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.