Thank Christ for the Bong

O Lawdy, I hath seen thee Light! That is, I've come to the realization that writing long screeds about artists of the renown of those featured below is an exercise in futility. Anybody who surfs their way in here looking for this stuff most likely has a pretty good idea what they's all about-- and then there's the fact that I've already rambled on about 'em on my old Blogger site-- not these boots in particular, but fuck it, it'd be equally tedious for me. So instead, I'll give you the basic specs:

Sleep: Recorded in San Francisco/Venue Unknown (to me)/Sound Quality: Soundboard
Les Rallizes Denudes: Live in Tokyo, 1980/Venue Unknown (to me)/Sound Quality: Excellent, pretty sure it's an audience recording though.

If anyone does by some miracle, need further info on either of these bands, simply ask & I'll hook ya up.

Goodies, as always, are in the comments.

SLEEP - Live '92

1. Dragonaut

2. Evil Gypsy

3. From Beyond

4. Rain's Baptism

5. Sonic Titan

6. The Druid

7. The Suffering

LES RALLIZES DENUDES - Down & Out in Tokyo

1. Le champ des fleurs artificielles
2. De plus intense que la nuit
3. Sans titre
4. Le nuit d'assassins
5. Improvisation sans la confusion

DARKTHRONE: The Early Demos

The black metal franchise known as Darkthrone have had a lotta potshots taken at 'em as of late. Cries of "sell-outs!" and "creatively washed up!" aren't hard to find all over the intrawebs. I guess that's bound to happen when your career has reached its second decade, but I still find it a little unfair. Sure, most recent albums like 2006's "The Cult is Alive" and 2007's "F.O.A.D." are hardly the frostbitten masterpieces that "Under a Funeral Moon" or "Panzerfaust" were, but there's definitely still some great blackened riffs to be heard, and I kinda dig their recent forays into Amebix-styled, thrashy punk. Fuck it though, that's neither here nor there-- let's go back to the very beginning. I present to you their first four demos, all recorded prior to their "Soulside Journey" LP. Here's whatcha get:

Land of Frost (1988):

1. Land Of Frost
2. Winds Of Triton
3. Forest Of Darkness
4. Odyssey Of Freedom
5. Day Of The Dead

A New Dimension (1988):

1. Twilight Dimension
2. Snowfall

Thulcandra (1989):

1. Eon
2. Thulcandra
3. Archipelago

Cromlech (1989):

1. The Watchtower
2. Accumulation Of Generalization
3. Sempiternal Past / Presence View Sepulchrality
4. Iconoclasm Sweeps Cappadocia

"Land of Frost" in particular, is fantastic-- a precursor to the unabashed Hellhammer worship they'd perfect on "Panzerfaust," with an excellent blend of slow and blistering tempos, as well as the suffocating atmosphere they've practically patented. The production is, of course, shit, but since the same aesthetic was applied to the majority of their early records, the seasoned headbanger's enjoyment won't be hampered in the slightest.

Proceed to thee grim comments.

SONNY SHARROCK - Guitar

I am no fan of Bill Laswell. His NYC hipster bullshit more often than not contributes about as much to "art" as John Wayne Gacy's portraits of himself dressed as Pogo the Clown. And who gave the OK for him to desecrate some of Miles Davis' most sublime creations on that blasphemous remix album? That seems to me to be a crime punishable by castration. However, all ranting aside, I am eternally beholden to him for not only being astute enough to recognize the genius of Sonny Sharrock, but for actually coaxing some of his finest work out of him-- be it in Last Exit, the "Ask the Ages" LP and most importantly, his compassionate production work on this album.

The concept of "Guitar" is very simple: set up a basic thematic framework-- usually a stark chord progression or a sequence of unembellished riffs, then, through the miracle of overdubbing, allow Sharrock to duet with himself. The result is the most unhinged, unbridled pure Sonny Sharrock opus. His ode to "Blind Willie" Johnson opens the disc with an almost religious fervor-- Sharrock soaring into upper registers with the kind of zeal that was often muted earlier in his career. "Broken Toys" is positively heartbreaking-- a hymn to Childhood Lost with Sonny wringing every drop of emotion from his axe, with an arrangement most resembling a lullaby. For untainted, rapid-fire licks that'll make you question if the man was indeed human, let me direct you to "Black Bottom," his demented permutation of the blues. Beginning as a seemingly benign, albeit gorgeous, psalm, Thee Big Double-S ratchets up the intensity level with every blink-inducing run, until he has reached a peak of Sonic Ecstasy that few (if any) mere mortals have ever immortalized on tape.

Look in the comments & leave one ya bastards!

JOHN'S CHILDREN - Jagged Time Lapse

"This is the worst band I've ever seen in my life!" -- Simon Napier-Bell, Yardbirds Svengali and soon-to-be manager of John's Children

Nestled high atop Thee 60's Anglophile Collector Scum Want List dwells the original recordings of John's Children. Why is anybody's guess, but undoubtedly Marc Bolan's brief membership has plenty to do with it. They are quite easily the most inept band with 340 reissues to their credit, this I cannot deny; truth is, when they entered a studio, they were seldom allowed to so much as look at their instruments (Jeff Beck is rumored to have filled in for guitarist Geoff McClelland on more'n one occasion). Vocalist Andy Ellison himself admits in the liners that "we only recorded three songs using two-and-a-half chords." In fact, the shambling "Remember Thomas A. Beckett" and "Come & Play With Me in the Garden" are interchangeable-- both are nothing more than shameless Small Faces "liberations" (Read: Outright Theft)-- of the same fucking song (I'll leave you the fun of figgerin' out which one)!

Yet I verbally slay because I love. Though they may not deserve their exalted status in the Freakbeat Hall of Fame, there be enough meat tacked to the ribs of their skeletal creations to make 'em worthy of the enjoyment of all and sundry. For example, Bolan's "Desdemona," which slobberingly pleads for its subject to "lift up your skirt and fly," is a decent slice of Who-derived, Mod power-chord slashing featuring their soon-to-be most famous member exercising his Goat Larynx on backing bleating. On "Midsummer Nights Scene," their none-too-nimble fingers failing to ignite a fire under the Hobbit to make 'im dance is as charming as it is hopeless-- fun, but nothing you'd trade your copy of Tomorrow's eponymous LP for. The ditty which gives this compilation its title is perhaps their best known number, and for good reason-- not only is it the closest they'd ever come to approaching genuine song-craft, it could almost be passed off as a very good Creation outtake (look around for Halo of Flies' excellent rendition). It unquestionably is the best song ever written about suffering a migraine headache, if nothing else.

So... if well-coiffed dudes haphazardly bashin' away on their barely tuned instruments is yer bag, get Thee to the comments.

ANGEL ROT - Unlistenable Hymns of Indulgent Damnage

It seems like 100 years ago that White Zombie were a viable musical entity-- I mean, you see Rob Zombie butchering Ramones tunes or living out his Wes Craven fantasies, and it's easy to forget that his former band were once an underground sensation. Unlike the MTV-readymade, Ministry-worshippin' tripe featured on "La Sexorcisto," in their early-to-mid 80's incarnation, they were dispensers of scuzzball sludge on par with insert NYC noise-rock band here. At that point (before Little Robbie's megalomania set in), they also boasted an axeman who went by the handle of Tom Five-- apparently because his sound was "the equal of five guitarists." He was dismissed prior to "Make Them Die Slowly," the opus that led to their major label deal, which was only the beginning of his hard luck: he formed Angel Rot in the early 90's, recorded this album in '93, only to see it flounder in Nowheresville for 6 years whereupon it was finally released by Man's Ruin-- a label on the verge of bankruptcy.

"Hymns" sounds like a natural progression of the WZ sound if corporate dollars hadn't gotten in the way. Five's grizzled grunt is a dead ringer for his former frontman, and the Slayer-on-Thorazine riffage is very much in evidence (It would seem there musta been a bit of power struggle in the Zombie camp, hmm?). As much as I detest the term "stoner rock," which always brings to mind excruciatingly bad Sabbath adulation a la Kyuss or Fu Manchu, it fits Mr. Five & Co. like a tattered pair of snakeskin boots. This is music conceived through countless bong hits, obsessive readings of EC comics and constant viewings of Ed Wood and Russ Meyer flicks.

With song titles like "Necrostrangle" and "Erotic Catacomb," ya know yer in for some total trash, and Angel Rot do not disappoint-- every second of the 45 minutes of this tour de force is filled with doom-laden, misanthropic slabs of distorto-grime. And yes, there are times Five lives up to his legend, in particular on instrumental "Callous Caul of Gloom," where his guitar is as informed by Greg Ginn's unschooled, free-form explosions as by Tony Iommi's proto-doom flailing. "Wallow" sounds like it was recorded underwater wearing cement shoes-- beyond sluggish gunk occasionally interrupted by tortured T5 screams-- yes, that's a compliment. This ain't music to strenuously dissect the well-crafted arrangements or stellar songwriting, it's all about succumbing to the smothering, nihilistic atmosphere. Thus, if vicarious suffering is your bag, you can't do much better'n this.

Enter the claustrophobic comments area.

JAMES BLOOD ULMER - Tales of Captain Black

For whatever reason, Avant Jazz hasn't produced a whole shitload of great guitarists (Sonny Sharrock, of course, picks up a lotta the slack). Sure, there's plenty of wankers that do that beyond boring fretboard-tapping swill, or serve up some half-baked hyperspeed Wes Montgomery-isms, but there's very little of it that sounds like more than ME-VERY-TECHNICALLY-PROFICIENT dexterity exercises. Yes, that's very impressive that you can scratch yer asshole with yer pinky whilst tearing off sweep arpeggios, but... ya got any MUSIC? James Blood Ulmer does.

A native of St. Matthews, South Carolina, Ulmer began his journey in various funk bands before hooking up with Art Blakey for a brief stint in his Jazz Messengers. In 1973, he recorded an album with legendary Coltrane drummer Rashied Ali; shortly thereafter he would meet Ornette Coleman, adopting his new guru's ambiguous harmolodic approach in the process. "Tales of Capt. Black" was his second release as band leader, recorded in 1978 with Ornette (who also serves as co-producer), Jamaaladeen Tacuma (bass) and Coleman's son Denardo manning the drum stool.

Beginning with a funk riff reminiscent of "Voodoo Chile," opening cut "Theme From Capt. Black" is a reminder of what could have been had more rock players been exposed to this subversive music-- imagine the boundaries destroyed! Alas, most were far too content to wallow in that annoying set of triplets that take up the last 15 minutes of "Freebird." Regardless, this album is fulla free playing at its zenith-- "Woman Coming" in particular, is magnificent-- with Blood and Ornette playing quixotic themes in unison before engaging in an embroiled instrumental "conversation" that, despite each player inhabiting a separate universe, overlaps brilliantly. "Revelation March" brings to mind Miles Davis' much-denigrated (of course, everybody loves it now) early 70's work in the sense that it features simple (but not simplistic) James Brown-derived funk vamping for Ulmer to shred over top of. His attack, at once shrieking and sighing, encapsulates a century of black music-- as atavistic as it is futuristic, containing the plight of the early Delta Bluesman every bit as much as the revolutionary concepts of his mentor.

Did you understand a word of that? Me neither, but look in the comments.

Cheap Trick - Rockford Armory 1977

Blame it on my recent Redd Kross post, or mebbe even the spit 'n' swagger of the Glam Countdown, but I've had me a sweet tooth for some ooey-gooey bubblegummy greatness as of late. So, what better way to bid adieu to this particular phase than with the band that made "Powerpop" a household word-- here at the height of their powers. As much as I'd like to say my first album purchase was something by Blue Cheer or Flower Travellin' Band, the truth is it was most likely "At Budakan" at age 9 or 10. I got my mitts on this killer boot from a dude who useta give 'em away with purchases from his DVD store. The sound quality is for the most part, excellent (though it does get a touch muddy in places), but the most important thing is that you get some lesser heard classics from the first two LP's like "Taxman, Mr. Thief" and "You're All Talk."

Tracks:

Hello There/Come On, Come On/Elo Kiddies/Taxman, Mr. Thief/Oh Candy/You're All Talk/Southern Girls/Downed/Loser/Ain't That a Shame/Please Mrs. Henry/I Want You to Want Me

I want you to want to look in the comments.

Wam Glam Finale

#1!

HOLLYWOOD BRATS - S/T AKA "Grown Up Wrong" (1973)

While the New York Dolls were getting beer bottles tossed at 'em in the Bowery, across the pond in Blighty, an eerily similar quintet of He-Venuses in Faux-Furs were suffering through much the same abuse. As frontman (and transplanted Canuck) Andrew Matheson explains: "We simply couldn't stomach what was happening in music at the time. It was all denim and drum solos. Where was the excitement, the danger, the outrageous clothes, the aggression, the glamor that made rock 'n' roll the erotic narcotic we craved?" To answer his question, he and fellow nogoodniks Brady (guitars), Wayne Manor (bass), Lou Sparks (drums) and keyboardist Casino Steel (more about him later) donned frilly lace and lipstick and set about getting their lamé-covered asses kicked. They shuffled their platform heels in earnest in 1972 as The Queen, but a certain band with a recent hit single objected to that particular moniker as you can well imagine. Thus, they decided to be mere Brats instead.

They garnered the attention of none other than the Loon Keith Moon who got 'em a chance to sign on the dotted line. The resulting recording, originally called "Grown Up Wrong," for one reason or another was only released in Scandinavia at the time (chances are good that they were seen as a tax write-off by the very Good Fellas who ran their record company). 'Tis a shame as their brazen brand of sleazery holds up every bit as well as the Dolls' debut LP. Truth be told, upon first hearing this opus, I gasped in amazement that two bands who were unlikely to be aware of the other managed to sound so uncannily alike. It's all here-- the malformed Keef cops, the buzzing amplifiers, the pouty vox and the Spector Girl Group aspirations. Speaking of which, they cover the Shirelles' "And Then He Kissed Me"-- without changing the gender (something Paul Stanley didn't have the "balls" to do).

Casino Steel would make another grab at the brass ring. Forming a songwriting partnership with Matt Dangerfield after the Brats' dissolution, they would soon become Pop-Punk stalwarts The Boys, who received some modest chart action during the Punk Years (remember "Brickfield Nights?" What a catchy fuckin' song that was!). They also recorded an inferior version of "Sick on You," a Brats number that y'all can check out here in its original incarnation-- wreckless proto-punk at its best!

Look in the comments, slut.

Wam Glam (Pt. 4)

#2



DEMOLITION 23 - S/T (1994)


Johnny Thunders was a New York Doll
Cared so much he didn't care at all
Stiv Bators went to Catholic School
Turned his sins into something cool

--From "The Scum Lives On," Demolition 23

There's a surplus of morons out there that'll swear up & down that Hanoi Rocks were nothin' more'n one of the thousands of poodle-tressed Sunset Strip douchebags (let's not forget they were from Finland) that forever stamped the 80's as the "MTV decade." Why is it then that they were accepted not only as friends by the likes of Johnny Thunders and the Dead Boys, but as peers? Easy. It's because Hanoi had more to do with 70's-style punk than any o' them bouffant-haired posers preenin' for pussy ever dreamed of. Their roots were Dolls, VU, early Alice Cooper and the Stooges, NOT Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and other unmentionable pop atrocities. Equally delusional are those on the other side of the coin-- who believe demigod status awaited Hanoi if only Vince Neil hadn't killed their drummer in that car-crash. The truth is, they were far too real to ever rise much above cult fandom.

Demolition 23, formed in 1993, saw the reunion of ex-Hanoi vocalist Mike Monroe and bassist Sam Yaffa (ex-guitarist Nasty Suicide would join 'em on tour but not on record). This was their only album, but what an album it is! Sweaty, bloody-knuckled, raunch 'n' roll that sounds as lived in as their weather-beaten leather jackets. Little Steven Van Zandt's sympathetic production gives the band an edgy rawness tempered with a glossy sheen when required (like the multi-tracked fist-pumpin' choruses). There's an atmosphere of regret and defeat that echoes throughout the tracks-- that punkers-with-hearts-on-their-sleeves vibe that Johnny & Stiv conjured so effortlessly, but is now all but extinct. Take for example the chorus of "Hammersmith Palais":

I ain't had no fun in London since the Hammersmith Palais/New York City's boring since the punks all went away/Tokyo's gone techno & Berlin's goin' crazy/Ain't had no fun in London since Hammersmith Palais -- snarled with authority by Mr. Monroe, I might add. Adding a further sense of loss to the proceedings are beautifully executed Thunders & Bators covers: "I Wanna Be Loved" by the former, and "Ain't Nuthin' to Do" by the latter. And yes, there's a reason those two names keep coming up in this screed-- their scrawny ghosts are not only stirred up by this fine release... they're channeled.

Look in comments.

Wam Glam (Pt.3)

#3

 

SILVERHEAD - S/T (1972)

Awright, awright... I harbor as much disdain for Michael Des Barres as the next jerk. Be it his involvement with Miami Vice, the Duran Duran offshoot the Power Station-- where he replaced a schmaltz-meister of unparalleled magnitude, Robert Palmer, that horrific "My Guide to Becoming a Rock Star" show-- his resumé reads like the Ultimate Guide to Becoming a Z-List Celebrity. But believe me when I say my cretinous compadrés, there was a brief, shining moment Circa 1972, where he was one of the finest purveyors of slinky, slutty R&R.

This here LP is chock fulla great Bolan-esque boogies-- matter of fact, they often outdo the Ol' Slider himself on his own turf. "Sold Me Down the River" with its huge, femme-backed chorus and Faces-era Ronnie Wood slide guitar moves courtesy of Steve Forrest positively screams "HIT!" Ditto "Long Legged Lisa," a sleazefest that puts the L.A. glitter kiddies from a decade later to shame. Alas, such good fortune was never to be the case for this British Quintet--ceptin' in Japan which further adds to Mr. DB's Spinal Tap-like career (although bassist Nigel Harrison would find fame with Blondie).

Comments, yes comments-- where I put goodies and you shower me with indifference.

Wam Glam (Pt. 2)

#4

 

WHITE WITCH - S/T (1972)


If you're a 70's nut, I doubt I could bestow a better gift upon you. Lesee, ya got hippie mysticism, a vocalist so bombastic he makes Ian Gillan sound like a shrinking violet, wakajawaka guitar riffs, a Moog, Gospel-derived harmony vocals... gettin' the picture? Nope, I doubt you are cuz White Witch were a band with a serious identity crisis. One minute it's 1968 and they present a rewrite of "Dear Prudence," the next, they realize it wuz 1972 and Deep Purple wuz what the kids wuz diggin'. Hey howzabout we put a Dickey Betts riff in this song-- they'll eat it up! It's like some kinda diabolical stylistic see-saw! Then again, what the hell should we expect from an err... "glam" band from the swamps of Tampa, Florida signed to Capricorn, a gawdamn Southern Rock label?!

The answer might be in the comments.

Wam Glam Fuck You Man (Pt. 1)

Over the next few days (or so), I'm a-gonna count down some of the greatest, most under-appreciated bands in the most maligned of much-maligned genres: Glam. The parameters I plan on using will be a tad narrower than most-- firstly, they of course gotta have the androgynous thing happenin', but not the way that say, a vapid band like Poison looked; nope, I'm talkin' bout the kinda ugly motherfuckers that looked positively ridiculous in their lipstick and garter-belts-- if only to up the entertainment ante. They also must have a link, however tenuous, with the music regularly profiled here or in the evolution thereof. Oh, and they've gotta, y'know, rock & stuff... and not to worry-- there will be not so much as a mention of Dave "Never Had an Original Idea in My Life" Bowie or creepy He-Divas like Elton John. So, without further ado:

#5

 

LEAVING TRAINS - The Lump in My Forehead

Along with Doom Giants Saint Vitus, the Leaving Trains always seemed to these tortured earholes at least, the most outta place outfit on the then-mighty SST imprint. With repeated listens, certainly their punkiness exposes itself, but on the surface, it was/is difficult to tell if they were punk rockers taking the piss outta fellow Angelenos like the Crüe or G'n'R, or if trashy, glittery gutter rock was/is embedded deep in their black little hearts all along. I think it's most likely a combination of both-- flamboyant frontman "Falling James" Moreland, with his fondness for looking like an exploding thrift shop, and penchant for writing stadium-sized hooks is my first and last submission for your (dis)approval. And, seeing how he went through band members faster than he did eyeliner, he is indisputably the Alpha and Omega of the Trains.

Where the hell to begin? 12 years and 8 albums into their none-too-illustrious career (the release prior to this one was entitled, "Loser Illusion Pt. 0," prompting further noggin-scratchin' on my part), Leaving Trains Mk. Whatfuckingever issued "Lump", a scathing indictment of Sweet Home Suburbia in the US of A. As if to prove that sacred cows make the best hamburger, the album begins with a skewering of one of Conservative America's biggest icons in "Bob Hope." The theory they put forth is that Hope was an agent of apocalypse (Ronnie's friend/Johnny's friend/Tricky Dick's friend and Eisenhower's friend), as his sagging career was forever propped up by entertaining GI's (Wanna get the lowdown on the end of the world? Torture Bob Hope); complete with jokes every bit as bad as Ole Ski-Nose ever cursed us with-- and that's just the first track! From there it gets far more tasteless, which is, of course what great R&R's all about, right?

I know a lotta you hand-wringing lefties'll have tough time accepting misogyny in any form, but first consider this: Mr. Falling had the severe misfortune of being the first husband of a certain Ms. Courtney Love-- thus, a little ditty called "Women Are Evil" is more likely an exorcism than it is hate-mongering (Never put up and never put out/Women are evil/Lead you down the road to death & destruction). It's impossible not to admire the sheer audacity exhibited here-- these motherfuckers don't know when to stop! Honest to Kee-rist, they even use one of the most banal of all 70's slogans, "Gas, Grass or Ass" as not only a song title, but as the sole lyrics to said song-- a lewd-n-crude blazing 1:30 of sub-Black Flagetry with a feather boa around its neck. None of this can prepare you for the apex of this long-player, though.

"I'm OK" opens with faux-epic keyboard flourishes that Axl Rose seemed so infatuated with on his wretched ballads like "November Rain" and "Estranged," but this ain't no self-pitying ode to losing the Supermodel ya beat up, Homely; it's a wiggy tale of a fresh-from-the-nuthouse All-American dad unable to cope with his bland, White Picket Fence Existence. A trip to the shed to get the lawnmower leads to excessive consumption of Jack Daniel's which leads to... a bout of mass murder (undoubtedly based on James Huberty). I won't spoil it any further for you, but let it be said that despite the pisstake (?) arrangement, it may be one of the most subversive slices of social commentary ever waxed.

Look in the comments.

Back to the J-pcore Basics

BASTARD - No Hope in Here (Discography)

As Carl Panzram or Gary Ridgway are to serial slaying, or Slayer's "Reign in Blood" is to thrash/speed metal, so is Tokyo's Bastard to J-pcore-- the absolute fucking pinnacle. "No Hope in Here" compiles everything they released in their brief 1988-91 existence. The first eight tracks are taken from the beyond essential LP, "Wind of Pain"-- an absolute monster of d-beatin' fused with metallic fury. The production is breathtaking-- razor sharp, but not at all clinical. Tokurow's gruff, commanding vocals are up front, but never at the expense of Zigyaku's immaculate riffing and brief, piercing solos. Koba's flawless drumming hammers the final nail in the House That Discharge built-- in fact, I dare you to find a better d-beat album not made by Discharge.

They were far more than clones of the UK legends, however. It's difficult to explain to anyone new to the style, but there are nuances to their sound that separate 'em from their heroes-- it can sometimes be as simple as an icy pick slide at the most bone-chilling moment, or the way they completely shift gears from intense hardcore thrashing to slower, anthemic passages that, while seamless, can disorient a listener in a way Discharge never could ("Flash Out" being a prime example). The remainder of this collection is comprised of their "Controlled in the Frame" EP, and various compilation appearances.

Essential.

Look in the comments for goodies.

Light My Hair On Fire

The Firebirds / The 31 Flavors

"Light My Fire / Hair"

Crown Records 1969

Ohhh, these records are fucked up. Okay so, for you younger readers, back in the 60's up through the early 80's, there was this phenomenon of the bogus record label. Companies like K-Tel and Ronco in the US and Crown in the UK would traffic in cheap imitation pop music predicated on siphoning monies from grandparents and other squares. Often times it would say the band's name on the cover (Beatles for example), but the music inside would be performed by session hacks with horrid production values. Sometimes it would be a complete has been singer fronting these same hacks (I had a Troggs LP like this at one point). Far more rare, and most often producing unquestionable poo, was the 'exploitation band'.

These bands were, again, just session hacks in it for the paycheck. Surf music's hot? Okay boys, pump out a surf record, we'll call ya... Beach Daddies. Oh! This mod stuff is really burning up the charts! Okay boys, learn this crap - I wanna 'Mod Gods' record on the shelves by Monday! Holy crap! Can you believe this psychedelic panther piss? Get to it, lads, here's a bag of cheap weed, knock yourselves out!!

And thus, The Firebirds, a completely anonymous British session band, released 'Light My Fire'. Now, the Doors hit of the same name doesn't really show up on the album, although it's main hook is alluded to in one song and even though one song IS called 'Light My Fire' that isn't the one!

Stylistically, LMF doesn't sound ANYTHING like Jim Dandy & The Knobs. In fact, the intended effect - a Hendrix Experience clone - ends up sounding like Jack Bruce of Cream fronting first LP Black Sabbath MOCKING the Experience! It's incredible in just how over the top it goes: The guitar is BRUTAL, taking on an almost 'My War' era Greg Ginn (Black Flag) feel on the LP's best track 'No Tomorrows'. It just squeals with that tortured amp buzz, like Blue Cheer's 'Vincebus Eruptum' , but even dirtier, if you can believe that. If you're a Tony Iommi freak, prepare to be surprised when you hear this guy pulling out the licks to 'Paranoid' TWO YEARS before that song existed! The drummer is particularly entertaining in his 'Fuck - A - Muthafuckin' Mitch Mitchell' approach. I think there may be ONE steady beat throughout the entire record. This guy is a fill MACHINE- it's absurd! Plus, the record contains a three solo suite "Free Fuzz / Free Bass / Free Drums". The highlight here is "Free Bass"(hahaha!) . The bassist isn't really skilled enough to do a proper solo, and hearing him struggle through it is a Spinal Tap worthy moment. Like I said earlier, the singer has a Jack Bruce-ish quality, but then does himself no favors by employing Hendrix speak on 'Gypsy Fire'. It must be heard to be believed!

Now, remember, this isn't a real band - just some salary guys with guitars and no control over the end product. As such, the track 'Warm Up' is just NOT the same band. It may have a few of the same players, but it doesn't even remotely approach the sound of the rest of the album. Why on Earth would they do that?

I'm glad I asked! You see, they needed to pad the record to bring it in at JUST lengthy enough to rate as a long player. Why not put another track by the same group on to do this? Well, why do that when you can split up their sessions and put out another record at the same time with an entirely different name? That's right, dummy, enter: The 31 Flavors 'Hair'.

So Crown Records puts out this 'Hair' LP that contains hideous, I mean HIDEOUS versions of 'Hair' (duh) and 'Age of Aquarius (Let The Sunshine In)' (probably by completely different musicians). If my Grammy bought this for my birthday, after being molested aurally by 'Aquarius', this would been art on my steam heater, man. Which would be a shame because following those sonic abortions is more 'Firebirds' material. A few tracks ('Protest' & '1,2,3,4') sound like they are from the year before heavy distortion arrived and rumble along in a garage punk manner - casually out of tune and sludged up. 'Free Fuzz' & 'Free Drums' reappear here. Wrapping things up is 'Distortions of Darkness', which is an instrumental version of 'Light My Fire's 'Reflections II' (and I imagine was probably called 'Reflections I' at some point) - only here it's about twelve times as heavy and barbituated.

Now, I've gone ahead and put the two records together and exorcised the unnecessary fluff of 'Hair', & 'Aquarius' as well as the extra 'Free' tracks from 'Hair'. You may want to kill a few others, but I left those up to you to decide. These records are either extremely bad-ass or extremely bad-crap, but the fact that it's good at all is the treat here!

Verbindung in den Anmerkungen!! (link in comments, you unworldly goof)

What Are You Doing to Participate?

LORD HIGH FIXERS - When the Revolution Comes

Long Tall Texan Tim Kerr is more punk than you, punk. Pioneering hardcore with the Big Boys in the 80's, introducing the nastiest, trashiest slide guitar this side of fellow Lone Star resident Johnny Winter to blues-punkers Poison 13 a few years later, trouncing eardrums with the Gories' Mick Collins in the King Sound Quartet... y'all should know his rap sheet by now. For the Lord High Fixers, Kerr hooked back up with former Big Boys roadie/Poison 13 yelper Mike Carroll, Robbie Becklund (bass), Stefanie Paige Friedman (drums) and Andy Wright (guitar). Their manifesto: to reinvigorate the MC5's clamoring for youth revolt through rock 'n' roll into the mid-1990's latitude/longitude. A Herculean task to be sure-- I mean, how many of them flannel-flyin', greasy-haired neo-hippies would answer the call? Not many, obviously-- but musically, they pull it off.

So, they take some updated White Panther-style sloganeering (like the one I used for the title of this post), a plethora of styles, be it free jazz or lysergic soul, yet they never let you forget that they are first and foremost Punk Fucking Rock. The Kerr/Wright guitar tag team may not take you to Saturn as effortlessly as Kramer/Smith did, but then, they seem more interested in kicking yer apathetic head awake than engaging in interstellar pursuits. Mike Carroll may very well be the most contemptuous bawler to ever pick up a mike-- his snooty bluster injects a sense of urgency into the band's delightfully juvenile rallying cries. Add in a rhythm section who sound like they share the same heartbeat, and ya got yer damn self a compelling case that, in the right hands, R&R may not be dead after all.

Social Upheaval in the comments.

A Toast to Hank

CHARLES BUKOWSKI - Hostage

Everybody I admire dies. I admired Lester Bangs; he died. I admired Hunter S. Thompson; he died. I admired Charles Bukowski... well, you get the picture. Maybe I should turn my admiration towards Oprah and Dr. Phil, hmm? Fortunately, none of Hank's novels or books of poetry made it onto Oprah's "Must-Read" list; sad he didn't get to tangle with that chrome-pated snake-oil salesman, though-- I'm pretty much positive Hank coulda taught that pathetic old fraud a thing or three about human nature.

Bukowski's reality was/is a little too much for most folks to take. His words captured the true essence of being-- shitting, pissing, fucking, puking, failing, loving even-- with unblinking, unedited honesty. Much is made of his nigh-heroic conspicuous consumption-- in fact, I've seen plenty of wannabe scribes put themselves on the Bukowski Diet of booze & squalor, never realizing that Buk's wit and wisdom didn't come from the bottom of a bottle (well... not entirely); this is a guy who came home from working all day as a postman, and then spent the entire night concentrating on The Work. He considered it a failure to not have completed at least 25 pages of The Work.

Since almost nobody puts eyeballs to books anymore, here's an opportunity to listen to a reading by one of America's Last Great Writers (yes, I realize he was born in Germany). Recorded live at The Sweetwater, Redondo Beach, CA, April 1980, this performance will embarrass you, make you laugh, make you hate... the whole damn gamut of emotions.

And that voice! The closest comparison I can come up with is Snagglepuss. Down-n-out-with-yer-chest-puffed-out... even!

Before you proceed to the comments, may I recommend this, this or even this?

Alpha Men

SHIVER - San Francisco's Shiver

If you thought that Blue Cheer's Neanderthal Stomp didn't begin to wrap its big, furry arms around popular culture until the mid-70's, here's an artifact worthy of your attention: Texas freak & skins-basher Don Peck (a protégé of Spirit's Ed Cassidy, fyi) packed up his drums in the late 60's & headed to Haight-Ashbury with the intent to live out his Cave Rock fantasies. He was joined by Neil Peron (bass), Frank Twist (guitar, vocals) and for a time, demonic frontman Terry "Hook" Saluga, so monikered due to his hook for a hand-- which came in every bit as (ahem) "handy" for mindless violence as it did for playing makeshift slide guitar (he doesn't appear on this recording unfortunately). As adept at entertaining blissed-out hippies as they were, their true forte was providing a soundtrack for bikers to down red wine & Seconal-- the perfect diet for indiscriminately stomping anyone unfortunate enough to be "in the way."

Recorded in 1972, this here LP is "live in the studio" transcribed to tape on a 2-track machine-- no overdubs, no fucking around. As a result, the sound quality dips into the oh-so-lame-to-say "lo-fi" category on occasion, but I like to think of it as "period charm." Truth be told, with music this brutish & unruly, a shoddy audience boot would suffice-- nothin' but nothin' could diminish this fiendish caterwauling. Right from the git-go, Thee Cheer's Ghost raises its sloped forehead with the barbaric bashing of the six-minute, sub-Jimi-fried jam of "Tough as Nails"-- which lives up to its name with brawn to spare. Before you can recover from such a merciless pummeling, "Fixer" begins, introducing Twist's untrained bellow along with his unrelenting torture of a Cry Baby Wah pedal (I swear, he's tryin' to stomp on it as hard as Sonny Barger's cronies did on HST). The pièce de résistance, however, is the 14-minute, unabashedly macho "Alpha Man." Built on a riff that sounds suspiciously like the outro of Jimi's adaptation of "Hey Joe," the simple vamp provides the perfect launching pad for this ramshackle power-trio to ply their trade as Purveyors of Music as Bludgeoning Accessory.

Buy it ya cheap bastards!

Look in the comments.

Have You Ever Been Fucked Over Lately?

RAVEN - Back To Ohio Blues

self released 1975

Columbus, Ohio

Jesus, where do I begin? Okay, earlier this week I went to one of my favorite music sites SHIT-FI and read lead scribe Stuart Schrader's hilarious and dead on review of Ohio (AGAIN?!) rock brute RAVEN's 'Back To Ohio Blues'. A lot of times, when you hear about 'this is a crazy proto-punk assault' it's pretty tenuous, taking a bit of imagination to get you there. For his pure 'life is fucked, fuck it' lyrics and 'I could give a shit' attitude Raven is, in my book, a Proto-Punk on par with Ohio compadre's Electric Eels (I promise not to mention them in my next post - PROMISE), MC5 and yes, even Stooges.

Musically, 'B2OB' is definitely crude and rude; on album opener 'Can't You See' the bass player is so off the mark it's RIGHT FUCKING ON, adding a menace to a track that may have been merely 'okay' without it. Raven, who sings and plays guitar, definitely knows his way around a six string, pounding out the biker rock riffage and tearing off the solos after every obnoxious phrase. It's certainly nothing new but the recordings were done quick, left rough and, if Raven's lyrics are to be believed, fueled by sick amounts of hard drugs and booze. Needless to say, there's an energy and violence at play here that is just missing in a lot of other so called 'lost heavy psych gems'.

And those lyrics! And that voice!

Raven tries to play it cool, like on 'Raven Mad Jam' where he belts out the tried and true ambiguous 'Gotta Get High / Gotta Get Down' mantra. But just when you're ready to once again endure that farty old wink wink nudge nudge, Raven figures his listening audience may be sick of that old hat (or maybe to drunk to get it) and lays it bare with a 'Gotta Get Stoned! / Gotta Get Fucked!' coupling and with a hell of a lot more blood than the previous one. And in case you're thinking that by 'Gotta Get Stoned' Raven is talking about smoking a little Alcopoco Gold in a wicker chair, guess again Jack Webb!

Okay, Raven's vocals are really great. He just doesn't give a fuck. In the lyrically rewarding, musically trying title track, Raven starts with a lamenting tone (of course, I mean, he's going back to OHIO) that , as the 13+ minute blues dirge marches on, turns into a howling, grunting psychopath screaming for a release only death (or some really pure heroin) can bring. On the afore mentioned 'Can't You See', Raven sings pretty well on the main vocal, but follows that up with a backing track where he's so fucked up, he's off time and slurring. It's GREAT!

In keeping Jake's policy of honesty, I'll say that the third track doesn't hold up to the rest of the album, but just musically. The lyrics are still crazy.

Of course, like everyone else, Raven has a myspace page which held a surprise even bigger than the fact that he's not dead or in jail: His track 'Asshole 2007 EDIT' is a solo guitar piece that has far more in common Keiji Haino than Jeff Beck! No shit! Also, homeboy has vinyl for sale and will sign that shit!

Link in the magical, tragical kingdom of 'comments'.

SWAMP RATS - Disco Still Sucks!

These vermin crawled out of a garage in McKeesport, PA in 1966, an ugly mutation of their previous incarnation as the poppy (though cool) Fantastic Deejays. This is what it musta been like to sit in on an early Stooges rehearsal (if they ever had one); the guitars are shit-caked with impenetrable distortion, the vocals are larynx-shredding screeches... the (mostly) cover material is treated with about as much respect as Pete Townshend had for his ears. Even the Sonics' "Psycho" is given no quarter-- mangled, mauled and reshaped into sheer punk dementia. Ditto their crazed take on "Louie, Louie" (yes, it was written into every 60's band's contract that they hadda record at least one version of it). Does that mean they were a better band than the Seattle legends? Hell no! The Rats were a model of inconsistency-- despite the intense slabs of garage goop featured here, there's also stabs at Merseybeat which frankly, much like Disco, still suck. Forgive my unflappable honesty on that last point though, kats 'n' kitties: the majority of this platter is great, wailin' fun. Shit, any more primitive and they woulda had callouses on their knuckles!

RIP to Swamp Rats vokillist/skins-basher Bob Hocko, who died of lung cancer in 2003, aged 54. There will be many more to come who will gasp in awe at your band's godly crud.

Look in the comments, dumbass.

LAST CHAPTER - The Living Waters

This entry is an answer to Erich's excellent post of Solitude's "And Justice For All" demo tape. Hailing from Arlington, Texas, Last Chapter were a doom metal band in the vein of Candlemass and Dio-era Black Sabbath. Despite forming in 1989, their inability to find a suitable vocalist kept them from making an actual recording until a decade later. In fact, members Darrin Davis & Cody Griffith (guitars), Jason Spradlin (drums) and Terry Pritchard (bass) almost called it quits before being approached by Solitude Aeturnus guitarist John Perez to make an album for his fledgling Brainticket label-- borrowing the immaculate pipes of Solitude wailer Robert Lowe in the process.

Piling one crushing riff on top of another, "The Living Waters" is a relentless slab o' doom. Occasional flourishes of synth-guitar add a progressive edge not often heard in what is almost by definition, a strictly codified genre. Lowe's soaring, near-operatic vox, crank the Melodramatic Meter into the red-- and I wouldn't want it any other way. However, here's where things get a little unusual if you've read any of my anti-religious rants: these guys are of the "White Metal" variety-- read: X-ians, which has always seemed like a contradiction in terms to me. But, I figger if Satanists, Anarchists and Social Darwinists are welcome here, despite my misgivings, a few Soldiers of Thee Lord ain't no big deal. Besides, the lyrics are reasonably abstract, revolving mainly around the most metal of themes-- the Apocalypse (I'm sure more'n a few of you blew out yer speakers with Trouble's "The Skull"-- also Friends of Jesus).

Look in comments.

Duels 'N' Zeuhl

If you're anything like me, you tend to be wary of collaborations between "name" acts (man, oh man is that a relative term around this dump!). Never fear, folks-- that unwavering SLN quality and quantity is prevalent once again:

BEVIS & TWINK - Magic Eye

When you take two classic British Eccentrics of this stripe and throw 'em together, the margin for disaster would appear to be off the board. Is Nick Salamon aka Bevis Frond gonna stomp all over ex-Pink Fairy/Pretty Thing Twink's (John Adler to his mom) acid-damaged exaltations with his acrobatic fuzzed-out guitar leads or will it be the other way around? Thankfully, neither. This is a collaboration in the truest sense of the word. Opening track, "Sorrow Remembered", in fact, doesn't sound particularly like what we've come to expect from either man; beginning with some heavily phased drums, a Mingus-like bassline is then introduced before the duo journeys into a polyrhythmic Beefheart jam. Twink's autobiographical "The Fairy" is a churning, three-chord fuzz-punker that is almost the equal of "Do It!"-- it could, in fact, pass for a Pink Fairies outtake. What's most impressive of all is that they never cross the line from inspired lunacy into overindulgent wankery. Some of Salamon's most captivating soloing can be found here-- especially noteworthy being the coda of "She Darks the Sky" where he makes fine use of a Wah-wah pedal, his wailing completely unhinged, but restrained. A term not used very often to describe the man.

You know where to look, right?

DEREK BAILEY & RUINS - Saisoro

Whaddaya know? Another English Eccentric-- this time, Thee Legendary King of Jazz Improv-Guitar, Derek Bailey. What say we pair him off with Tatsuya Yoshida & Ryuichi Masuda of the equally legendary Japanese progressive noise-meisters, the Ruins-- two dudes who'd never improvised before? Most disheartening of all, this opus had the backing of John Zorn's Tdazik label, a company seemingly only interested in unleashing as many of the most stupefyingly dull platters of masturbatory art-dreck their budget would allow. Uh oh... sounds like a recipe for catastrophe, right?

Luckily, no. "Saisoro" is a triumph because no one in this trio has a bluesy bone in their bodies. That fact short-circuits the opportunity for prolonged, messy jamming and replaces it with some genuinely revolutionary instrumental interaction. This is true improv-- you can tell these guys are listening attentively to every note being spewed out. Bailey's axe sounds more like a damaged android trying in vain to communicate with Yoshida's wordless, creepy vocalizations than simple strings and wood. So strap yourself in for an album that takes the Ruins' Magma fetish several solar systems beyond the shores of Kobaia.

Look in the comments.

A Tour of the Bubblegum Factory

Some Redd Kross:

Switchblade Sister (EP)*

Third Eye

Oh Hi there! Sorry, couldn't hear you over the crunchin' of my Count Chocula. Or mebbe it was the din of Cheap Trick's "At Budakan" blastin' on the 8-track. Wanna Peanut Butter & Fluff sandwich? Cool-- when you're finished let's hop in the Trans Am and head to the mall; that Amazon chick with the blond hair might be there! Shit yeah! We'll take Abba Road... gotta get back in time for that Linda Blair in prison flick-- if I can get the rabbit ears just so we'll be in business.

* = This is the Canadian version-- it includes two extra tracks: "Trance" and "Byrds & Fleas".

In the comments, dudes & dudettes.

NECROS CHRISTOS - Grave Damnation (Demo)

Formed in Berlin in 2001 by multi-instrumentalist/vocalist Mors Dalos Ra, Necros Christos is blackened death metal in the finest tradition as exemplified by Treblinka/early Tiamat, Acheron and Göetia-era Mystifier. Heavily influenced by occult rituals, each track is prefaced by a numbered "Temple" which are spoken invocations or ethereal keyboard pieces. Last year's "Triune Impurity Rites" was an underground metal sensation-- and perhaps the best release of any genre, so I felt the need to investigate this 2004 demo.

Suffice to say if you enjoyed the grim, oppressive atmosphere of "Rites", you will again throw the horns against your will upon hearing "Grave Damnation". A drum machine is present throughout, but it does little to take away from the doomy riffage and creepily near-whispered vox. The "Temples" are again featured, often sounding like the pseudo-horror flick passages Italian Prog-Rockers Jacula were infamous for (or mebbe Goblin's "Suspiria" OST). "Christ Was Not of Goatborn Blood" evokes an ambience as blasphemous as its title with claustrophobia-inducing guitar-work & Ra's reptilian croak. Also welcome is a cover of Thee Immortal Goatlord's "Acid Orgy"-- a fairly faithful rendition that also provides a decent touchstone for the Necros Christos sound.

This thing was limited to 1000 copies, originally released on Iron Fist Kommando Records.

Look in the comments!

His Name Is Larry

WILD MAN FISCHER - Wildmania

I fondly remember an older fella that useta saw joyously on an oddly-tuned violin on the streets of the hideous city I useta live in (before I ended up out here in the sticks, now blissfully unaware of urban activities). His repertoire mainly consisted of C&W standards a la Hank Williams, Lefty Frizell etc., but his most transcendent moments occurred when he allowed his fingers & bow to wander into free-form unaccompanied jams-- it was then that he truly found his groove, completely oblivious to gathered onlookers & restrictions of meter and the "right" notes and created what can no more and no less be called Pure Fucking Art. I would stand there, oh-so-cool in my black leather, mesmerized by the alien timbres and crushed musical boundaries he negotiated with ease. If I'da had little more'n a pot to piss in at the time, I woulda taken this guy into a recording studio to document his mini-symphonies for posterity.

"You poor fool," I hear you sneer, "you were suckered by some talentless old drunk looking for his next bottle of cooking sherry!" Which is exactly the kinda weak bullshit the sniveling college geeks uttered as they pointed at him laughing condescendingly. Fuck those people (and you if you're of the same mindset). Like approximately 99.9 % of this hapless mudball's population, they've been brainwashed by "professional" musicians and the pigfucker corporations that foist 'em upon us, who'd have you believe that conjuring great tuneage somehow has something to do with instrumental virtuosity. These are the same sickening pukes that decided that you can never hear "Sunshine of Your Love" on the radio too many times-- or see pathetic marketing projects disguised as "artists" on MTV often enough.

It should be obvious what I'm getting at if you know anything about the Legendary Larry "Wild Man" Fischer. His love of singing at any and every opportunity got him locked up in various mental health institutions from his teens onwards. Of course, such hellholes did far more harm than an impromptu concert at a laundromat ever would (Then again, a society that would subject Roky Erickson to shock therapy while declaring the likes of Oprah Winfrey or Jesse Helms "sane", is not a society to fucked with). Proving that it takes genius to recognize genius, Soulman Solomon Burke spotted him at a 1965 talent show, and took him on tour with him (he also was the one to dub him "Wild Man"). Fischer's constant performances onstage with the likes of Bo Diddley, as well as on street corners all up & down the Sunset Strip, brought him to the attention of Frank Zappa, who signed him to his Straight label, and produced/engineered his 2 LP debut, "An Evening With Wild Man Fischer". A fall-out over royalties quickly ended this partnership, however ("Frank's Got Money in the Bank", anyone?).

After a few years of relative inactivity, he discovered a new favorite haunt-- a small music store in L.A. called Rhino Records (ever heard of 'em?). So enamored of their new (sorta) client was the staff that they put together this album in 1977, backing him as the "Plastic Rhino Band". The majority is Larry simply channeling his psyche, without backing (although with his formidable arsenal of vocal clucks & sound effects, he does a king-hell job of backing himself), into song-- be it stories about his family, friends or beloved Los Angeles Dodgers (in fact, several tracks were recorded live at Dodger Stadium). He offers an audience poll ("What Do You Think of Larry?"), and a far more interesting version of Otis Blackwell's "Handy Man" than the one James Taylor cursed us with. It's rare to find music as unencumbered by conformist debris as this one-- which is why you should toss aside said nonsense and enjoy some music in its purest form-- not snicker like a clueless asshole at this naive, but brilliant man. He's an artist.

Look in the comments.

Salvage Job

The following are posts from my old Blogger site. This is all I managed to dig up from Google's cache so far. Some links are in the comments, some are not-- so pay attention! PASS FOR ALL = sln2008




V/A - Break the Rules #8
Splitting from his partnership with Incognito, Peter P., who compiled the Back to Front compilations, started his own label, Insekten, to put out his new series, Break the Rules. The series picks up where Back to Front left off (with #7). - from Lipstickkillers.Com.

I've always been attracted to the duality of compilations:
1. I often get exposed to bands I've never heard, get obsessed, dig up all their shit and...
2. Use the comp (and its many brothers) as beer/rent money when everything is learned/stolen/acquired.

This one refuses to budge from the shelf however, and the reason is simple: As far as rare 77-style punk rock goes, it's the fucking bomb!

Being a Canuck Hockey Puck, I was of course, quite delighted to see the "Out of the Womb" tracks by Dayglo Abortions presented here in all their shambolic magnificence-- aside from these tracks, I've never been much of a fan of their turgid, jokey heavy metal-- and this is coming from a guy who's far more likely to be rockin' the Repulsion instead of the Ruts. There's a pro-marijuana rant from Accident on the East Lancs (Punks is Hippies indeed) and a none-too-PC slab (Stop! You'll make Camille Paglia cry!) from the Xterminators ("Occasional Lay"... bet this wouldn't go over too well in the squat these days). These are merely the tracks that came up on shuffle while I wrote this, believe me, there's not a dodgy track to be heard.

The Goods:

PF Commando - Go Go Go
PF Commando - Suburban Kid
Snuky Tate - New Time
Xtraverts - Blank Generation
Jack & The Rippers - No Desire
Dayglo Abortions - Used to Be In Love
Dayglo Abortions - Suicide
Dayglo Abortions - 1967
Mass Media - Kent Agent
TV-War - I'm the Nightmare
Hitler SS - Slave
Xterminators - Occasional Lay
Hærverk - Loven Slår
Hærverk - Ingen Visjoner
Accident On The East Lancs - We Want it Legalised
Xpress - Junked Up Judy
Just Urbain - Burning
Kriminella Gitarrer - Vardad Klädsel
Eppu Normaali - Poliisi Pamputtaa Tass
Miranda's - Dentist Blues
Kidz Next Door - Kidz Next Door

It can be acquired in the popular mp3 format here.



RUDE KIDS - Worst of... a Pardonless Collection

Sweden's Rude Kids have the dubious (?) distinction of being the first punk band from their country to be signed to a major label. You prolly know their smash hits like "Raggare is a Bunch of Motherfuckers" (aimed at a notorious street-gang of the time, though I'd like to make like a KBD compiler and tell you "Raggare" means "Werewolf" in Swedish or sumpthin'), "Absolute Ruler" and their response to the Stranglers' "All Quiet on the Eastern Front", "Stranglers (If it's So Quiet Why Don't You Play?)" from the Kbd comps etc., blah blah. However, as this 22-track collection proves, there was a shitload of meat left on the bone. Coming from a country where our closest neighbors often assume we live in igloos, I can definitely empathize with "We Got Polar Bears on Our Streets" (and laugh), and I'm tellin' ya, the bad joke of "Next Time I'll Beat Bjorn Borg" (a tennis player from the 70's young'uns) is redeemed by the catchiest damn riff you ever done heard.

Link in comments.

S.D.S. x 4

S.D.S. (Societic [sic sic sic!!] Death Slaughter) was a band from Gifu City, Japan formed in 1987 by guitarist Shibuya Assholer. They put out four EP's, two splits (one with Misery, the other with Hong Kong Knife) and a best of compilation.

Despite what I've read on various internet resources, this band didn't so much develop from primitive Japcore into a thrash/crossover-type band as they simply found something they liked, and ran with it and ran with it and ran with it. Take for example, my fave:



"Digital Evil in Your Life" (1999) where certainly there's a heavy Amebix influence (complete with a "The Moor"-style intro) but more than anything, a fascination with a cheap delay pedal that gives the vocals that "guy singing through a vacuum tube" sound. I guess it's meant to sound "robotic" to tie in with the "Digital Evil" theme, but I certainly wouldn't bet the farm on it. "V.E.N.O.M." wouldn't sound out of place on a latter day Disclose LP with its guitar-riff-as-static aesthetic... actually there's no shortage of that throughout their catalog. The "Ameber" EP released a year prior, is more in the straight-up thrash vein, and isn't quite as convincing as S.D.S. are when they stick to the punk basics. The other stuff included in this folder is the tracks from their split with Misery, and the "Never Arise" 7-inch (buzzsaw guitar hell!).

Get 'em here.



JEFFREY LEE PIERCE - Ramblin' Jeffrey Lee

It's hard not to gush like a jackoff fanboy when it comes to certain artists-- Jeffrey Lee Pierce is one of 'em. His work with the Gun Club, particularly the original lineup, is un-fucking-touchable. "Fire of Love" is one of the top 5 or 6 albums ever made with its mix of voodoo blues, primeval folk/country and vigorous punk rock. Unfortunately, his/their flame burnt far too brightly to sustain itself for any length of time, and JLP spent the rest of his seemingly unhappy life stumbling through some good and not-so-good Gun Club lineups, drug abuse and finally, some patchy solo albums.

"Ramblin' Jeffrey Lee" is the best of the lot with JLP returning to what he knew best: lowdown, filthy rock 'n' roll and the Scuzzy White Boy's Approximation of Delta Blues. For example, his take on Charley Patton's immortal "Pony Blues"-- reverential to be sure, but you can tell how wounded this man was and how them blues poured right through his fingers onto those acoustic guitar strings. For the millionth time, FUCK "Slughand" Crapton-- Pierce dwarfs his entire oeuvre so completely with this single performance that I almost feel sorry for the talentless schmuck. Pierce also does a bang-up job on Skip James' "Hardtime Killin' Floor Blues" eerily transporting you back 80 years in time to a street corner somewhere in Mississippi. He is accompanied by Cyprus Grove & Willie Love (who strike me as hacks-- but could not give a shit in this instance) on the electric tracks, the best of which is a fun-kay version of Frankie Lee Sims' "Long Gone".

To sum up, for Pierce/Gun Club fans, this is imperative.

Look in the comments.

Technicolor Cleveland

DAMNATION OF ADAM BLESSING - S/T

So what we got here could be easily summed up as Mark Lindsay Presents... The Vanilla Butterfly! That wouldn't be doing these Cleveland boys a whole lotta justice, though. Frontman William Constable aka Adam Blessing certainly is a dead ringer for the former Paul Revere & the Raiders vocalist, with his soulful, R&B-informed delivery-- and his band, well, let's say they were "very much of their time". What set 'em apart from the innumerable hordes of hard rock bands of the era was their keen melodic sense and clever use of light/dark dynamics.

Formed in 1968 from the ashes of garage bands the Society and Dust, Constable/Blessing was joined by guitarists J.P. Quinn and Bob Kalamasz, bassist Ray Benich and drummer Bill Schwark (Trivia! He was in the Alarm Clocks who contributed the great fuzz punkers "Yeah"/"No Reason to Complain" to Back From the Grave Vol. 1). They quickly earned a deal with United Artists in '69 after creating a huge local buzz, and released this LP later the same year. Stylistically, they managed to combine the still smoldering embers of late psych with the then-burgeoning sound of heavy rock/(pre-codified) metal.

One thing that must be said is that these honky motherfuckers could FUNK. Their grafting of a big ol' wiggly ass to the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarksville" is a must-hear. Ditto "Le' Voyage", a hyper-speed, semi-psychedelic romp with shimmering harmony vocals and rippin' bass. Their version of "Morning Dew" is definitive, making great use of Blessing's husky-then-velvety croon and Kalamasz's subtle, jazz-inspired guitar licks. Particularly beautiful is the "when I wuz a little boy" ballad, "Strings & Things"-- it features a harpsichord with poignant-- mebbe a bit on the cheesy side-- lyrics. It doesn't matter though-- they make it work with a ballsy chorus and the sheer enthusiasm of their performance. They would release two more decent, if inconsistent, albums before devolving into Glory, a formulaic AOR act.

EDIT: Damnation guitarist Jim Quinn dropped by to add his two cents here.

Look in the comments, numbnuts.



AMOEBA (RAFT BOY) - Bad Fuggum from the Mysterium

When it comes to a band like this one, you don't so much hope for a masterpiece as you do an affirmation its members have kept the faith. Well, never fear: ex-Electric Eel John Morton, ex-Mirrors/Styrenes Paul Marotta and Al Margolis are still art-damaged punks to the core. Now well into their 50's, the filthy racket these lifelong Cleveland noise boys evoke still destroys anything tykes half their age will ever come up with. That said, I wish they'd included more original material-- the majority of this opus is devoted to past glories & nods of appreciation to their early-to-mid 70's contemporaries. Sure, it's great to hear the guys tearin' through the Pagans' "Eyes of Satan" and the Eels' "Agitated", but it comes off as a bit nostalgic if not redundant. My main point of contention revolves around newbie screecher Christian Brown, however-- sounding a bit like a caricature of Jonathan Richman, his goofy antics often derail great performances, making me believe he'd be better off in an indie novelty act like Ween or They Might Be Giants.

If it sounds like I hate this record, I definitely DON'T. Besides having the great originals "Karma Bank" and "Transmogrification", their paint-peeling interpretations of Love's "7 & 7 Is" and Cle-Punk standard "Jaguar Ride" will always be welcome in my collection. It's simply that, unlike many scribes who'd have you believe everything they post is The... GREATEST... Album... EVER!!-- I don't feel the need to bullshit you... today.

Look in the comments-- and leave one so this blogging shit doesn't get old!

Canadian Beef

IT'S ALL MEAT - S/T (1970)

So what did His Eminence spin most heavily in 2007? Glad you didn't ask! I'll bet ya already figgered it wasn't something actually released in 20-Good-Fucking-Riddance-07... and you'd be right. It was an album released 37 years ago by some astute malcontents from Toronto.

Along with Simply Saucer, It's All Meat are perhaps the band that most fills me with pride for my Canuck Heritage. I have no idea if they spent countless hours spinning the Velvet Underground's self-titled third LP, but along with say, "Beggar's Banquet" and "Morrison Hotel", it provides a fairly accurate point of reference for their proto-punk sound. Consisting of Jed MacKay (keys and lead vocals), Rick Aston (bass and vocals), Rick McKim (drums) & guitarists Wayne Roworth and Norm White, they chose their name not in homage to the Animals song (as I've read elsewhere) but from a a dog food commercial that boasted "100% meat - no filler". Their ultra-sneerin' first single, "Feel It" (which you may know from Pebbles #9, included as a bonus here) and this lone LP were released by Columbia in Canada only.

So many highlights! This band exuded such an effortless cocky swagger, it's mind-boggling that they didn't at least merit wider distribution-- they definitely sounded like they were ready to grab the planet by its short 'n' curlies... "Listen to THIS, Fuckers!" The anthemic "You Don't Notice the Time You Waste" could pass for a New York Dolls outtake, if it wasn't recorded three years earlier. The snotty vocal spitting out streetwise words of warning is there, so's the slap-happy drums and so-sloppy-they're-perfect bastardized Chuck Berry licks. The nine-minute epic, "Crying Into the Deep Lake" invokes the Lizard King & Co. if you stripped away the pretentious, pseudo-poetic nonsense Jim dabbled in far too often-- pure psychedelic bliss, I tell ya! Atmospheric ballad "Sunday Love" is the kinda track Doug Yule woulda been grateful to wrap his tonsils around if Lou'd handed it to him... bah, what's the use? There's so much to obsess over when it comes to this platter. All I can do is give it Thee Highest SLN Recommendation & suggest you look in the comments.

Caspar Brötzmann - Mute Massaker

There is nothing particularly "avant garde" or "groundbreaking" about the onslaught of drone projects spearheaded by the likes of SUCK O)))-- clever marketing there; somehow leaning your guitar against an amp for an hour and a half equates to "doom metal" to the hopelessly gullible. I must admit, forming a tribute band to Dylan Carlson's Earth is charmingly amusing-- but it yields about as much musical merit as a band devoted solely to covering John Lennon's "One Minute of Silence" (Greg & Steve: No need to thank me for the idea-- you can have it free of charge). Caspar Brötzmann, on the other hand, is a completely different animal.

Hailing from Berlin, Brötzmann comes from impeccable stock-- his father was legendary sax-honkin' jazz deconstructionist, Peter Brötzmann, whose vital LP, "Machine Gun" as well as his work with Sonny Sharrock in Last Exit, should be prominently displayed in your collection. Thus, it's no surprise that Caspar is a virtuoso of the highest order-- he, however, chose the guitar as his weapon of choice. Taking his cue from Norman Westberg's skull-crushing guit-mauling on the early Swans LP's, Brötzmann takes the humble six-string into uncharted vistas never imagined or possible in the hands of bedroom dronesters. Each excursion ("song" doesn't seem like the proper term) begins as a formless smattering of lightly-strummed guitar arpeggios, that, over time, morph into True Teutonic Noise Terror. Hendrix as re-imagined by Philip K. Dick? In the ballpark, but still sadly lacking.

The vocals are essentially an afterthought-- an opportunity to further punctuate the stop/start arrangements and monolithic riffing. You feel you're an uninvited guest at an atavistic ritual -- Robert Dammig's tribal yet precise drumming triggers memories you may or may not have actually experienced. That, with Brötzmann's variety of tonal flavors layered one upon the other, makes for a sometimes exhausting listen, but an adventure well worth revisiting if you allow yourself to completely succumb to it. Much like great sex, this music provides an outlet to make yourself disappear.

Wallowing available in the comments.