19:28:00.001-08:00

These guys just sent me their new EP (on purple wax!). You can get it here. I would, if I didn't already have it. It sounds like Vitus, if Vitus were witnessing a UFO crash on their lawn. I'm into it. Makes me wanna kill chickens and guzzle their blood.

More later. Hail Satan. Amen.
- Sleaze

Zombina and the Skeletones - Taste the Blood of...

2011-11-11T02:20:00.001-08:00

Opener "The Grave...and Beyond!" starts out sounding just like Bow Wow Wow's "I Want Candy", and then flows seamlessly, and impressively, into what I can only describe as a bubblegum Misfits track. Then "Nobody Likes You When You're Dead" kicks in, sounding like that chick from the Primitives fronting a pop metal Archies, or whatever the undead version would be. To be honest, I really have no idea what's going on with these teenage zombies from beyond the UK, but I do know that this is one of the coolest pop records I've heard in ages, maybe ever. I mean, we're dealing with an entirely new formula here, which was surely concocted in some mad scientist's lab, and it's got everything from Spaghetti western gunfighter guitars to spangly Brit powerpop to sugary-sweet girl group harmonies, and it's all wrapped up in a groovy ghoulie package. The picture stamped on the CD- a bowl of fruit loops floating in either blood or chocolate, perhaps both- sums it all up perfectly. Goddamn, I love creepy girls.

Zombina official

- Sleazegrinder

Tiger Mountain - Get Along Like a House Fire (2005)

2011-11-10T02:18:00.001-08:00

Get Lucky Records

A tasty batch of mellow yellow from ex-Brought Low fuzzking Dean Rispler and his jangle tangle of crackerjack NYC drawl n’ rollers. With two vox-ists on deck (Mike Jackson, Tyler Linane, doing double-duty as the twin axemen), there’s plenty opportunities to lay it on heavy with the soaring 70’s harmonies, and they do not miss their marks, reeling in the choruses like the tousle-haired sons of Sweet and stopping just short of the Bay City Rollers on the woo-hoos. That’s not to say that TM are chewing bubblegum on this ‘un though, as the tuneage they offer is more along the lines of late 70’s Stones – urban, streetwise, sophisticated, mature. Dig the lounge-y vibes and confessional croon of “Good Lie Down” or the country-fied inner-city blues of “She’s Played Me Too” for a cuppla prime examples. Still, there’s a definite glitter rock influence bopping around in this House on Fire - closer “Cut the Darlings” flairs out like an elephant bell cuff into full-blown arena-glam, and “Superintendent #9” is like, the Sladest the Rolling Stones ever got, so choose yr illusion. Overall, this trip to Tiger Mountain is definitely quieter and more introspective then their debut, 2002’s Analog Heads Gone French but hell, we all gotta mature, right? Well, not me, but most of us. Anyway, if Spacehog didn’t completely blow it back there somewhere, this is pretty much what they’d be up to now. Classy stuff.

Tiger Mountain Website

- Sleazegrinder

Dexateens - Red Rust Rising

2011-11-09T02:18:00.000-08:00

Estrus Records

A jarful of cowbell-heavy, banjo pickin’, Suthin’ blooze-rawk straight outta Alabama here. S’funny that the Dexateens are on Estrus Records, home of the single-with-a-swizzle-stick, since they sound like the kinda fellas that usually beat-up smart-ass garage punk bands* , not share stages with ‘em, but like all great rock n’ roll gospel outfits, the Dexies stretch their faith healing arms wide enough to touch everybody. While their debut, self-titled rekkid (released in Jan ’04) was a more straight-ahead sock to the face of shitkicker rock n’ roll (I described it, at the time, as “Georgia Satellites slowly running out of oxygen”), this one’s more blues-y and jammy, full of good time, back porch, pickin’ and a grinnin’ stuff. It’ll probably leave the yankier Yankees among us in the cold**, but my guess is that drawling whiskey sippers like “Can’t You See” and “Pine Belt Blues” weren’t written for be-fanged black leather Frankensteins from New York City or Boston anyway. So, ya know, if you’ve got an affection for breezy, good-ol-boy Dixie rock, this oughta sound just perfect blasting out of your pick-up. Mule train. Whatever ya got.

*Yes, I realize they are skinny, non ass-wrecking garage rockers themselves, but that's where the delicious irony come in, see?

**that’s a climate joke.

- Sleazegrinder

The Bones - Straight Flush Ghetto (2009)

2011-11-08T02:17:00.000-08:00

Liquor & Poker Records

The fuckin’ Bones, man. Sexy Swedish motherfuckers. “Straight Flush Ghetto” was released in 2009 on German stoner-sleaze label People Like You, but Yank glitter-rawk upstarts Liquor and Poker snatched the US rights, and here it is again, this time with a bonus track (“The Chevy Devils”) and a video for insta-hit “Do You Wanna…”, to make it special. The video won’t play in my car, but I bet it’s bitchin’, and it’s probably got lots of chicks and explosions. As for the Bones’ signature sound, it’s a nearly perfect combo of 50’s Memphis hip shake, tough-as-nails street punk, and Swede nu-sleaze. It’s like 5 different flavors of ice cream in one cone, all of ‘em indescribably delicious, and not the slightest bit nutritious. The songs are so goddamn catchy you’ll think you wrote them yourself during your last week-long vodka binge, and they are infused with enough honest-to-Christ charm that you won’t even mind being so shamelessly manipulated by their earnest, heart-on-their-sleeves lyrics, and their rabble rousing, chant-along choruses. Not a bit. Best bets to keep the all night party rocking are probably the Hanoi Rocks-meets-the gutter punk n’ roll rave-up of “Railroad Track” and the snotty arena-powered pop of “Not a Lovesong”, but hey, this is the American version, baby, so you are totally allowed to pick your own favorites. I dunno from poker, but if a “Straight Flush” is a winning hand, then they have definitely got the name o’ this one right.

- Sleazegrinder

Flash Metal Suicide: The Barracudas

2011-11-06T08:09:00.000-08:00

The Barracudas
Complete EMI Recordings
1991, EMI

"Soda Rock And Bubblegum Roll"

To those of us of a certain age The Barracudas may perhaps be best remembered for their smash hit single 'Summer Fun' being the soundtrack to kids summer (funny that) school hols TV. Huge waves of backing vocals swelling into a gloriously irresistible flow causing kids all over the world to spontaneously rush out and jump about in parks in unremitting glee, while their parents organized street parties and village fetes. But before I get too Stevie Wonder all creeds united under a Barracuda banner and get too carried away already, it is an absolute pop gem, like a Phil Spector orchestra production, using an entertaining old ad for the Plymouth Barracuda at the start, puts a huge blast of air in your lungs, causing you to surge around on seabreeze adrenalin...Plus, it's far more effective than Alice Cooper's 'Schools Out', as it actually gives you the same rush you had as a kid when school was, well, out. As well as the same feeling that hit you, ooooh, about three weeks before term time finished. All in the space of about 3 minutes too. Goofy surf obsessed garage dudes? Yup, maybe. Genius? Ohhh yes. However mundane and deadening it is it's never quite the same effect when you're leaving work but play this and hit the high summer head on and if you ain't smiling then you're more of a miserable cynic than me. Christ tho', what do we have now - a flaming frog ringtone and in the early 80's it was garage popsters The Barracudas! Aaaaah, the bliss of curmudgeonly old age.

I don't actually remember this programme at all, as it happens, but others my age do. I think this is because I was always bundled out of the house to play in order to make use of the pitiful British sunshine and not 'be cooped up inside all day'. TV was a no-no when you could be doing more useful things. (Such as sizzling in the sun?). I didn't agree then but I kinda appreciate this approach now. Then I'd end up smashing a football angrily against the kitchen wall, being annoyed thinking of all those lucky kids that are watching mind-numbing shite on the tele. That's maybe why as a semi goth teenage idle I developed a dislike of blaring heat which I still have tho' I kinda appreciate the sunshine.

However, I aren't saying that being forced outside into the blazing heat is any reason for falling head over cuban heels in love with The Barracudas when I was passed a tape of their 'Complete EMI Recordings' back somewhere around summer 1999, appropriately enough. I think I'd only first heard of them a few years before on a drunken night in Manchester's Grand Central where we somehow, now lost to the mists of time - tho undoubtedly one of those people who answer the desperate ads you put up in music shops for singers and such like - were in the company of a chap called Ian, I think, whose favourite band, he kept telling us in between bouts of transcribing English things into Flemish ('Dutch Pancake House' - 'Duutch Paancakka Huuusa'. Thanks, man), were The Barracudas, coincidentally enough, else that would have been an even more pointless interlude than it already was!

Anyway, so I was passed this cassette and how blown away was I? Blown away enough with these slightly kooky tales of surfing paradise, sultry sunset nights down on the strip with car groupies interspersed with melancholic moments where they realized they were living in London in 1979/1980 and not, as they so wished, California 1966 or thereabouts, to sit down almost immediately and write a song called 'Wipeout In The Rain'. No, not that it's the prelude to a tale of riches and regal splendour. Merely a way of emphasizing the all-consuming brilliance of these recordings. Such that I took the surfing idea and mixed it with Manchester's rain in the summertime vibe...or reality...incessant reality (Oh noooo)!...I loved that song at the time, as you do when you've just written something you're pleased with. Tho' on listening to The Barracudas as I write I think that's because I nicked most of the melody and structure of 'Surfers Are Back' too. And some chords. I just added a fairly weak chorus instead of 'Surfer's...' 'Surfer's Are Back - And Here To Stay / Surfer's Are Back - Won't Go Away' gangland Glitter Band yelp.

Whoops. Oh well, a lesson learned. Pinch an idea and make it better, not worse. Go West and squander, young man. I don't recall much of that time, partly as it was a while ago and I had a fondness for cheap-shit Scotsmac (an insidiously toxic mix of wine 'n' whisky), tho' I was living in some squalid dump in Manchester's lovely Whalley Range area in some state of despair and disrepair, almost literally kicking dead leaves against the wall, and The Barracudas tape was on heavy rotation being impossibly cheerful, (and it also had Murder City Devils on the other side!) yet having resonance too in the more downbeat songs, which we'll come to in due course. Hell, I just dug it, loved it, how much more scholarly can you get? I aren't Greil fucking Marcus. As is my wont I loved the mix of dumb, tho' knowing good natured humour, the nods to their heroes, the sorrowful sad songs, the energy they managed to cram into these roughly recorded relics. Sheer Rock'n'Roll spirit, pure and simple. A glorious tilt-a-whirl ride from surf city to teenage laments, and a few spots inbetween.

'We Don't Have Any Boards But We Really Don't Care...'

One of the reasons this is just so good for the soul is the sheer endearing, grin inducing lunacy of a band
based in central London, or well, anywhere miles from the sea, and thousands, if not ten, away from California, coming along intent on proscribing surfing as THE way of life. Classic. That they then were able
to effortlessly infuse their music with this same lunacy and spirit makes it a winner. Singer and founderJeremy Gluck (himself from Canada, which at least starts with C, but isn't exactly noted for it's surfing supremacy) recognised the need to present a unified image to the media (not for nothing did he have a job as a journo, and still does, I think) so picked a surf-centred image thru a love of The Beach Boys and other assorted 60's pop and for the fact that nobody else had done it before. Tossed it about in a dinghy on a stormy sea with some garage-pop-punk, a slight overdriven Stooges squawk and a dorky tho knowing Ramones sonic surf assault...And whaddya know big boy, it worked!! A treat. For about 5 minutes. But
whaddya expect, l'il gyal? After a few problems finding the right rhythm section Gluck (who'd come to London after recognising the emerging punk scene there as something akin to the 60's garageland) and Robin Wills recruited drummer Nicky Turner and bassist David Buckley to the ranks of the boardless hoards and they proceeded to demo before signing to EMI, hence these recordings. Their early sessions, as featured here, bore the surf-orientated songs, such as the stomping squall of 'Surfers Are Back', that has one of the greatest lines of all time, except for the heading above - 'There ain't no scene for surfers / That's no reason why we shouldn't wipe out', and it's a gloriously mindless rampage from the opening 'COWABUUNGGA' to the closing rejoinder 'Look out London - here we come' as though they're using surfboards as weapons stood there all scrawny and starving like an even more confused Monkees, having beached themselves in England. Frantic, chaotic rollers of guitars breaking into 'Waaaa-Ooooooooo' backing vocals sending the adrenalin rush of surfing surging down your spine (I imagine - Manchester's not much cop for surfing either, duude) as the vocals hang just so, faltering perilously as the cling onto the waves generated from Nick Turner's chirpy drums smashing headlong into the cheerleader chant of a chorus. Sublime.

'Chevy Baby', who's 'always true' to him as he has such a cool car; 'His Last Summer', a kind of a 'Dead Man's Curve' for the waveless London crowd, an early afternoon cocktail of '96 Tears' and 'Leader Of The Pack' where the local hero takes a bad wave causing da boys a spot of introspection - 'It was his last summer and we started to think / We stopped surfin' and started to drink', 'On The Strip', where the Beach Boys fixation is in full-tilt ('On the strip...Good Vibraaaatioooons') and the stood-up, left on the pier blues of 'Rendezvous' ('Waiting here in the sun / I just ran out of bubblegum'). For all the tongue-in-cheek goodtime humour Gluck's teetering on the edge of the pier vocals carry some deceptive sentiment effectively. The lines 'Is she coming or is she late / Shall I keep on waiting - is it a mistake?..' are anguished enough to suggest it happened to Gluck only the day before the recording session. 'Don't Let Go' is a similarly frazzled up all night desperate pleas from the wee wee hours. There's also 'I Can't Pretend', which shows a deceptively sneering side, as though Gluck'd been hanging out with Stiv Bators a little too often, indeed, at times he has a Stiv-like edge to his voice tho' more earnest, much less sly and Machiavellian. signing off as it does with the sneering 'It doesn't break my heart to see you cry'. The absolutely storming '(I Wish It Could Be) 1965 Again', which is a touch misguided, what?, but a nice eulogy to their heroes and inspiration, having a great ad lib vocal riff on the end name-checking Seeds, Chocolate Watch Band and Standells songs. They crash through it (yeees, like a wave) with even more manic, frantic, energy than di played on 'Surfers Are Back'. They mean it maaaan.

'All I Got Is A Teddy Bear To Hold Tight...'

However, unbeknown to the record company, by the time these chestnuts were roasted and released the band had also started incorporating different ideas into the swirl, songs written at a similar time but radically different in mood if not in sound. Featured on debut album proper 'Drop Out With...' the tracks 'We're Living In Violent Times', 'This Ain't My Time', 'I Saw My Death In A Dream Last Night' and cover of The Charlatans Nuggets classic 'Codeine' was a step too far into melancholia for the suits at the label, who in time-honoured fashion wanted the band milked in those white surf-boy outfits they adopted around the time of 'Summer Fun' (as seen on Top of the Pops) to the last sour drop. They are the reality shot to the surreal, dreamland mythical landscape of their California seaside sanctum. Sitting on the egde of a bed in a damp bedsit in Camden Town or Finsbury Park, realising they're living in grey, drab early 80's Britain and just waking up to the unfolding descent into horror of the Thatcher years. Entering a decade of complete cynicism as opposed to the 60's superconfident, hopeful times. And Britain was a hell of a drab place back then, take a look at a Punk docu like 'D.O.A.' and it's shocking. So grey. No wonder they hit on the idea of bringing the surfing ideal and idyll over from California...they needed cheering up, dude...and starting off 'Surfers Are Back' with 'Here in London town, they're ain't much fun kicking (getting?) around / People don't unde stand you gotta live for the sun'.

'...Violent Times' is swept along mournfully, a gently reflective folksome funereal fugue with a superb hang-dog vocal, almost pastorally sat 'neath a weeping willow tree - 'Stayed in all day / I was scared of getting killed / Didn't pick up my pay / I know I'll just get bills...'. These lines could come across as somewhat pathetic, moping indie drivel, or merely stating the obvious but they are set atop some still sunny music, all chiming, ringing guitars with a nicely measured lolloping gait, and are to the point and succinct, no pretense of being all angst ridden 'n' Byron-esque. A simple theme that resonates all down the lines, and when did your favourite band do something like that?

'I Saw My Death...' swizzles along in a similar vein, suitably surreal sounding, swathes of paranoid scuzz guitar swoosh at the start heralding him waking from a speed-sleep nightmare into a Byrdsian bad-trip reality.

(An aside) - I used to have strange nightmares about nuclear holocausts and stuff when I was about 5, in the very early 80's, as it was on TV a lot. This saw little me wandering downstairs to ask my folks the positively inane question as to whether there'd be any nukes popping over tonight like I thought my Dad was a Ruskie with full knowledge of the missiles in Kiev or wherever. Maybe Gluck had similar nightmares...

'This Ain't My Time' is a fuzz feast, literally waves of it swooshing the song onwards behind Nicky Turners pummeling drums (Nick Turner was the original 'Bouncing Baby' as sang about by Julian Cope in The Teardrop Explodes. Just check out the Lords of the New Church 'Live in London / Live At The Marquee' vid for some ecstatic sat on a spike drum action.) that I could bet my shoes-I-haven't-bought-yet on that Stivney and co incorporated into The Lords 'Holy War'. Robin Wills guitar playing isn't a whole lot removed from Brian James' early Lords stuff at times either, come to think of it. Obvious to some by it's very 'out of time' title, it plonks itself wholeheartedly in garageland by way of The Beach Boys.

'Lies, Lies, Lies...'

Possibly my absolute dynamite jet rocking fave from this set is the glorious 'Campus Tramp', a hard-luck, knee scraped paean to lost love and unfelt leather, with another immense lyric...

'All the football players make passes at you - but I know better, All the football players wanna play with you - without your leathers.'

Our poor, sensitive broken hearted narrator Gluck losing out to the jocks, or football scum, because of the wiles of the campus tramp, despite the fact that, as he informs us, 'I'm broken hearted but I'm still proud / I let other boys touch her now', which is a fantastic piece of Rock'n'Roll stoicism, ahh well, show the world a shrug and hide your tears in the collar of your leather jacket, and should elicit a wry grin from anyone ever bypassed. At the start of this piece I admitted a slight theft of some 'Cuda's stuff.

I recall nicking the double-time bridge bit for this too (the 'I cried in the parking lot, cried in the classroom...' bit) Well, not nicking as such. Just tried to play a similar riff. Sounded good. Just that the song itself turned out to be a stinker.

Perhaps they reached the heights of their happy/sad surf-punk schizo sound with 'California Lament', starting with a Beach Boys 'Don't Worry Baby' sort of riff, then relating a tale of a chap boarding a plane Calif-bound with his chums - 'I always wanted to go to Californ-I-AAAAA' - in a chirpy manner that belies the nostalgia tinged melody line that steams steadily along almost resembling the inflight sound and atmosphere, detailing how he can't wait to hit the 'promised land' with its 'sandy beaches where I belong' and how he had no qualms about leaving his buddy behind. But just as they're about to land, in an eerily apt passage in this day and age - 'Then I hear the captain's voice saying something's wrong / Some fanatic has planted a bomb...Now I'll never see - Ca-lif-orn-iaaa'.

After only one album and a few singles on EMI The Barracudas were mercilessly dropped, in time honoured fashion, and left to starve, despite the odd half-hit single and relative success, being popular with the mod-revival crowd as well as the rockers (supporting The Cramps amongst others). Perhaps they couldn't have gone on much further as after this they were working on a second album, a few tracks of which saw the light as the 'House of Kicks' EP, the full set emerging as 'The Garbage Dump Tapes' in 1989. By no means a bad record, in fact it's quite good, it just loses a lot of the spirit they so effectively captured on these early recordings, concentrating instead on a more serious, darker tone heralded on the 'Drop Out...' album but, unfortunately, after numerous plays over the last few years, are about as memorable as an episode of Coronation Street. Almost like the genie flooped back into the bottle and floated off on the sea and is currently lapping about on the waves waiting for the next shore to land onto and launch the dreams of some aspiring children. Grown up ones or not.

So this remains the essential Barracudas stuff, in all its glory. The glory of new-born giraffes at times, in their inimitable gawkiness that still shows a certain grace. Every song here is a a sun-bleached, salt-water soaked paean to the power of Rock'n'Roll, dreams, a touch of fantasy and a few laughs and what the hell's wrong with that? Makes me feel powerful and full of the possibilities of sunshine and seafroth and goodtimes. Go forth, find and buy, dear people. Me, after listening to this a lot for the first time in a while I'm off onto Amazon or somewhere to get me a CD copy.

Cowwabuunggaaaa!

A ridiculously in depth history and interview with Jeremy Gluck is viewable HERE.

-FIN-

-Stuacuda Gibson

Flash Metal Suicide: Gene Loves Jezebel

2011-11-05T08:22:00.000-07:00

Gene Loves Jezebel
Kiss of Life
1989, Warner Brothers

"It's Lonesome here-there's no one left to torture"
- L .Cohen

SHAVING MY NECK...

Not even that many all-too-grown-up-now CHICKS will own up to having once been ardently enthusiastic fans of Gene Loves Jezebel, at this point - but me, I'm already on public record as a shameless, diehard fan of everything from Dead Or Alive to Dexy's Midnite Runners, so here goes my scarve-y stroll down memory lane once again. 'First time I remember hearin' about the Jezzers was in NYC in '85 or so, back when they looked like Haysi Fantaysi, or Strawberry Switchblade, or early Culture Club on all their Jackson Pollack influenced album covers for "Promise", and "Bruises", and "Immigrant". One of the Aston twins looked just like Nina Hagen, and the other, like Lene Lovitch in that old "Don't Kill The Animals" video. All the creamy white, witchy chicks redolent of incense oils and patchouli, whom I wanted to sleep with, were digging stuff like Fra Lippo Lippi, the Cocteau Twins, Current 93, "Everyday Is Halloween"-era Ministry, Soft Cell, Echo & The Bunnymen, and Gene Loves Jezebel. Being something of a multiple rosaries wearing, showy, enfant terrible myself, I was remarkably appreciative of all this sensual, tribalesque gypsy rock coming out of the post-punk, goth, and new romantic subcultures, that was all coalescing in all those chilly, painfully loud, pitch dark nightclubs full of provocatively attired, dysfunctional gloomsters, who all convened to revel in their symbolic otherness-in a permissive atmosphere of enticingly gauzy somnolence, and droning drum machines.

Of course, I had no way of knowing the psychic toll of getting involved with a long series of melodramatic, self immolating tragediennes would eventually take on my frail little conscience someday, but back then, they were always irresistible to me- in spite of their cutting, and groupie-ing, and non-stop reenacting of childhood traumas, that invariably accompanied each of these poisonous relationships. "Love can be like bondage, seduce me once again..." (-S.Bator)

Why does the Jack Daniels soused, longhaired glam punk singer sleep with all these morbid and manipulative, violent and morose goth chicks? Because he can? I didn't know what I was getting in to. "All my witches come true/weee-ooo..." (-R.Hell)

By the time that noted Jim Thirwell-plagiarist, Trent Reznor was rewriting old WASP songs for the death scene, I was already turning alot of these smacked-out, black velvet wearing little seductresses away. They were very nearly exhausting me both physically, and emotionally, and I was just never that healthy to begin with. Some of these broads were so hot that even the other chicks wanted 'em! All the most gorgeous girls in the world were ending up in some presidential suite frolic with one or both of the Jezebels or their sidemen. This band attracted INXS or Duran quality models to their gigs. It was crazy. While I was usually extremely jealous of whatever band the girls I liked were pursuing, I was just never that threatened by these ponces in GLJ! I guess because they seemed so whacked, with the whole weird incestuous vibe, like these asexual, harmlessly euro-queer water sprites or something - they sure did sing like banshees! It was psychedelic dance music, sorta like the Southern Death Cult, or even the Cult's "Love", or the Mission. Everybody went there to dance and glimmer, posing pursed lipped in too much blue eyeshadow in our crucifixes and sleeveless fishnet, and hopefully, make a new friend for the evening.

"We were presumptuous to assume this magic would continue." (-Lee Radziwell)

HEAVENLY BODIES...
One would think that the pasty, promiscuous teens of today are still probably ritualistically acting-out all these age-old rites of passage at My Chemical Romance shows, or Korn, or whoever, but I've gotten too psychologically wan to wanna pay a cover charge to lurk around like some creepy older Kim Fowley perv, living vicariously through the young people's sexual energies. There were many years when niteclubs were what I lived for, but nowadays you couldn't drag me to one if you bribed. I hate the techno, the piercings, the industrial metal, the infusion of rap, and being the old guy.

Back in my day, the Astons looked like Patricia Fields dragqueens, or Stephen Sprouse models. They were these faggy twin wisps who danced in their peculiar, flowing pajama'd fairy circles, pre-"Vogue", striking poses, and doing all these laughable, Fat-Elvis karate kicks, accentuated by their elveish battlecry of "JHU! JHU!" They were big, big stars in the 80's - no shit, kids. I have no idea how it happened*, but a generation of girls liked their neutered John Taylor good looks. They sold out concerts, had hit records, were caustic in interviews, and enjoyed massive MTV rotation!

All with their androgynous, shrieking sorcerers from Middle-Earth plastic mysticism shtick. Hilarious! Simply imagine Kate Bush as a boy, twice!

ALWAYS A FLAME....
Two fey, sibling rivals in Jean-Paul Gaultier Chinese housecoats and gold lame' genie pants, lushly rhapsodizing about some waifish sylph's dark, moon-lit allure SEEMED like Roxy Music to alot of us panda eyed modern romantics back in 1986! What can I tell ya? The truth ain't nothin' but the truth. We were young and naive. I was dating (well, ok, more than one, really...) a lass insane, and anytime I did something she didn't like, she'd either: slash herself some more and end up in the emergency room, sleep with some older, more famous, silk and satin clad goth star who tied pieces of colored tissue paper in his hair, cast spells on my heavy metal girlfriends, or write me these lyrical, life threatening poetic notes in her cryptic scrawl, quoting Lydia Lunch or Diamanda Galas, or, all of the above! It got to be a bit much, and she felt much the same about me, so we both moved on to our next unfortunate partners. About every 3-5 years, I still tend to get spellbound by some new tortured siren's song, and ceaselessly continue to put myself through this nigh-impossible "relationship" gauntlet like I'm IMPRISONED in one of those damned New Order lyrics.
Addiction? Masochism? Sadism? Abandonment Issues? Chronic Depression? Immobilizing poverty? ALL THIS AND MORE LITTLE GIRL! "Your beauty has spoken with eyes that shine, my resistance crumbles, I stumble, I fall-did I ever fail you? Did I lose your confidence? To me you are remarkable-what more can I say?

VOODOO DOLLIES...
These often abrasive Welsh warblers yelped all their high pitched, indian war-whoops, taking turns murmuring into the mic all these faintly Crowley-an lyrics in their keening, nasally, exotic whines about how MYSTICALit would be if all the young American goth chicks would immediately join them for an after show menage cinco in their candle-lit presidential suites: "So pack up your ribbons and get out your pearls and go along with me, I'll see you there - where the dark clouds meet - I'll meet you where our hearts can beat..." Their druggy, early sound reminded people of old Adam & The Ants, old U2, Specimen, Public Image Ltd., Siouxsie & The Banshees, and the Virgin Prunes. The "Thin Things" as the Astons liked being called, were highly INSULTEDwhenever critics compared them to Lydon or Siouxsie, or any of their Star Hits Magazine contemporaries, fancying themselves these profoundly BYRONESQUE alchemists without peer! What a larf! One critic compared their vocal stylings to Yoko Ono! All the older stuff is really well produced British goth, ala Spear Of Destiny, Southern Death Cult, and occasionally even Sisters. I particularly always dug, "Worth Waiting For". These songs all meant so much to us back when they were accompanying our first, formative stabs at courtship, rebellion, and self-reinvention. It's easy to see how these nauseatingly pompous, screeching twin wailers in their red and gold Ziggy Stardust tunics and skintight black leggings emphasizing their girlish, anorexic frames made all our more macho friends' skin crawl. My AC/DC pals were APPALLED I was indulging in all this make-up wearing neww romanticism, but it was clear that they were also begrudgingly, a bit envious, of the fringe benefits of new wave's erotic gothly revelries. "If a little bit of heartache, a little bit of heartache never hurt anyone-how come I'm crying over you" captured the pouty zeitgeist for all us little gothniks.

SCREAMING FOR EMMALENE...
Deep down, I was still a bleeding heart forever pining for that one specifically unobtainable SMITHS fan and alla GLJ's colorful, lusty yearnings made complete sense to me back when my black heart beat fast in nagging anticipation of even glimpsing her comely, ethereal visage. The fact that these pretentious mime headhunters and all their Shelley-an shrieking seemed so excruciatingly otherworldly was their whole appeal. By the time "Desire" was dominating the airwaves worldwide, most every arty, young fox on the run was totally in-synch with their gay witchdoctor, neverland mystique, they were all dyeing their hair a Laupereque hue and wearing weird bells around their ankles and shit and it was all a gas, really.

James Stevenson from Chelsea, Generation X, and Glen Matlock's band joined GLJ on guitar, and drummer Chris Bell (not the Big Star guy - but former stickman for Thompson Twins, Specimen, and Spear Of Destiny) was also added to their bigtime American tour line-ip and "The Sweetest Thing" was the sonic wallpaper for many a memorable makeout session with many adolescent Elviras in their blackened bedrooms. That album with it's annoyingly ubiquitous "Heartache", was on everyone but the most committed Metallica fan's turntables that year, bleeding into many a tough guy punk rocker, or flash metal junkie's glam rock playlists. That's still the one to own if I had to pick one. "Discover", their crassly commercial follow-up, was marred by it's high-gloss, radio-friendly, umm...Pepsi Sheen. "House Of Dolls" was smartly tailored to mainstream rock radio appealing to people who dug shit like the Power Station and Andy Taylor's "Thunder" and even I had to admit they were really starting to suck ass by the end of '87. Trite, watered down rewrites of all their vintage classics stripped of the bizarre parts that made any of it worthwhile to begin with, like "Motion Of Love" and "Suspicion" signaled their rapid decline.

RHINO PLASTY...
The blonder brother, Michael Aston, quit the band in a fit of artistic fervor. Heartened by all the press he was reading that compared his lips to Jagger or Tyler back then, redheaded Jay overconfidently preened-on for awhile, notching one last ghost of a hit, called "Jealous", but "Kiss Of Life" was really the end for the 'Belles, as they started splitting the fanbase by feuding over the name, and both trying to play shows on the eternally lucrative goth-circuit. The Jay incarnation played a short tour with Flesh For Lulu a few years back, and I remember reading some glowing reviews of Jay's albums these past few years. Every once in awhile you'd hear one or the other of these raggle taggle black magis spit some venom at each other but JAY really seems to have wrestled the cash cow away from Michael, Apparently not so in love with Gene anymore. I haven't been moved to buy his records without Mike, but chances are, I figure, it's more or less, probably, more of the same, y'know? Beggars Banquet's re-releasing the first three records, "Promise", "Immigrant", and "Desire" and I recommend you purchase all three and a plane ticket if you've been listening to the Smiths alot lately, while getting bored with your meal ticket husband and his dumb log cabin in the woods on the other coast, if you've been thinking anything about our wonder years together, and whatever happened to your devoted boy with the thorn in his side.
"Sugar, I've been missing you, and I've been wondering, where it is you're hiding...."
James Stevenson's still in the band, but moonlights in the ALARM. I look forward to reading his autobiography, "25 Years In The Rocknroll Wilderness".

JHU! JHU!
-FIN-

- Pepsi Sheen

* I don't know how it happened either. I remember watching a live Gene Loves Jezebel concert on MTV during the "Discover" days, and one of 'em, who knows which one, says, between songs, "We're from Wales....and we're so THIN!" They were the most ridiculous 80's band I can think of, really. And yet, I had all their fuckin' records, too. And I'm one of Pepsi's old "AC/DC pals"! What a decade. -Sleazegrinder

Flash Metal Suicide: Tattoo Rodeo

2011-11-04T02:53:00.000-07:00

TATTOO RODEO
Rode Hard - Put Away Wet
1991, Atlantic Records

“The heavy rock stuff that’s coming out today is pure garbage.”
- Rick Chaddock, guitarist White Sister/Tattoo Rodeo, in 1987

In the beginning, there was Sister, and that was alright, because they existed mostly as a black n’ white promo pic in the ‘new bands’ section of various splotchy heavy metal fanzines in the early 80’s. Sister didn’t look any fruitier than any of the other dirtball glam bands in Los Angeles at the time, and their name had a nice ironic, self-aware ring to it. In those days, it sometimes took years before you actually got to hear a band you’d been reading about, so Sister coasted on some well-placed headbands for a few months, and life rolled on.

And then, one sunny day in 1983, Sister ran into Greg Giuffria at a gas station, and their fate, for better or worse, was sealed. Greg was the keyboard dude with the girly hair in Angel, the 70’s pop metal band with the white spacesuits and upside down logo. Angel managed to carve out a substantial arena-rock career throughout the late 1970’s largely by being the opposite, musically and image-wise, of Kiss. While space Ace, the demon, the starchild, and whatever Peter Criss was did drugs, banged groupies, spit blood and fire, and played loud, pulverizing cock rock, Angel wrote keyboard-bloated power ballads, heavy on the glammy harmonies, had feathered hair and tight white Andy Gibb clothes, and pretty much behaved themselves in public. Seems kinda dopey now (it did to me then, too, really), but people loved ‘em.

Angel’s proggy glam-lite hit hard times in the wake of the flash metal explosion, however, and they broke up in 1982. Ever the rock n’ roll survivor, Giuffria already had plans for a solo career (the humble named Giuffria band released their debut album in 1984), but apparently, one puffball ‘keyboard metal’ band was not enough for Mr. white jumpsuit. He wanted to start a whole fuckin’ army of the things. And so, he recruited the fellas from Sister, who were now going by the retarded name of White Sister, into his wimp n’ roll revolution. And Jesus wept.

White Sister got their name from a Toto song, which tells you all you need to know, really. Guffria produced their first, self-titled album, and he also gummed up the works with even more fucking keyboards. The band dressed in like, red jeans and puffy white jackets, and shit. Crazily, EMI thought they had some kinda hot property on their hands, so they released the album in 1984. A year or so later, they also released the band, as the album tanked, commercially.

Critically, however, it was a hit with the lite-metal sympathizers at Kerrang!, and it managed to garner a sizable cult-following amongst the ‘melodic rock’ fans of the day. To be fair, White Sister always claimed to be an ‘AOR’ band in the vein of Journey, Styx, and REO Speedwagon, but the label pushed ‘em onto the public as the gayest glam metal band since gay came to Gaytown, and that’s exactly how the spiked street urchins with the Motorhead back patches viewed ‘em.

Undaunted by their label woes and buoyed by their micro-success as melodic rock kingpins, White Sister went back into the studio, and eventually released a lower-budgeted follow-up album, the atrociously titled “Fashion by Passion”, on UK label FM Revolver in 1986. I know, you never knew White Sister had a second album, and that was precisely the problem. Frustrated and unnoticed, White Sister called it quits in 1987. So it was a pretty good year for everybody.

I kinda figured that was the last time any of us would’ve had to think about White Sister, which would have been fine with me, because even today, the very name of that lily-livered band makes me bristle. But a mere two years later, three-quarters of the band reemerged as a cowboy metal band with an even more meaningless name than White Sister. Say hello to Tattoo Rodeo.

Despite showing very little potential for selling records the first time, the Sisters-in-disguise managed to snag another major label deal, this time with Atlantic, who released their first album, “Rode Hard…Put Away Wet”, in 1991. Many, many people – myself included – fell for the sleazy title and the bad-ass, pirate-patched cowskull on the cover, figuring these Tattoo Rodeo fuckers were, at best, a new gang of knife-fighting biker metal motherfuckers in the vein of the Four Horsemen or Circus of Power, or at worst, a slinky blooze-rawk band, like the Rock City Angels, or Tesla. Nobody really thought it’d be a bunch of old White Sister demos dirtied up a bit with slide guitar and cowbells. Because, c’mon, nobody would buy THAT, right?

Right. All the songs on “Rode Hard…” start out all dirty and fuzzy, like somethin’ evil is gonna happen, but by the time you reach the chorus, you’re suddenly in Autograph territory.
Or Enuff Z’nuff territory. Definitely not in tattooed, rodeo-riding, 6-gun shooting Motherfuckersville, that’s for sure. I’ve bought this dumb record a few times over the years, always thinking that maybe I was wrong the last time, that maybe it’s a lost raunch metal classic. Well, it’s not. Perhaps I’ll read this first in 2012, so I can spare myself the $1.99 it’ll still be going for then.

Despite having the exact same thing happen with this band (Atlantic couldn’t drop them fast enough) a much-delayed follow up showed up years later on a tiny European label, but to be honest, I’m sick of talking about these guys already. You’d have to be insane to actively seek out a SECOND Tattoo Rodeo album, so if that’s the case, talk to your psychiatrist about it, not me.

Although I can almost guarantee that there is no Tattoo Rodeo website in the works, there is a half-assembled White Sister page. And by the way, if you’re looking for the contemporary equivalents,Waltham was the new White Sister, and American Pearl were the new Tattoo Rodeo. And I believe Greg Giuffria is still hard at work trying to be the new Giuffria.

- Sleazegrinder

Backwoods Payback - Momantha

2011-07-28T07:15:00.000-07:00

Backwoods Payback
Momantha
Small Stone

Backwoods Payback is part of the post-Clutch contingent of heavy rockers. Not that the Pennsylvania quartet sounds just like Maryland’s finest, mind you. But, like Neil Fallon and the boys, BP has a shot of punk rock energy running through its 70s stoner riffs, as if the band is more used to slamdancing than head-nodding. (Unsurprising, given leader Mike Cummings’ hardcore background.) Most of Momantha choogles and burns, as Cummings howls over roiling guitar riffs and blasting rhythms – cf. Parting Words and Flight Pony. But the group also takes time for the scorched-earth sludge of Timegrinder and the surprisingly melodic anthem Poncho, just to prove it’s no one-note symphony. As with most bands of this stripe, the record sounds at times as if some power is being kept in reserve, ready to be unleashed on some unsuspecting club audience. But Momantha is still a satisfying chunk of molten rock.

- Michael Toland

Jacobites - 7"

2011-07-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

Nikki Sudden & Dave Kusworth: Jacobites
The Otter Song + Apartment to Compartment 7”
Sunthunder

Crediting this 45 to the Jacobites is a bit misleading; while it does feature Nikki Sudden and Dave Kusworth, it’s on separate tunes. No surprise, of course, given that the British rock ne’er-do-wells could renew their collaboration only through the means of necromancy. But new music from either dude is a rare and precious thing these days, so I feel churlish complaining – especially since both tunes rock. The Otter Song (a working title, never to be changed now) was recorded in 2003 with fellow traveler Joey Skidmore and has that awesome Bob Dylan-fronting-the-Rolling Stones groove of which Sudden had become a master in his final years. Fans of his late-period masterpieces Treasure Island and The Truth Doesn’t Matter will seriously dig it.

Kusworth, for his part, collaborates with Spanish likeminders Los Tupper (on whose most recent record he plays) on Apartment to Compartment, a tune that comes from the repertoire of Dave’s pre-Jacobites band the Ragdolls. Accompanied by a simpatico horn section, Kusworth also taps into the Stones’ long-lost mojo for a catchy killer. Band and mentor sound so good together it makes me hope they work together again the next time Kusworth feels like cutting an album. Sudden may be dead, but in the hands of he and his old pal Kusworth, rock & roll sure as hell ain’t.

- Michael Toland

Gentleman's Pistols - At Her Majesty's Pleasure

2011-07-27T14:08:00.000-07:00

Gentleman’s Pistols
At Her Majesty’s Pleasure
Rise Above

British singer/guitarist James Atkinson apparently couldn’t decide which era of his homeland’s heavy rock he liked better – the earthy, shaggy thud of 70s arena rawk or the majestic, wild-eyed zoom of 80s NWOBHM. So Gentleman’s Pistols does both at the same time. At Her Majesty’s Pleasure, the band’s second slab, mixes galloping rhythms and Atkinson’s soaring riffs with earthbound crunch and bluesy solos courtesy Firebird/Carcass axedude Bill Steer. Atkinson’s larynx inhabits a space between growl and wail, giving his vocals both melody and power. Imagine Diamond Head and Foghat sharing a table and the tab and you’re nearly there. Fist-pumpers like Feed Me to the Lions, Comfortably Crazy and Your Majesty kick the roof open, while Lethal Woman and Midnight Crawler stomp confidently and deliberately across the exposed landscape. The most breathless moment comes two-thirds through, when the blazing trio of The Ravisher, Sherman Tank and Peeping Tom barrel through the walls, blast through your ribcage and leave bruised body parts and satiated smiles in their wake. If a through Pistol-whippin’ is what you crave, then you’ll happily place yourself At Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

- Michael Toland

Le Pecheur - Holy Mountain

2011-07-15T07:19:00.000-07:00

Don't know too much about these maniacs. They may or may not be French/Satanists/geniuses, but regardless, I dig where this is going. It's like an homage to Jean Rollin by high school dopers with St Vitus backpatches. Wild. If you're in the band, drop me a line. Let's get crazy.

PS You can download their EP's on Bandcamp.

Le pécheur - Holy mountain from Les images agricoles on Vimeo.

- Ken McIntyre

PS: Anybody with PC skills want to help me switch the Sleazegrinder.com domain over to this site? Lemme know. Also, eventually, if I can find some volunteers to help out, I'll port all the Sleazegrinder 2001-2010 stuff over here, including the hundreds of Flash Metal Suicides. I'm just too busy with Movies About Girls these days to do it myself.
-Ken/Sleaze

The Lord Street Sound - Behind the Dumb

2011-07-06T20:43:00.000-07:00

The Lord Street Sound
Behind the Dumb
Off the Hip

Insomuch as there’s a big name at all in this Australian side project, it’s Johnny Casino, the singer/songwriter/guitarist/producer who led the great but doomed Asteroid B-612 in the 90s and has carved out an equally cool Steve Earle-meets-MC5 path on his own in the new millennium. With the Lord Street Sound he turns over the lyrics and vocals to one Rodney Todd, AKA Rodney Agar of the Mess Makers, for whatever that’s worth in the Northern hemisphere. On Behind the Dumb, Todd’s droning, processed blare punches through the soul-fueled garage grooves like a nail through particle board, but it’s not an unpleasant dissonance. Quite the contrary – his negative charisma rides grungy pop tunes like Blood From a Stone, The Daily Routine and Solitude Surf like a cowboy on a stallion, barreling down the prairie with bad intent. In other words, rock & roll.

- Michael Toland

Flash Metal Suicide, Blaze Bayley

2011-06-29T18:58:00.001-07:00

Blaze Bayley
www.blazebayley.net

Blaze Bayley probably shouldn’t still be going. It’s not because the legendary metal singer doesn’t have the desire. It’s certainly not because he doesn’t have the voice. It’s not because he doesn’t have the ability or the talent or legions of die hard followers.

Blaze Bayley probably shouldn’t still be going because the life he’s lived in the hard rock/heavy metal world and beyond would’ve crushed lesser people.

Talking to Blaze you wouldn’t know it. Having just celebrated turning 48, Blaze talks cheerfully, honestly and openly about everything he has endured with great enthusiasm and optimism. Like the American running back in football that fights so hard for those extra yards and sometimes fumbles, Blaze is so passionate about his music it’s almost to a fault.

“The loyalty of the fans is what enables me to keep going,” Blaze said. “They enable me to live a life that many people dream of living. It’s all very humbling to hear stories about how my music helped them, or that they identified with it. I’ve been very, very lucky to have the fans that I have, and who are very serious and very loyal with everything I do.”

To the layman, Blaze Bayley was the voice of Iron Maiden for two records and half a decade in the 90s. He wasn’t the first guy (Paul D’Anno); he wasn’t the main guy (Bruce Dickinson); he was the low, operatic, dramatic voice that threw a lot of Maiden die hards for a loop when the main guy decided he wanted a solo career, and when the music business went very alternative and metal was suddenly not as popular in mainstream markets.

But Blaze is far more than just an ex-Iron Maiden singer. He’s had a solo career now for more than a decade, and before joining Maiden he fronted U.K. cult-rockers Wolfsbane to initial recognition on Rick Rubin’s Def American imprint in the 80s (the other two bands Rubin signed at the time were Slayer and Danzig).

Blaze is set to embark on his first headlining tour of the United States ever as a solo artist this fall, having only played on U.S. soil with Maiden, Wolfsbane and one show as his solo project.
“I’m absolutely excited about it,” Blaze said. “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve done a tour of America. It’s been 14 years since Iron Maiden, and I have a lot of American fans who visit my websites and forum and have asked ‘When can you come over?’ I’m going to do a 90 minute set from the Wolfsbane era through some of the Maiden songs and my entire solo career.”

In all of his time he has experienced the very highs and very lows of anything and everything not only associated with heavy metal and the music business, but also in his personal life.
Wolfsbane got about as close as a group can get to mainstream recognition worldwide without it actually happening. Then Blaze got the call to join Iron Maiden and he had his big break. But it wasn’t without at the time losing his friends in Wolfsbane (they have since re-formed for a few small touring jaunts, an EP and are planning a full-album release this fall), numerous pitfalls, criticism and backlash.

Blaze did two criminally underrated records with Maiden in “The X Factor” and “Virtual XI.” At a time when metal was very much out of style in the mainstream, Blaze gave Maiden the kick it needed to survive after Dickinson left the band to pursue a solo career.

He was accepted by a large contingent of hardcore Maiden supporters, but also criticized for his much lower voice and vocal range when it came to some of Maiden’s older material. The new material was darker and more ominous than anything previously released by the band, although still distinctly Maiden. Bassist Steve Harris still cites “The X Factor” as one of the group’s best albums to this day and in a fan poll, the song "Futureal," written by Blaze and Harris off of "Virtual XI" was named one of the most popular Maiden songs of all time.

On his first tour with the band, Blaze was denied a proper monitor mix on stage, and was told the band would not tune down for any older material. When he could hear properly on stage he was able to stretch his voice to hit the notes. When he could not hear properly he did the best he could.

Despite enormous pressure and the odds stacked against him, he soldiered through.

“In Maiden, it’s tough,” he said. “You’re playing for England when you’re in Iron Maiden. It’s the top job in my field. The pressure is there in doing your best performance for every show, because every show is like the World Cup final. That’s a lot of pressure. But the other side of it is your playing to almost 10,000 people every night. And the songs I used to sing — I was a huge Iron Maiden fan, and to actually be performing those songs and to get those reactions from the audience and fans was just fantastic.

Blaze looked back on his recorded history with Maiden as well.

“I think that the two albums that I made and the work that we did on “Virus” (from “The Best of The Beast” compilation), it was good. At the time there were a lot of people that really missed Bruce,” Blaze said. “He was their favorite singer in their favorite band. None of us want our favorite singer to leave our favorite band.”

For Blaze, he relished the opportunity and felt that much like his previous effort with Wolfsbane, if it was just given a fair shake it would’ve been far more commercially successful and its acceptance more widespread.

“When I was working with Steve, there was no music written for the albums,” Blaze said. “Steve said, ‘Whatever ideas you got, I want to hear them. It doesn’t matter who writes the songs, but they have to be great.’ Once he started getting used to my voice it really started to click. It really came together with 'The Clansman' which was kind of floating around toward the end of 'The X Factor' sessions. Then he brought it back out. It just worked great. I was looking forward to a third album. I had ideas that I wanted to present to him. The third album was the one where people could’ve seen and said, ‘Well actually the changes worked. Yeah Blaze has every right to be there.’ I was expecting to make that album, I was really sad that it didn’t happen.”

Ultimately, he was let go from the Maiden machine when Dickinson decided to rejoin the band.
Blaze embarked on a solo career that was hindered by record label management from the get-go and released the same week as Maiden’s comeback, even though it was done months in advance.

“Silicon Messiah” was a metal masterpiece, but also was likely viewed as a threat. Blaze let management at his future label Sanctuary hear it, and the release was mysteriously delayed.
Perhaps the last thing Maiden management wanted was for people to hear an outstanding album by a singer they had just sacked, and Blaze had stayed with management that still had close ties to Maiden.

“I think that was a big part of it,” Blaze said about the so-called coincidental release date of his first solo record.

“Certain people said you need to get that record out before Maiden. I look back now and I made a mistake letting the management hear it before I got the record deal. It was just smothered by Maiden’s 'Brave New World,' which is also a great record. Naturally it was the people that had seen me in Maiden and Wolfsbane that were going to buy the record, but because it was released at the same time with little support, nobody got to hear it.”

Blaze kept going. With lackluster labels and management, he soon ended up with a revolving door of band members, but Blaze’s dedication and passion wasn’t always shared with the same enthusiasm by those around him.

He followed “Silicon Messiah” with “Tenth Dimension,” on a new label, SPV. But again, its release was delayed massively because Blaze had to fulfill an existing contract with Sanctuary who dropped the band mid-recording. Before he ended up losing some of his original line-up, the group recorded a solid live album “As Live As It Gets” and continued touring, but SPV allotted money for only one tour when they had agreed to two. Unwaveringly, Blaze put up the money for the second tour and lost his house.

Another solid record followed, “Blood and Belief,” again on SPV. The band stayed afloat by touring but were ultimately dropped, and any semblance of his original solo line-up had vanished.

Blaze suffers from bouts of clinical depression. He has always been forthright with those around him regarding it and still to this day and is candid and willing to talk about it to any family member, friend, band mate or fan. Part of his line-up problems stem from it. But those around him have not always chosen to see it as a serious health issue.

“It’s been sad I’ve had that many lineup changes,” Blaze said. “Every time someone has come into the band they’ve made a huge contribution, and I’m really proud of the music that we’ve done together.”

Perhaps Blaze's strongest line-up to date was the group he had once he re-christened the band's name from "Blaze" to "Blaze Bayley." Two records followed with David Bermudez (bass), Nico Bermudez (guitar), Lawrence Patterson (drums) and Jay Walsh (guitar) in "The Man That Would Not Die" and "Promise and Terror."

Patterson even penned a book about the story of The Blaze Bayley Band called "At The End Of The Day" which offered a much more intimate look of the struggles, rigors, triumphs and pit-falls of a non-stop touring and recording machine.

It was also during this period that Blaze tragically lost his wife Debbie to a seizure. She had pulled him out of a serious depression and got him back to being Blaze Bayley again. But in the end, due to numerous problems both financially and personally, the line-up could not continue.

The Bermudez brothers were from Columbia, and a change in passport law in the U.K. required them to re-new their visas every three months instead of yearly, meaning increased international flights that had to be funded by Blaze himself. The band also couldn't book anything more than three months in advance at that time because of the visa issue and not knowing whether the full band would be in tact for shows. Because of this, sometimes the brothers could not make certain scheduled shows, so fill-ins had to be recruited to keep the band playing and keep finances afloat. Resentment built, and eventually the cost of everything just became too much for Blaze. Between the death of his wife, and then the spilt up of his last line-up remains one of the most heart-wrenching periods Blaze has ever had to endure.

"We managed to keep it together for quite a few years," Blaze said. "In the end it was just unsustainable. It drove me crazy. It drove me into one of the worst depressions I've ever experienced.

Blaze reflected on the split.

"I had done everything I could to keep this band together," he said. "I've spent more than what I had, and it's just not possible. The realization that I couldn't carry it on absolutely killed me. It wasn't the best way that it finished. It wasn't done the best way that it could've be done. But when you're suffering, the circumstances just mounted. I said I needed a year away from the band to get everything sorted out. They just didn't believe it. They didn't believe that my mental health was that bad. My new partner now knew, and she was really, really worried."

Blaze had worked extremely hard to bounce back from Maiden, and he did. He worked extremely hard to bounce back from his first line-up and he did. He worked extremely hard to put together a new band, and then have to bounce back from the death of his wife, and he did.
But depression isn't something the singer is able to continually keep at bay.

"If you're a depressed person, or you know anybody that is, you can't just snap out of it," he said. "It's a roller coaster in slow motion through the darkness and back. There's only coping. When The Blaze Bayley Band ended it felt very close to what I went through after I was finished with Maiden. It's a difficult thing for other people to grasp that this person has a downward spiral they can't escape. I'm not absolutely crazy. I'm not a bad person. This is an illness."

Blaze had nothing but praise for his former band-mates.

"When we stood on stage, that last tour with The Blaze Bayley Band, and we would play 'The Man Who Would Not Die,' when everybody gets it just right, and the tempo is perfect and the volume is perfect, it's the most incredible and fantastic feeling like you're riding some kid of incredible beast," he said. "That is a feeling I will always cherish."

When it came right down to it, Blaze summed up his feelings on The Blaze Bayley Band in five simple words.

"I really miss my friends," he said.

For Blaze, music is the best remedy for all the curve balls life throws his way. He works, and works, and works. He truly is the man who would not die. And despite it all, here he is in 2011 ready to conquer new projects. First America, followed by a Wolfsbane U.K. Tour and a new Wolfsbane album. Then next year an acoustic record, followed by his next full metal album in 2013.

"It’s all been great," he said. "What I’m really looking forward to now is being a solo artist, and having the confidence in myself to show the fans what I'm made of. I haven't been to the United States for many years. Once I am there and I’m able to show them my passion about the music ... I can't wait."

Because for Blaze Bayley, what it all comes down to is the music and the fans. He does a meet and greet and literally every show he does to sign autographs and talk with those that have kept him afloat all these years.

Blaze recalled a story from his recent tour with Wolfsbane that's a prime example.

"The amount of fans that came up to us, and said 'You made me feel 18 again,'" he said. "I forgot how old I was. However cheesy that may be, one guy said to me 'We've grown up together, and I loved it just as much tonight as when I was a kid.' That's just a great reason to keep doing it, no matter what. That's what keeps me going."

- B.J. Lisko (ytownpulse@aol.com)

Premonition 13- "13"

2011-06-28T19:48:00.000-07:00

Scott 'Wino' Weinrich has an intense enough tone and presence that can either make some learn to hate music and even more begin to learn how to love it. He's back from a rocky trip full of space debris and dark matter thats lead him on a wild galactic, goose chase across the continent and back down to earth with a new lineup in Premonition 13. Following his last, accoustic album release, "Adrift" , Wino introduces some new West Coast, dusty desert riff transistors to the heavy underground, cosmic rock circuit. Jim Karow, for instance, accents and compliments Weinrich's fluidity and harmony, often times balancing it. Overall, its safe to say this group has mastered the musical ability to transcend the audience in a medidative trance, all the while causing chaos, confusion and commotion in latter part of song structure, found in songs, such as,, "B.E.A.U.T.Y" and "Deranged Rock N Roller." However, this mellow album may not fit the necessary description for fans of his heavier, past behavioral Doom acts he fronts with Saint Vitus and The Obsessed, but The Hidden Hand and Spirit Caravan fans might be pleasantly surprised and pleased with the southern, stellar direction Premonition 13's debut is taking. Essentially, there are three reasons to place your order now: 1.) comes in 13" pressed Orange vinyl. 2.) shirt design is so decadent on account of Zachary "EZ" Nelson, that it would make for an even more decadent backpatch on the back of denim or leather. And, 3.) it comes from the more articulate and eccentric side of Wino we always knew he had down pat yet equalized even moreso, using some new innovative pedal.

13

The Black Widows - Live on KXLU

2011-06-22T17:59:00.000-07:00

The Black Widows
Live on KXLU
Panic Room/Vital Gesture

Looking for instrumental rock that’s a mindless display of technical virtuosity and is basically bad prog metal in search of a singer? Then this masked L.A. combo is not for you. The Black Widows (some of whose members have done time in the BellRays, the Mighty Grasshoppers and the Streetwalkin’ Cheetahs) instead pledge allegiance to the spirits of Davie Allan, Dick Dale and Link Wray on Live on KXLU – part surf groove, part biker roll and all intensity. Not to mention a fetish for grade Z movies that exist only in the band’s imagination – check out the rocking Junk Zombie and Dr. Cyclops or the raging Black Summer and Shock Trooper. The band gets tender on occasion, as on Electric Mistress, though even that tune is tinged with unsavory connotations. But then, the Widows do proclaims this LP, recorded live on satellite radio, to be 38 Minutes of Evil !!!!!!! (Exclamation points theirs.) I don’t know how evil it is, but an old-fashioned rock & roll party? Live on KXLU is most definitely that.

- Michael Toland