Six Fingers of Love

VARIOUS - Yeah Yeah Yeah!

I know, I know-- yet another dose of 60's garage snot on SLN. Ho hum, right? Not a chance, dudes & dudettes! May I direct your attention to Track #24, the Roughnecks' "You're Driving Me Insane," which is not only a killer slice of ramshackle teenage angst-- BUT -- it also features a barely-pubed Lou Reed with his his unmistakable monotone vocal delivery AND a pre-Blues Magoos Mike Esposito firing off the barely-tuned "hot licks"! Worth the price of admission alone for us VU phreaks, but dammit if there ain't a slew o' scree to get excited about-- high on the list being the Rocks' "Because We're Young," one of the finest examples of ineptitude-as-art-form to grace these ears since the Modds' "Leave My House"-- sounds like they wuz tryin' to tap into some o' that patented Caveman Stomp the Troggs bestowed upon us, but having never learned that Elusive Third Chord, leave us with a sublime hunk o' pre-Electric Eels shit rock. The Colony strive for some then-fashionable social commentary coupled with the further ambition of incorporating some Wilson Picket-style, greasy R&B on "Pseudo Psycho Intuition (Politician)," but, having the obvious handicaps of being white and naive, serve up some ham-fisted sludge complete with ever-varying tempos on their cardboard box drums. To Hell with it, I can't think of a single reason a Garage Nut wouldn't drool over this.

Thee Degenerates Responsible:

1. The Maniacs - Now I Know
2. The Rockin' Roadrunners - Down
3. The Little Bits - Girl Give Me Love
4. The Contemporaries - Fool For Temptation
5. The Barons - Drawbridge
6. The Zone V - I Cannot Lie
7. The Colony - Pseudo Psycho Intuition (Politician)
8. The Shoremen - She's Bad
9. The Shades - With My Love
10. The Mod VI - What Can I Do
11. The Barracudas - It's High Time
12. The Nightrockers - Junction No. 1
13. The Id - Stop And Look
14. The Hallucinations - You Say You Love Me
15. Sophamores - Mama Wears The Pants
16. Apollo's Apaches - Boss (Be Good To Me)
17. The K-Pers - The Red Invasion
18. The Young Savages - The Invaders Are Coming
19. The Skeptics - Wondering
20. The Worryin' Kind - Wild About You
21. The Roving Mob - You're The One
22. The Rocks - Because We're Young
23. Midnight Shift - Never Gonna Stop Lovin' You
24. The Roughnecks - You're Driving Me Insane
25. The Friars Of Youth - All You Wanted Was A Stand By
26. The Friars Of Youth - Sparrleyy Manurpuss
27. The Early Americans - Night After Night
28. The Boy Blues - Coming Down To You

Slobberin' available in the hallowed comments.


HOUND DOG TAYLOR - Beware of the Dog!

"When I die, they'll say, 'He couldn't play shit, but he sure made it sound good!'" - Hound Dog Taylor on how he'd be remembered.

This. Is. Punk. Fucking. Rock. Ten times more punk than Social Distortion, the Epitaph roster, Fat Wreck Chords and the majority of the dross MRR wastes newsprint on combined, as a matter of fact. This is all about playing as far out on the edge as the musicians' abilities allowed-- a buzzing mess occasionally, but always infused with tons of attitude and personality. No worries about being in tune or hitting bum notes, music made for the sheer joy of well... making music-- exactly what the Chicago blues scene at the time was the antithesis of... not unlike the bloated R&R corpse the Ramones and Pistols would set out to destroy a short while later.

Theodore Roosevelt "Hound Dog" Taylor was born in Natchez, Mississippi in 1915-- with six digits on each hand. The extra finger on his right paw met its grisly fate via a razor blade during a bout of drunkenness. He became a disciple of Elmore James, picking up the guitar at age 20, and packing his bags for Chicago. Playing the sleaziest joints imaginable as well as busking at Chicago's infamous Maxwell Street outdoor market, recordings would be few and far between until he was approached by a young blues fan named Bruce Iglauer in the late 60's. Iglauer, then an employee of Delmark Records, had a small inheritance of $2500 and wanted to start a label with the Dog as his flagship artist. The resulting LP, "Hound Dog Taylor & the Houserockers," (which can be had here, btw) would launch the long reign of Alligator Records, as well as lift Taylor's profile from local curiosity to National Treasure.

This 1974 live set is the Hound in his element-- along with his Houserockers, Brewer Phillips (guitar) and Ted Harvey (drums-- that's right, no bass. Sound familiar?) tear shit up with raucous boogies, gutbucket blues and seething crash-n-bash, über-primitive R&R instrumentals. Taylor's untutored slide guitar sounds like telephone wire snapping against an anvil as Phillips lays down makeshift bass riffs and Harvey holds it all together with the most basic of 4/4 thud on trademark archaic slopfeasts like "Give Me Back My Wig" and the positively incendiary "Let's Get Funky" (which they sure as hell do). They even manage to take the seemingly benign "Comin' Around the Mountain" into let's-clobber-the-bastards territory. Like I said: Punk. Fucking. Rock. Sadly, the Dog succumbed to cancer before the release of this LP at the age of 59. Your impassioned howl and any-note-is-ok slitherin' slide work are missed, my man.

Where could the goodies be?

Vibe On!

THEE MICHELLE GUN ELEPHANT - Collection

...And Rob Tyner Saith from Thee Golden Halls of R&R Valhalla:

"Let there be young Japanese men who would don thee garb of their native gangsters Thee Yakuza! These torchbearers of Thee Rock shouldst also worship at Thee Altar of DEEE-Troit High Energy Exponents of Revolution like mine Olde Outfit, Thee MC-Fuckin-5! And so shall it be that these Young Men cannot pronounce "Machine Gun Etiquette," thus giving them an original Nom de Guerre! And it shall be carved in Sacred Tablets that these Vessels of unbridled fury shall permanently bear blisters on their fingers! A-fucking-Men!"

But before this could come to be, Link Wray, drunk on the Holiest of Sacraments--Maker's Mark, according to many an Ancient Hymn-- chopped at the air with his Powerful and Much-Calloused Mitt:

"Silence, Robert! I hath a Proclamation!"

After far too many moments of chilling quietus, interrupted only by occasional hiccups:

"Out with it Father Link!  This chipping shit into stone with a spike and hammer is really fucking time-consuming!"

And Father Link rose from thee Pulpit, uncoiling himself to his full, Godly height, and fighting off a stagger howled into thee Hallowed Halls, "These little bastards are guilty of pinching many of my finest flash moves! Yet, they Doth Kicketh Mucho Hiney... So it is Good!"

Get Thou to thee comments.

Chromosome Damage Too

HELIOS CREED - Busting Through the Van Allen Belt

I often picture Helios Creed in a cavernous, underground laboratory wearing a lab coat while he conducts his experiments with assorted varieties of alien technology-- of course, these technologies include drugs not available from Rudy on the street corner. Nah, I'm talkin' extreme chemical alterations of the brain that allow him to tap into, and in fact, become one with his vast arsenal of gadgetry. I only mention this because unlike so many others that rely so heavily on machines, Creed never sounds like anything less/more than flesh and blood. For example, even though synthetic percussion is employed for the first half of this album-- quite cheapo thud at that-- it never sounds like loops... it's more like listening to someone pounding away with their fists on the defenseless drum pads. Helios likes to show them hapless contraptions who's boss.

The second half is live tracks recorded from Austin, Texas to San Francisco to Switzerland with "real" musicians. Longtime collaborators Z Sylver (keys) and Paul Della Pelle (drums) show up for three cuts and the final two tracks feature the Weiss brothers, Andrew (bass, also of Ween/ex-Rollins Band) and Jon (drums). Most interesting of all is Nik Turner lending some of his patented sax-bleating to "Hyperventilation," along with fellow past and present members of Hawkwind-- Del Dettmar (synth), Len Del Rio (keys), Grenas (guitar) and Paul Fox (bass). Despite the various confederates, this LP is a personal favorite for its cohesiveness-- it's the first of his solo efforts to dive head-first back into the science-fictionalized goop Chrome left unfinished.

I remember being so enamored of this here disc upon its release in 1994, that I went out and rented (at an absolutely cut-throat price) a then state-of-thee-art pedal board (a Roland I believe) in a pathetic attempt to add some extra-kookiness to my Residents rip-off hobby band. We'd been fucking around with chipmunk vocals and the like, so it seemed "proper" to have ridiculously over-treated geetar sounds to add to the worthless racket we'd been making. Unfortunately, even though I'd recent graduated from Ron Asheton Circa First Stooges Longplayer Rudimentary Axe Skills 101, I still sounded like a guy screwing around with noises he didn't understand. In short, the machine was playing ME. Helios Creed, on the other hand, never suffers from that problem.

Look in comments.


ROSCOE MITCHELL - Sound

I've had this 'un earmarked for at least 4-5 months. In fact, my original vision for SLN was a noise/free jazz-oriented monster with text every bit as impenetrable as the skronk offered as ritual sacrifice. Somewhere along the way, I compromised (heavily). Not sure why, but most likely it was the ominous specter of writing on a near-daily schedule about artists whose collective works are this emotionally and physically draining-- not good for my mental health... or yours, for that matter. Tackling a cultural watermark like "Sound" is akin to distilling the essence of "Human, All Too Human" into a few crass paragraphs-- yes, I'm aware that sounds more pretentious than a John Cage worshiper on peyote with five people giving him/her their undivided attention, but I couldn't think of a more down-to-earth analogy... my apologies. Awright, fuck it, I'm gonna plow forward even though I find this one of the more daunting tasks I've undertaken here.

Then again, who really has tapped into the vein of free jazz using mere words? Lester Bangs at his Romilar D-guzzlin' best? Nah, he tended to spend as much time rambling on about himself-- as entertaining as he was-- as the music itself. The academically-inclined yo-yo's at Down Beat? Need I even answer that? Truth is, verbiage will never accurately convey the organized chaos constructed by Roscoe Mitchell, Alto Saxman Extraordanaire, and his soon-to-be fellow members of the Art Ensemble of Chicago (Lester Bowie, Maurice McIntyre, Malachi Favors, Alvin Fielder and Lester Lashley). This is music so fulla paradoxes you'll soon find yer head swimming (and plenty o' other body parts as well)-- beautiful/hideous, playful/terrifying, harmonious/dissonant... I could list 'em for pages (but I won't). Instead, here's a quickie lowdown on two tracks (there's only five, two of which are alternate takes):

"Sound 1," is a shining example of what can happen when musicians with extra-sensory chemistry and boundless creativity are unshackled from all known conventional thought. Beginning with some atonal, yet thematic shrieks from Mitchell and Bowie (tenor sax), this 27 minute epic quickly shifts to a less serious tone with Lashley's entrance: Realizing that trombones create a damn good fart noise, he lingers in infantile territory for a while before being joined in the fun by Mitchell and Bowie. The result is the kinda bizarre interplay you'd tend to associate with Carl Stalling-- particularly if he was scoring a scene where Wile E. goes SPLAT!! And then there's Lester Lashley's cello "playing." The Godz had to've been spinning this sucker day 'n' night, as they are the only artists I can think of who mauled a bowed instrument quite like Les... you shouldn't feel ashamed if you at first mistake it for a cat being tortured.

"The Little Suite," also sounds a lot like cartoon music-- a rollicking, ever-morphing piece resembling a joyous, inside joke-filled conversation between cello, recorder, flugelhorn and um... gourds. When you start to believe you've wrapped your head around what they've set out to accomplish... you're wrong. Ringing bells punctuating the dialog unexpectedly give way to a cacophony of squawking saxes that'd make Keiji Haino wince. Frank "Money in the Bank" Zappa borrowed more'n a few of the ideas featured here (check out "Studio Tan" sometime).

If you downland, leave a comment... I mean, you're gonna be in there anyway, right?

My Favorite Martian

"Leave a comment, bitch!!"

Many of you are by now familiar with my co-conspirator Mars aka Tony Emmons-- he's the man responsible for bringing Raven's "Back to Ohio Blues" to your attention (one of the most popular posts we've had). What you most likely don't know is that he is an accomplished musician himself, wearing many different stylistic hats (or should that be afro sizes?) since the early 1990's. His story begins, as he describes it, as an "oedipal revenge tactic, on December 12th, 1970 to a teenage white girl and a middle aged black man in Cincinnati, Ohio." He and his younger brother J.R. were raised "by his mother and a small cadre of hippies, perverts and drug addicts in Central Maine until 1978 when, losing battle between a boyfriend and a mountain of cocaine, S.A. & J.R. were given up for adoption." Like so many of us, he found solace in music, picking up a guitar at the age of fifteen. Since then, he's played in a multitude of bands: Rumford, Squirm, Technicoloreds, FKTRN and currently, his one-man guitar-skronk outfit, S.A. Emmons. So, whether ya like or not, here's the first ever SLN full-length interview to fill in the blanks (and yeah, there's music as always too). Hope y'all enjoy!

Let's start with something extremely clichéd: what artist made ya wanna pick up the guitar?

It wasn't actually an artist. It was three things. In 1981 when I was 9 years old my adoptive parents sent me to a Catholic summer camp. Other than mass on Sunday, it wasn't any different than your typical camp. The cabin councilor was this teenager and he had a this eight pointed star shaped electric guitar. It was, I believe, the first electric guitar I ever saw for real. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Also, being that the camp was in Maine, we had a bunch of Franco Canadian kids from Québec there. There was a group of them that were total proto-poodle hairs: zebra shirts, spandex pants, pube 'staches and bandannas. They couldn't speak a word of English, but they knew all the words, phonetically, to Def Leppard's High N Dry LP. We had some kind of camp wide party and the Franco-Heshers got up and mimed 'Bringin' On The Heartache'. I was like, "Shit. That was awesome. I wanna do that", but for real! That same year at St. Joseph's Elementary, some kid got this toy electric guitar thing that had one thick string and had a speaker and distortion on it. It basically sounded like the intro to 'Iron Man'. I loved it so much I almost stole the fucking thing. So, yeah, the Catholics were very nervous about rock music, so my interest in music was completely ignored. Even though WASP in 1984 prompted me to actually spend money on my first electric guitar, I was hooked far earlier.

How about a quick rundown of your various bands/projects...

RUMFORD: Good trashy rock ala mid period Mudhoney, Legacy-era Misfits, Cramps, Stones. Jeff Evans (Gibson Bros. '68 Comeback) was gonna toast us to Long Gone John at Sympathy, but we broke up in an ego explosion right as the album hit.

FKTRN (aka fukktron aka Fucktron). This was Miami electronic wunderkind Dino Felipe's (also of Old Bombs with Carlos Giffoni) old band. I was in the last incarnation as we transitioned from guitars / tapes / broken electronics / drums to slick semi-expensive modern sequencers and samplers. Once Dino realized computers meant he didn't need collaborators, he didn't need collaborators. Great time, good friends, and one hell of an education. I'm on the FKTRN / Hair & Nails split cd on Public Eyesore playing guitar on the tracks A/B B/C & C/D.

SQUIRM was a short-lived attempt of mine to trick younger musicians into playing with me. It's comparatively commercial to just about everything I've done outside of 'Rumford' and employing the tried and true verse chorus verse structure. I was freaking out. I'm almost 40 years old. Most people my age are either established, married with children or otherwise 'retired'. I'd failed miserably in all of my attempts to start an original forward thinking band over a six to eight year period. At this point, I just wanted to play. So I totally over-thought what I figured kids were going to shit their pants for in 2008.

The Technicoloreds was/is a rehab project. After nearly giving myself carpel tunnel syndrome with SQUIRM's guitar histrionics, the idea of writing music in the guitar/bass/drums realm was just completely unappealing. So I turned to machines.

OK, so I actually did some research on Rumford. It appears to be a small town of around 7000 in Central Maine-- very Victorian. What is it about the place that haunted your soul so much that ya named a band after it?

Rumford, Maine is also known as Cancer Valley due to the fact that the smog that rises from the Boise Cascade paper mill that sits in the valley is trapped in the mountains and kills a lot of people that live there. When I was thirteen I was placed in The Rumford Boys Home (later renamed The Rumford Group Home). Having garnered myself frostbite in an earlier adventure, I couldn't go to school for the first two weeks i was there, so the psychos I lived with spread the word: "There's a NIGGER in the Boy's Home!"

At the time, I was the only black person for miles. Rural Maine's views of blackness came from Hollywood circa '83. Not very flattering. Looking back, if I didn't attack every John Deere hat wearing goofball dropping 'N' bombs, maybe life would have been easier - but violence was MY LIFE! Even teachers got in on the fun! I spent junior high in SPECIAL ED because I was a distraction to all those poor white kids who just couldn't keep their mouths shut. Once I got to high school, they attempted to keep me in Special Ed, but I somehow fought my way out of it. I'll never forget the Special Ed teacher looking at me like "You UPPITY LITTLE BASTARD!".

In my history class, the business teacher filled in for a while. Unfortunately, it was during our Civil War education. This bloated tick repeatedly referred to slaves as 'MONKEYS'.

So I acted like one and threw my desk at him.

Our school had a fund raiser known as 'Slave Day', where students became 'slaves' for another student who made a donation to the class treasury. Someone thought it would be funny to sign me up one year. It was even funnier when the Vice Principal called out my name as a participant over the monitors.

My perseverance through all of this crap ingratiated me with the other dregs - the metal heads, druggies and losers with skin problems. These guys had some real issues and, despairing and high on acid, one kid jumped off the Memorial Bridge, ending it all over a girl. This wasn't a new phenomenon, so many people had dove off this bridge there had been an X spray painted on the rocks below with the legend "Marks The Spot" emblazoned underneath it. But he was the first KID.

The fake outrage and media frenzy over a kid that no one cared about was truly disgusting. We had a huge assembly at school where the clueless teachers asked "WHY? WHY DO YOU DO THESE THINGS???". So, I got up and said, "Because there's NOTHING ELSE TO DO!"

Oh, well what are you going to do about it? This was the adults immediate challenge. So I suggested we start an organization of kids that would work toward putting things together (shows, movies, repairing the rec center) for kids to do. So a group was put together (with an overseeing group of - UGH - parents) with myself voted in as President. We cleaned up the old recreation center, I called in some favors and set up a huge thrash metal show.

The show was HUGE. My first band, Pesky Leper played along with four other bands from all over the state. There were two hundred kids there.

And someone crucified and eviscerated a cat...

Suddenly, there's a 'SATANIC CULT IN RUMFORD?'. At the next 'Youth Force' meeting (NOT my idea, BTW), the parents were freaking out - "What does all of this have to do with Youth Force? We've got to stop these Satanists!". So, I had to point out that it was more likely a gruesome prank. Like an idiot, I offered to ask a friend who was studying the occult if there was any sort of ritual of that sort.

Of course, there wasn't, so I said as much at the next meeting. The parents were even more freaked out now, forgetting all about St. Garfield and were highly concerned with my friend: "We've got to stop this girl from worshiping Satan!"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, so I made a huge mistake: I evoked the Constitution. I pointed out that, although my friend was NOT a Satanist, she had the Constitutional right to worship the deity of her choice.

Within a week, I became the leader of the 'Satanic Cult'. Police went to classmates homes and told their parents to keep their kids away from me. The parents guild of fascists suggested that if I REALLY cared about the aims of 'Youth Force' I'd step down and remove the stigma of ME from the group.

As an adult, I now see very clearly that this was an incredible effort by the parents of the dim bulbs who made up the rest of the Youth Force (mostly kids with overbearing mothers and no vision). They were sick of this teenage black bastard calling all the shots and making them feel stupid. So they fucked my world up good.

Alright, that's why I hate Rumford so much that i named a band after it so people would ask and the truth would get out.

You compared Rumford to Mudhoney-- doncha think that's selling yourself short?

Not at all. We never got a bad review but Mudhoney and Jesus Lizard got referenced a lot. I really don't think we sounded at all like either of those bands, but apparently I'm alone on that. We were a great live band that put out so so records. See next question.

Larry Hardy of In the Red was supposedly "embarrassed" at the prospect of signing Rumford to his label-- shouldn't he be more embarrassed of being a Pussy Galore fan?

See now, I love Pussy Galore and, at the beginning, Rumford was an unashamed PG clone. Now, I realize there are a vast abundance of reasons to hate them and the majority of their catalog has aged like meat, but what worked for me then, works for me now.

We sent Larry a bunch of live tapes in 1994 and he loved it.

Then we went into a 24 track studio.

The producer was just completely against all of our ideas and, I shit you not, re-recorded some of our other guitar players (Edward J Gibbs) parts when we weren't around. He didn't want his name associated with a 'bad' sounding record, apparently. The result was a polished turd. We were all pretty unhappy with it, but Gibbs sent it to Hardy ANYWAY. I have no clue why. So, Larry gets back to us and says he hates the record and that he couldn't put it out because, if I recall correctly "My friends will make fun of me" and that we should "sign with Am Rep and make a lot of money". The very next year he started putting out those Jon Spencer singles every month. So if it's guaranteed paydirt, shame takes a holiday. Not that I blame him - it was a horrible record. It should be noted that the album that did get released on Dubious Honor in '97 is an entirely different session with a sympathetic producer.

Last person you punched in the face?

The last person I full on punched in the face was a kid named Dana when I lived in the Rumford Group Home in 1984. I woke him up being loud and he freaked and called me a 'nigger'. This was a trigger word for me back then and I smashed him square in the face. He went down like a sack of potatoes. I had actually knocked him out. His eyes rolled back and he started twitching. I felt like "that'll be the last time he says that!" like, "oooh I'm so tough!" My thumb felt wet though and I didn't see any blood on Dana's face. So I hold my hand up , fingers spread and notice that my thumb was completely busted up. I mean, completely twisted out of it's socket. I lost it. The tears, the dreams of being a comic book artist all burning away... At the hospital, a doctor just walking by took a look at it and just yanked it back into place. Yeah, it was just that simple. My thumb is still all fucked up to this day.

I found this video on Youtube featuring your luxurious 'fro-- what the hell were you guys thinking?!!

That's with Dino Felipe and Vanessa Payes and Walueska Palais. FKTRN had been around for a long time, starting in Miami as part of the Monotract, Harry Pussy, To Live & Shave scene. We lived together in Atlanta through a VERY DARK period of bad drugs, bad decisions, bad people, and bad sex (no, I didn't fuck any of these people). The time I was involved was actually the end of the 'band' and the beginning of the transition into Dino going all electronic / glitch whatever.

Okay, what were we thinking. Dino and Walueska (pronounced 'Va Les Ka' the bald girl - the niece of Nicaraguan dictator Somoza) and her husband Rob Deth, were very proactive about constant creation, so if they weren't making music, they were making art, or movies or who the fuck knows. Vanessa (the 'drummer') and I just went along with it sometimes. The video is actually pretty vanilla compared to some of what got recorded.

Why the move to Hot'lanta of all places?

Well, a woman, duh.

The other reason was, at the time, the Portland, Maine music scene was just shriveling. Rumford had sprung up in early '94, inspired a bunch of other goons to pick up their guitars and pound out noisy garage rock and when we broke up in early '97 the scene died with us. I was fairly fed up with the verse/chorus/verse routine, and the band had no interest in going beyond that. I had been playing with a band called Secular Lambs To Lions with some really far out kids from San Francisco who had been in Caroliner and Deerhoof. They were all about improv noise and, at the time, I just didn't have the skills to do that correctly so I just got more and more depressed. Eventually, due to being the face of the 'cool' record store I worked at and a huge dick besides, I had worn out my welcome as a local celebrity - old ladies recognized me on the street but the scenesters were really hating on me.

A girl I knew had moved to Atlanta and really wanted me to come live with her. I liked her and I figured "It's GOT to be better than this".

Ironically, the Maine scene has really blossomed into a hotbed of experimental music.

How does S.A. Emmons fit into the Atlanta "scene?" Do you play out or is it strictly a recording project?

I don't really, at least not yet. When I came here in '99, Atlanta was in that moment between generations not unlike Portland. All of the established bands of the 90's (Tweezer, Melts, Pineal Ventana etc.) were breaking up, their members getting married and pumping out families. The bands that replaced them were very career minded, by the book rock bands - the most popular, 'The Tom Collins', prided themselves on sounding exactly like Led Zeppelin.

This was basically the mindset of the scene at that time. In reality, while these bands were huge in town they just bombed on the road. At the time, The FKTRN crew fled back to Miami and to the scene at large I was looked at as a joke. A black guy playing weird rock was just not the way to super-stardom. I was actually asked to open up for a band like this: "You know what would be hilarious..."

Listening to the S.A. Emmons stuff, I'm instantly reminded of Keiji Haino and The Dead C. In the ballpark?

I love Keiji Haino and Fushitsusha but they are not an influence really, more a validation. In fact, my S.A. Emmons work made me go search out Haino's stuff as I remembered it as being similar. The Dead C, I like okay but not an influence at all.

You claim on your Myspace page that S.A. Emmons is "the blues as I experience them," you haven't been art-damaged by one of those creeps from Southern Lord, have ya?

Not really. I love Earth, but I loved them when "Extra-Capsular Extraction" came out. I like a few things Stephen O'Malley's done, but beyond that I really don't know much of it. The S.A. Emmons stuff is created in a state of "AAHHH FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK OH GOD I HATE THIS WHY ME I SUCK" etc. A very low black hole emotionally. Usually after a woman has denied me (again). It keeps the noose away. I've got a lot of demons and I do a pretty good job keeping them quiet, but sometimes it takes an exorcism.

OK, you've been offered a long-term contract with a major label and a large indie (Epitaph, Sub Pop) simultaneously-- whaddaya do?

Ignore both. I have no interest in that game. You want an S.A. Emmons album? Let me know and I'll record one. Share it with your friends. If I actually get it together and come through your town on tour, come see me and if you're really cool, put me up for the night.

Is there any hope for R&R, or has it become a moribund art-form like jazz?

To look around at the musical landscape today, the cynic in me says no. But that's what people have been saying since the first generation of rockers went gray. Is there hope for R&R as far as an adult is concerned? No. Modern R&R is not designed to speak to us. It can't. What R&R is is redefined by each succeeding generation and MUST SOUND LIKE SHIT to ears over thirty.

My problem is that nothing is new. Rock music has fallen into a reflective period. That 'Punk Rock' still exists as some kind of youth rebellion movement is just tragic to me. When I see kids in the uniform of 'a punk', I don't see a statement of raw individualism, I see members of the flock. It's been bought in a box. But it don't mean shit if your parents understand it!

Of course, the kind of hideous stuff that led to the shockingly new thing that was Punk- Vietnam, Nixon, Thatcherism, the death of 60's idealism, The Eagles - that shit was unavoidable. There were only a few television stations, burned out hippies and their golden god coke rock strangled radio, an evil half-dictator in power...

In today's cultural climate, if you don't like something, it's very easy to pretend it's not there. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, The Bush Crime Family, Darfur, Reality Television, American Idol - it's all a click away from being a fuzzy memory. The astute kid can feasibly turn their TV to a news free (not that news is even news anymore) environment and the internet is whatever you want it to be.

There's no need for that new line in the sand when you can comfortably stick your head in it.

What was the question? (Close enough.- JTP)

___________________________________________________

Well, I hope some of you made it through the monolithic morass of words above-- you've heard from the man, now check out his music. Sir Anthony has put together a buncha exclusive tracks for y'all to check out. They are:

1. S.A. Emmons: A Desert Of Glass
2. The Technicoloreds: Chambermaid Mary
3. The Technicoloreds: Demon Action
4. SQUIRM: Half Machine Lip Moves (Chrome)
5. SQUIRM: Maggrah Meets The Metal Messiah II
6. SQUIRM: REBUL
7. SQUIRM: Stitch Bitch
8. S.A. Emmons: Surgical Strike On Competence

Get 'em here.

Get Squirm's "Freedom Coven" (16 more tracks) here.

Visit the S.A. Emmons Myspace page here.

Mommy, What's an Eddie Hazel?

EDDIE HAZEL - Games, Dames & Guitar Thangs

"Play like your Mama just died," is how George Clinton told a then barely 21-year old Eddie Hazel to attack the soloing to "Maggot Brain." You should know the rest of the story-- the end product became not only Eddie's signature piece, but Funkadelic's as well: ten minutes of electrified exploration into the entire spectrum of human emotion... achingly beautiful licks wrung out from the very pit of a young man's soul. It has also become his legacy as he was dismissed from the band for his ever-increasing drug abuse shortly after its release. He would work as a session player for the Temptations, Commodores, Marvin Gaye and Bonnie Pointer before returning to P-Funk in a much diminished role. In 1977, Clinton secured a one-album deal with Warners for this, his lone solo LP.

Backed by a sizable chunk of the P-Funk Mob-- Billy "Bass" Nelson, Bootsy Collins, Bernie Worrell, Cordell Mosson, Jerome Brailey, Tiki Fulwood and the Brides of Funkenstein (Dawn Silva and Lynn Mabry), much of this album is initially disappointing-- Hazel's interstellar axework held in check by George Clinton's everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach to its production. However, repeated listenings reveal a veritable smörgåsbord of on-the-edge solos and near-perfect, "in the hip pocket" rhythm vamps. If you're new to Thee Legend, I suggest tackling this opus as a middle-period Funkadelic album with Hazel as erstwhile frontman, which in a way, is exactly what it is.

It is two covers "California Dreamin'" and "I Want You (She's So Heavy)," that best showcase Mr. Maggot Brain's mindblowingly inventive flailing-- they barely resemble their original incarnations and are utilized as loose jams for Eddie to lay down vocalese lines made even more compelling by his use of a Cry Baby Wah-- you've heard the cliché "he could make his guitar talk"? In Eddie's case, that's exactly whatcha get-- the man makes that ol' Les Paul positively fucking sing. Like so many men possessed of genius, Hazel was unafraid to walk as far out to the edge of the precipice as possible-- mistakes be damned. It is this fearlessness that separates the wheat from the chaff. I'll take Eddie's fudged notes and wildly inconsistent oeuvre over insert wanker of the week here. He died in 1992 of liver failure. He was 42 years old.

Look in comments.

Live Misanthropy

EYEHATEGOD - Live at Emissions, 2005

Who woulda thunk that Black Flag touring with Saint Vitus would sow the seeds that would create an entire genre a decade later? What the hell am I talking about you may be asking? Well, I got me this pet theory that side two of "My War," saturated as it was with creepy-crawly, molasses-paced riffage was the product of Flag being highly inspired by their tourmates' patented doom metal. Shit, Hammerin' Hank gives such a tortured performance on "Nothing Left Inside," I can almost forgive him for later transgressions like those pathetic RCA albums and hanging out with Perry Farrell (I will forever cringe at the mention of his talk show, though-- nothing could redeem that).

Regardless, my contention is that these here degenerates from New Orleans, Louisiana were listening closely to Flag's flirtation with ominous, sluggish song structures/tempos. Throw in some Melvins and a worship for feedback rivaled only by power electronics outfits... and sludge was born. Sometimes I wonder if that's such a good thing-- for a band with such limited commercial success, EHG have influenced hundreds, mebbe thousands of bands, of which few, if any, have tapped into the alienated, tormented psyche of the masters. Then again, how many of 'em have lived in drug-addled squalor for the majority of their adult lives? Not that I recommend the lifestyle, but it seems to work for these guys (this reminds me of a review I read many moons ago of Johnny Thunders' "Copy Cats" where the long-forgotten rockcrit opined "Johnny's reaching for some money here, and certainly he deserves some; but it's a shame as poverty always seemed to suit him").

So, I bequeath unto Thee their hour-long plus set from the Emissions From the Monolith festival in Youngstown, Ohio in 2005. The sound quality is excellent, and alla their (ahem) Big Hits like "Doing Time in the Middle of Nowhere," "Lack of Almost Everything" and "Take as Needed for Pain" are included. Look in thee comments, Bubba.

From Tokyo to Trinidad

FLOWER TRAVELLIN' BAND - From Pussies to Death in 10,000 Years of Freakout

A bootleg of material recorded between 1969-70-- some of it comes from their original incarnation as Yuya Uchida & the Flowers. At that point, they were a mostly covers-oriented band obviously enamored of the "West Coast" sound of Big Brother & the Holding Company and the Airplane. From that era, Hendrix's "Stone Free" is featured here-- a rather pedestrian version raised to loftier heights by them "Engrish" vocals we all know and love. I'm gonna take an edumacated guess that their lift of Zep's arrangement of "How Many More Times" likely dates from only a short time later as it includes the Janis-like backing vox of Remi Aso-- the chanteuse who appeared on the 1969 Flowers' LP, "Challenge." Interesting from a completist's point of view, but it is thee later-period tracks that unleash thee Motherlode.

"I'm Dead" -- spread over all of side one and part of side two, is twenty-seven minutes of acid-damaged, ear-bleedin' guitar-maulin' courtesy of Hideki Ishima-- very possibly one of the all-time high-water marks in recorded history--- and that ain't hyperbole. This is a signature riffathon on par with "Maggot Brain" or "Beck's Bolero." Beginning with some chillingly splashy high-hats, a sparse, foreboding theme is introduced by Ishima's axe that he methodically molds by adding slight variations with lightly-picked harmonics and tonal colors until the rumble of Jun Kozuki's bass arrives approximately seven minutes in. It is then that Ishima begins adding acrobatic runs and manipulated feedback-- sculpting mini-anthems, each of which he lingers on for a few moments before shifting into the next gear. For thee Grande Finale, he switches over to bottleneck, coaxing inhuman shrieks and squeals from mere wood and steel that ultimately climaxes with his ascent to nigh-unbearable upper-registers... a true tour de force! The remaining cut, "Otoko," is a bluesy instrumental that swings like a pair o' rhinoceros balls-- in fact, it brings to mind a condensed "Fillmore East"-era Allmans jam with another dose of searing slide guitar and rapid-fire bass licks.

Look in comments.

NEXT MORNING - S/T (1971)

Now here's a union a bit odd even by my standards: four fellas from Trinidad hook up in NYC with an American keyboardist to form a Jimi/Sly-inspired Psychedelic Soul outfit in 1969. Sharing a love for heavy rock, fellow Trinidadians/guitarists Bert Bailey & Scipio Sargeant assembled a band featuring lone Yank Earl Arthur (organ), Bailey's brother Herbert (drums) and crooner Lou Phillips (Sargeant switched to bass). They quickly built a reputation as a powerful live act on the Noo Yawk club scene, coming within a pube of signing with Columbia-- unfortunately, they ended up inking a deal with Cala Records, a subsidiary of Roulette, thereby condemning themselves to the Mob tax write-off graveyard.

Recorded at Electric Lady studios, Jimi's ghost musta been hovering over the proceedings-- Bailey utilizes the same brand of six-string pyrotechnics of his undoubted mentor-- right down to the whammy bar abuse and amplifier desecration. He even turns a few of the then-recently-departed one's stock chord progressions inside out for good measure. My pick to click is "Back to the Stone Age" where Bailey & Sargeant trade off and harmonize virtuoso fuzz licks over top of an intricate, disjointed-yet-ass-shakin' arrangement not unlike the Cosmic Slop Funkadelic patented a year earlier. Aside from Phillips' very slight accent, you won't hear a hint of the Caribbean-- nor will you hear anything particularly original. Not that it matters--as has been proven time and again, exhilarating R&R is nearly always constructed from the detritus lying around & begging to be expanded upon.

Look in comments-- and leave one there, Slim.

Short Sharp Shocks

The post title refers as much to the music on display as the Reader's Digest-style reviews. Truth is, I'm getting burnt out writing mini-essays nearly every day, so y'all can fill in the blanks for yourselves. So expect little more than some bad analogies/metaphors etc. Oh, and the goodies are in the comments as usual.

VARIOUS - RUSSIA BOMBS FINLAND

Legendary Finnish Hardcore compilation from 1982 released on Propaganda Records. Only the Japanese rivaled the Finns in the "let's sculpt some white noise into subversive punk fury" sweepstakes. Slipshod tempos, anti-war/anti cops rants and guitars so distorted they resemble a blanket fulla static thrown over a bucket of pissed off hornets.

Tracks:

01. Bastards - Vapaus
02. Bastards - Lahdataan Ne
03. Bastards - Ei Tulevaisuutta
04. Bastards - Univormukonnat
05. Bastards - Sodan Uhka
06. Antikeho - R.A.Y.
07. Antikeho - Peace & Love
08. Antikeho - Suomi 83
09. Antikeho - Uhoan
10. Kaaos - Politiikka
11. Kaaos - Ei Enää Koskaan
12. Kaaos - Ei Luovuteta
13. NATO - Natsi
14. NATO - Presidenttipeli
15. NATO - Helsingin Yöt
16. NATO - Villi Ja Vapaa
17. Terveet Kädet - Mä Haluan Paljon Rahaa
18. Terveet Kädet - N.Y.T.
19. Riistetyt - Älä Luota Systeemiin
20. Riistetyt - Painu Helvettiin Natsiäpärä
21. Riistetyt - Sä Maksat
22. Riistetyt - Rajoitukset
23. Riistetyt - Mä En Jaksa Elää
24. 013 - En Jaksa Enää
25. 013 - Työnvälittäjä
26. 013 - Takaisin Todellisuuteen
27. Maho Neitsyt - Aku Ankka Raskaana
28. Maho Neitsyt - Mikä Mun Päässä Nykii
29. Appendix - Sinä Ja Minä
30. Appendix - Tää Maailma on Meidän
31. Sekunda - Suomi Vapaaksi
32. Sekunda - Lepakon Hämyt
33. Sekunda - Poseerajat
34. Dachau - Elukat
35. Dachau - Huomenna Haudassa

GLOOM - Vokusatsu Seisin Hatansha

So I'm told that these guys are "crasher-crust" which I'm assuming means any band that sounds like a revving chainsaw tossed into a wood chipper while someone kicks around trashcans and another person whose regular garb is a straight-jacket shrieks indecipherable mantras through a bullhorn could be conveniently stuffed into this "genre." Personally, I've never been particularly comfortable with the term "crust," let alone a sub-genre of it. Twas always hardcore to me, and I often wonder who bothers sitting around pigeonholing styles of music with such subtle differences into entirely different categories. Is it the *gasp* Illuminati? Whatever the case, this is blisteringly fast punk fucking rock from the Land of the Rising Sun much like Gauze with a bit o' Deathside and (early) S.O.B. thrown in. 23 tracks in 29 minutes-- contains the majority of their discography.

SACRIFICE - Forward to Termination (1987)

So beloved by the denim & leather-adorned denizens of the frozen tundra that is my homeland were Toronto's Sacrifice that a track from this LP ("Re-Animation") was used as the theme/intro music for Canada's equivalent to "Headbanger's Ball," ("The Power Hour") on our version of MTV (MuchMusic). Though crude almost by definition, these Canuck thrashers had learned to temper their bombastic primitivism with tight musicianship and cohesive songwriting on this, their sophomore offering. Which basically means they'd occasionally blow you a kiss before proceeding to tear your face off.

Looking back, it amazes me what an influential and fertile breeding ground thee Great White North was for killer thrash-- we had these guys, Razor (whose vocalist, Stace "Sheepdog" McLaren I went to high school with) and of course, the incomparable Slaughter (search the blog for their "Surrender or Die" demo)-- not to mention many, many others I'll be featuring here in the future. Time has been very kind to this album-- because the production is so unpolished, it still sounds extreme two decades after the fact... well that, and it's every bit as good, if not better than any of Slayer's early work.

Psst... Got Any Speed?

SPEED, GLUE & SHINKI - S/T (1972)

shame·less (adj) 1 : having no shame : insensible to disgrace
2 : showing lack of shame

- Merriam-Webster Dictionary

If being devoid of shame is the ultimate key to attaining contentment, being gen-yew-wine-lee "free" as it were-- not sure if I'm remembering this philosophy from one of The Olde Greek Brainiacs or Charles Manson... or mebbe John Paul Knowles, I dunno. Whatever the case, if there be any truth to such a credo, the members of Speed, Glue & Shinki, wherever they may be, are fulfilled, fat and likely flashing their naughty bits to passersby with noggins fulla the finest hallucinogens food-stamps can buy... at least if their music is any indication of their collective lifestyles. I mean, here's a band that delivers four sides of unabashed dope worship framed by the kinda lumbering, sub-Iommian riffs even Mark Farner would be embarrassed of! For the love of Lucifer-- side four is eaten up entirely by a 17-minute, four-part "suite" (Sun/Planets/Life/Moon) performed on Moog Synthesizer-- would even Amon Düül II sink to such depths??! Fuck no! And that's why this monster is essential to your being free of shame.

Drummer/Vocalist Joey Smith (Speed) was an AWOL American Soldier playing all over Japan in a horrific cover band called Zero History-- paying their drug bills by performing in department stores. For reasons known only to himself, Shinki Chen-- legendary Nippon guitarist for Foodbrain, took a liking to Speed, and, with the addition of thunder-broomer Glue (Masayoshi Kabe), they somehow kept their bloodstreams clear enough to record "Eve," an album that seems to get all the high-fives around the intrawebs. Me, I prefer this, their second and final platter. Why? Well, think about it, Sherlock: this one has two LP's instead of one... meaning there's twice as much subsonic shit that you'll never scrape offa yer shoes.

They had no Glue on this opus as Kabe had departed for oblivion and was replaced by former bandmate/friend of Speed, Micheal Hanopol (side four was entirely his doing). He musta been the only available musician who had the constitution to go bong-hit-to-bong-hit with his new brothers or somethin'-- regardless, with new bassist recruited, they laid down this not-so-elegantly-wasted odyssey into the musical netherworld where ambition seldom conquers execution-- but we ain't talkin' about just any band here. Nope, these boys decided they were gonna record 70 minutes of the most guileless, drugged-out sludge to ever contaminate the human eardrum... and whaddaya know, the crazy bastards did it!

Opening with the sound of some miscreant (likely Mr. Smith) inhaling speed or glue (you name the controlled substance), the subtly-titled "Sniffin' & Snortin' (Pt. 1)" is a trawl through the muck one tends to create when playing Chuck Berry chord progressions with too much distortion and too little sobriety. Speed lends his leaden foot in a feeble attempt to de-slug the tempo, but they remain mired in the kinda grunge many a punk'd be proud of five years later-- fucking excellent, in other words, but they're just getting revved up, kids. "Run & Hide" is what "Mississippi Queen" woulda sounded like if Leslie West preferred coke 'n' ludes to Coke and five cheeseburgers-- a ripped-to-the-tits behemoth of a riff occasionally interrupted by Speed's stumbling snare beatings and hearty howl. "Red Doll" is where Hanopol, or Mr. Nu-Glue if you will, makes his presence felt, adding eerie organ fills to a ditty that has always reminded me of the kinda thing you'd hear right before you nodded off in an opium den in Nepal-- claustrophobic yet comforting.

NEW LINK in comments.

Rub Yer Nose In It

BEASTS OF BOURBON - Sour Mash

A band where words fail me to describe their influence on my blackened soul. Hell, I wouldn't be a fraction of the unrepentant scumbag and nuisance to assorted government apparatus without their guidance. Formed in Sydney, Oz as a hobby band by Kim Salmon (guitars) and Boris Sudjovic (bass) of the Scientists, James Baker of the Hoodoo Gurus (drums), Spencer Jones (guitars) of the Johnnys and future throat of the Cruel Sea, Tex Perkins, they cut their debut, "The Axeman's Jazz" in a single afternoon in 1983. Despite earning raves in the underground, the Beasts wouldn't become a serious endeavor until the dismantling of the Scientists in 1988-- allowing the members to focus their collective creative energies on this LP, their sophomore slab.

I have no idea whether it's intuitive or contrived, but the Beasts flawlessly navigate through the most tricky-- and also most important-- of R&R paradoxes: moronic refinement. Two-note bass-lines combined with polyrhythmic guitar riffs and clever lyrics unmasking the horrors hidden behind the curtains of suburban "normalcy" ain't easy to pull off ("Playground," where "buggery abounds"). Nor is it a cinch to be every bit as convincing dispensing raunchy, American Swampland Blues ("Drivin' Man" echoes field hollers of the early 20th century) as stripped-to-the-bone minimalist punk-- but the Beasts' poise and encyclopedic knowledge of Thee Rock pulls 'em through every time-- even a cover of Merle Haggard's "Today I Started Loving You Again" sounds 100% authentic.

Tex Perkins is the straw that stirs this volatile mix-- a tall, lanky, scary-looking motherfucker with shark's eyes and the kinda bellow that sounds like he gargles battery acid for breakfast (among other caustic liquids). He's also a brilliant wordsmith equally adept at weaving tales of a murderous father sick of his lot in life ("The Hate Inside") as he is at taking the piss outta one-dimensional virility cases ("Pig" which uses every dippy macho cliché existent). Truly a Frontman for Thee Ages.

Look in the comments, Junior.

The Subtle Art of Sleazery

VARIOUS - Risqué Rhythm: Nasty 50's R&B

Now I'm no Pollyanna, but the canny use of the double entendré in R&R is all but lost. Unless you count the thousands of macho creeps who've followed Da Nuge's lead with hackneyed, sub-literate Yank Me, Crank Me-isms (Sorry Nuge, ya know I love ya 'n' all, but between your pathetic solo "career" and jingoistic "politics" you leave me no choice other than to use ya as supreme archetype of dimwittedness). Screaming "Let's Fuuuuccck!!" was needed of course, if only to put the final nail in the plastic coffin of the superficial puritan tyranny of the 1950's-- but somewhere along the way, instead of being a form of catharsis, it became tedious to endure yet another creatively-bankrupt moron cursing up a blue streak as a substitute for "lyrics."

GG Allin, at his disgusting, shit-slingin' best ain't got nothin' on Thee High Priest of Smut himself, Wynonie Harris. Often credited as the first-ever Rock 'n' Roller for his smash hit version of Roy Brown's "Good Rockin' Tonite," Harris was also a master of innuendo, as showcased on the 1951 (!) side, "Keep on Churnin' (Til the Butter Comes)" (can you figger out what he might be talkin' about?). Moose Jackson, better known as a saxman, lends his sultry croon to the lascivious "Big 10-inch Record," which you may remember being butchered by Aerosmith on their "Toys in the Attic" LP. And what possibly could the Swallows (hahaha!) have on their mind when explaining to the ladies out there that "It ain't the meat, it's the motion"? This compilation is a fascinating snapshot of a time when things weren't quite as innocent as we may've thought, and some damn fine R&B/proto-R&R to boot. Also keep in mind that nearly every single one of these tracks were huge hits of the era.

The Culprits:

1. Moose Jackson - Big 10-Inch Record
2. Dinah Washington - Big Long Slidin' Thing
3. '5' Royales - Laundromat Blues
4. Fluffy Hunter - Walkin' Blues
5. Wynonie Harris - Wasn't That Good?
6. Roy Brown - Butcher Pete (Pt. 1)
7. The Swallows - It Ain't the Meat
8. Dominoes - 60-Minute Man
9. Sultans - Lemon-Squeezin' Daddy
10. Royals - Work With Me Annie

11. Wynonie Harris - Keep on Churnin' (Til the Butter Comes)
12. Myra Johnson - Silent George
13. Dinah Washington - Long John Blues
14. Bill Doggett Trio - Mountain Oysters
15. Julia Lee - My Man Stands Out
16. Bees - Toy Bell
17. Connie Allen - Rocket 69
18. The Toppers - (I Love to Play Your Piano) Let Me Bang Your Box

Come into my comments...

Shakin' the Blue Cheer Family Tree Deux

SAVAGE RESURRECTION - S/T (1968)

This platter, made by a Pack of Phucked Up Phurry Phreaks from Richmond, California was recommended to me by none other than Nick Saloman, aka Bevis Frond-- no, I don't know the fucking guy, but he dropped their name so many times in early interviews that I knew I hadda get my mitts on a copy if they wuz even close to being the uncrowned acid-deities he claimed they wuz.

Well... chalk one up for Nick-- imagine, if you will, a Hendrix-damaged combo with the feral intensity of the MC5, ceptin' in this case, ya got Randy Holden subbing for Sonic Smith on second six-string ear-shreddin'. Matter of fact, before the advent of the intraweb, it was whispered in reverent tones that it wuz indeed Master Holden providing some hot licks uncredited-- which I'm assuming is due to the fact that one guit-fiddler bears the first name Randy-- Randy Hammon, that is, who also happened to be Blue Cheer skin-basher Paul Whaley's cousin. To further cloud matters, this here LP was produced by Abe "Voco" Kesh, sound-sculptor of "Vincebus Eruptum." The truth is that Mr. Hammon and bandmates Bill Harper (vox), John Palmer (lead guitar), Steve Lage (bass) and Jeff Myer (drums) were too busy executing the classic one-album-then-crash-n-burn-to-total-public-indifference cliché to even wonder who the hell Randy Holden was.

Punkified mind-shaker "Thing in 'E'," vaguely reminiscent of the Who's "Young Man Blues," kicks things off in fine style with killer call-and-response vocal/guitar trade-offs and thee most excellent "done me wrong" chest-beating refrain, "My world's better than your world." From there, they delve into them mournful, Honky Voodoo Blues with leaden, wah-wah'd to Saturn guitar riffs on the effervescent "Tahitian Melody"-- exquisite downer rock for drug casualties everywhere. But fuck it, the songwriting here is almost an afterthought-- they were bashed out in a week due to record company pressure for original material. As far as I'm concerned, the main attraction here is the perpetual axe-duelin' of Messrs. Hammon/Palmer.

Very seldom does one of 'em stick to strummin'-- they're impatient bastards, champing at the bit to get the fingers flyin', and when they do, the result is nothing short of psychedelic sorcery. I have no idea if they gave two shits about Ornette Coleman or harmolodics, but with their total disregard for stomping all over each other's lead breaks, they create a reasonable facsimile of "free" playing-- albeit within far more primitive song structures than one associates with jazz. Don't matter though, the effect is the same; their solos are divergent pieces of music that stand on their own. In particular, check out how they bob 'n' weave around each other in the otherwise banal, "Jammin':" Palmer provides some thick, heavily sustained notes while Hammon's fingers shimmy all over the fretboard creating a mutant counterpoint that somehow never becomes a nerve-rattlin' trainwreck of masturbatory excess.

This is one "undiscovered gem" that not only lives up to the hype, it exceeds it. Look in the comments and come on back and tell me whatcha think.

Culturecide

SPK - Auto Da Fé

Long before Graeme Revell was seemingly providing the score for two-thirds of the films released since 1992, he was a humble orderly at an Aussie mental institution. Along with one of its patients, Neil Hill, he formed SPK (Sozialistisches Patienten Kollectiv, after a German terrorist organization) in 1978, making them one of the very first industrial acts. "Auto Da Fé" is collection of their singles, spanning from 1978-82. Thankfully, the tracks are presented chronologically, giving you a feel for the astoundingly rapid development of this amazing band.

The earliest cuts are almost indescribable as there are few touchstones to use as reference. Consisting of frenetic, thrashy punk coupled with the clanging of metal and shrieks of electronic sonic debris, masterpieces like "Slogun" and "Germanik" still sound extreme nearly three decades on-- rivaled only by perhaps the early works of Sutcliffe Jügend or Ramleh in sheer ferocity. As they progressed, a tribal, almost shamanistic quality began to manifest itself in their work-- the once shouted vocals became much more subdued, and the synths are used to provide melody instead of aural terror. These tracks are almost, dare I say, beautiful, with their stark, hypnotic atmosphere. They may lack the aural wallop their fist-in-the-teeth predecessors had, but they still kick the shit outta anything Depeche Mode ever did.

Look in the comments.

PETER SOTOS - Buyer's Market

Music is far from being my only hobby-- I spend countless hours as an armchair psychologist/criminologist, ceaselessly reading texts that make many people shrink away in horror. It's far more than simple morbid curiosity; I'm fascinated by the way that the put ourselves on a pedestal, thinking we're too "civilized" to indulge in the same repulsive acts that loathsome, "underdeveloped" creatures who murder strangers perform with impunity-- comfortably tucking away in our subconscious the thought that we somehow possess "higher moral standards." The truth is that we are a frail species, and were we to lose a sizable amount of the contentments that allow us to function as "normal," law-abiding citizens, who knows what we are capable of becoming? Would we have the desire to reap tenfold the pound of flesh that was stolen from us? Only the person with nothing left to lose knows for sure. Regardless, I'm not here to write a thesis about the darker side of human nature, so let's move on to Mr. Sotos.

You may remember him from his work with legendary power electronics unit Whitehouse, but these days he's what the hep cats like to call a "transgressive" writer-- meaning that he scribes about things Mommy wouldn't wantcha to read (for what it's worth, no less than the incredibly boring, though much admired in some circles, Jim Goad, once stated: "No one rapes a blank page like Sotos"). Every so often he puts out disturbing records like this one, recorded in 1992 with Steve Albini with the "producer" hat on. Let me make this very clear: this is not for those of you with a less-than-hardy constitution for human suffering. What Sotos examines here is the Culture of the Victim-- how family members left behind are manipulated by the media, and ultimately, how their identity is redefined in the process. If that sounds a bit high-falutin' for a record that is nothing more than snippets of interviews with the kinda dupes who make the Oprah-Maury-Phil rounds, I suggest you investigate this work. It is assembled for maximum impact, and, although I would be the first to agree that Mr. Sotos has more'n a few sadistic bones in his body, at least he's upfront about it, unlike the vultures who prey upon the broken souls featured here.

In comments.

VARIOUS - Für Ilse Koch

Leave it to Whitehouse's William Bennett to assemble a tribute to Ilse Koch, wife of Karl Koch, SS chief commander of Nazi concentration camp Buchenwald. Despite the contrived attempt to shock (no one still buys that neo-fascist bullshit they used to spew, do they?), this is an amazing compilation of electronic/industrial/outsider music before the aforementioned terms meant Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails.

Apparently this fetches big $$$ on ebay these days.

Released in 1982.

Tracklist:

1. Imperial Japan - Under The Victory Banner
2. Musique Concret - Exit
3. Come - Come Sunday 2
4. Aleister Crowley - Nature Of The Beast
5. Nurse With Wound - Fashioned To A Device Behind A Tree
6. Consumer Electronics - Lebensraum
7. Leibstandarte SS - Plutoniumetrio
8. Charles Manson - Cease To Exist (Come Version)
9. Etat Brut - Necro
10. Viking DDV - Nordik Perversion
11. Whitehouse - Mind Phaser
12. Whitehouse - Anal American
13. Heinrich Himmler - Europe Lives

Look in comments.

Chromosome Damage

CHROME - Blood on the Moon

San Franciscan duo Damon Edge and Helios Creed, anxious to reproduce the music they heard when listening to Sabbath or Hawkwind on headphones under the influence of LSD, ended up becoming proto-industrial icons instead. Their utilization of every variety of octave divider, phaser and flanger to color their creations makes for a head-swirling experience-- with disembodied voices straight from Philip K. Dick's most nightmarish visions. Creed's commanding guitar leads, as inspired by warped psychedelia as by the then-burgeoning punk movement are sped up, slowed down-- mutated at will. They essentially took the sonic debris left in the wake of krautrock, Metal Machine Music and Beefheart and pushed the envelope as far as it could go with the primitive analog equipment they had at their disposal.

"Blood on the Moon," released in 1981, is as close as they would ever come to a conventional rock album, however tenuously. Although the arrangements are far more linear than on previous releases, this is still a prime example of what happens when you allow artists whose brains are heavily saturated with illicit substances into a recording studio: simple household sounds are fed through tape loops, transforming into extraterrestrial metal scrapings and buzzing locusts chewing on your medulla. What is most astounding is that the digital age has never produced anything as alien or disorienting as these sounds. Mebbe the technological advances have made it far too easy for modern musicians-- the superior equipment stunting their creativity? Whatever the case, I'll continue to feed my head with Chrome's Acid Punk long after the raver kids currently stomping to a feverish beat have 2.4 children and a white picket fence.

As always, look in the comments.

MONTE CAZAZZA - The Worst of

Don't cry to me if you're not the same "well-adjusted" little person you once were before being exposed to this recording. You are warned from the very beginning by a certain Dr. Alberti, that Monte Cazazza displays symptoms of "an unresolved Oedipal complex," that he is a hopeless pervert, a trafficker in cheap thrills and that his music is little more than "a sonic mess." How in the world would he come up with such a diagnosis? Monte, after all, indulged in only wholesome, All-American activities such as setting dead, maggot-infested cats on fire and building 15-foot high swastikas in his Arts & Crafts class. Somehow, he managed to also find the time to pioneer Industrial music-- coining the term as a matter of fact.

This collection of the self-styled cultural terrorist's "sonic messes" was compiled by none other than Brian "Lustmord" Williams, widely regarded as the godfather of the dark ambient genre, who has done his homework here: Cazazza is accompanied by members of Throbbing Gristle on "To Mom on Mother's Day," providing jarring blasts of synthesized hiss while he works through his "Oedipal complex" (?). Cosey Fanni Tutti contributes the nursery rhyme-like chant of "Mary Bell," a paean to the fabled British abused-child-turned-murderer (at the age of 11); "Rabid Rats" tells of the American Army releasing said creatures on the Vietcong (They'd stand up to be shot as rabies is a far more horrible way to die) with an unmistakable glee in his voice. The most powerful track is "A Snitch is a Snitch," an examination of the moral codes and value systems imposed upon us by religion & The Law, obviously heavily influenced by the writings of Crowley and Nietzsche-- which, as even the casual observer of early industrial culture knows, have become part & parcel of its philosophy (much as the "Übermensch" and the "Will to Power" have become components of Satanism-- particularly Lavey's Hollywood version).

The Industrial Culture Handbook once described his work as "insanity-outbreaks thinly disguised as art events," and even though I've eagerly allowed my ears and psyche to become susceptible to some of the most depraved exhibits of "creativity" known to our species, I can't say I disagree.

Look in the comments.

VARIOUS - Motor City's Burnin'

Oh yasss! 15 slices of DEEE-troit High Energy Rock & Roll! Prime hooch fit to scorch yer pee-pee! Ya get the most godly version of the MC5's "Looking at You," the rip-snortin' version of the Stooges' "Death Trip," in the finest fidelity I've yet heard it and Sonic's Rendezvous' little-known headcrusher, "Electrophonic Tonic." On the more obscure side, the Ramrods do a most convincing Stooges imitation that could easily pass for a "Raw Power" outtake, and the Dirtys wallow in the filthiest garage goop since the demise of the Oblivians.

Tracks:

1. MC5 - Looking at You (A-Squared single)

2. RATIONALS - Guitar Army

3. THE UP - Come On

4. STOOGES - Death Trip (Remix)

5. UPRISING - Long Hard Road

6. SONIC'S RENDEZVOUS BAND - Electrophonic Tonic

7. BOOTSEY X & THE LOVEMAKERS - Pusherman of Love

8. THE RAMRODS - I'm a Ramrod

9. SILLIES - Break Loose

10. MUTANTS - Boogers on You

11. BIG CHIEF - One Born Every Minute

12. INSIDE OUT - God's Shit List

13. JOHN SINCLAIR & WAYNE KRAMER - Friday the 13th

14. MOTOR DOLLS - Hangover

15. THE DIRTYS - Asshole Boogie

I'll bet you've got time to leave a comment while yer lookin' in 'em-- This. Is. NOT. Soulseek.

Rudy & Me

? & THE MYSTERIANS - 96 Tears Forever: The Dallas Reunion Tapes

"How quaint," I hear you snicker "now he's writing about meaningless one-hit wonders-- must be gettin' desperate for subject matter." Forgive my paranoia, but I've heard the same shit too many times to not feel the icy bristling of the hairs on the back of my neck when it comes to discussing/listening to Question "Don't call me Rudy!" Mark and his Mysterians. Put it down as a pre-emptive strike.

Yes, many a bout of condescending laughter has been unleashed in my direction for my unwavering love for this band; of course, many of these folks consider themselves "in-the-know" arbiters of "good" taste-- they honestly believe that douchebags like Ryan Adams and Jeff Tweedy were/are cultural high-water marks. Thank the minions of Beelzebub I've got "bad" taste! Otherwise, I'da never been exposed to the euphoria that a simple two-note pattern on a Vox Continental can deliver. And make no mistake-- antiquated they may be (to idiots), but Q & Co. still exude an air of danger. I mean, think about it: superficially they've got that bouncy, Tex-Mex-cum-Proto-Punk charm-- pretty harmless, right? Sure, until you listen closely to the bombastic lasciviousness in the, fuck it, there's no better way to put it: leer-ics.

I'm not kidding! Every other track seems to have its sleazy subject matter lifted directly from Be a Sexual Predator 101. How else do ya explain the fact that "Girl (You Captivate Me)" had a far less palatable verb in its original form (presented here)? Or that the #1 hit known far and wide was initially entitled "69 Tears"? Kee-rist, they're like the Ted Bundy of R&R! A disarming exterior with insidious intentions lurking underneath... and yet in plain sight. OK, OK I've got tongue pressed somewhat firmly in cheek here, but ya gotta admit that the motives of a fella who claims to be from Mars, and signed to Cameo-Parkway becuz their label was orange--his fave color-- are open to speculation.

Oh yeah... this album. It was a bootleg cassette that made the rounds until picked up for distribution by ROIR in 1985. Recorded at an uncredited location in Dallas, 1984, the sound quality is pristine-- every slobber and pant expelled from Q's throat will lick yer neck and fill yer earholes with unspeakable vulgarity; Frankie Rodriguez's immaculate organ fills might as well be in yer living room... and the performance? Put it this way: if you happen to be a pre-MTV baby who grew up with AM radio, you'll be filled with a longing for those pre-pube daze, more innocent times when you weren't sure why gawking at Linda Blair (in those women in prison flicks in particular) was suddenly more appealing than tormenting the village idiot (Ladies-- put your crush in this space:_________). Best of all, "96 Tears" is extended to nine minutes of pure, otherworldly bliss.

Into the comments for an hour of total regression.

The REAL X

X (AUS) - Live at the Civic '79

Might as well get the hate rollin' right off the bat-- much like the accompanying stickers attached to nearly all recent Aussie X reissues: this is NOT the wanky L.A. band. A far more appropriate disclaimer however, would be NOT THE PRETENTIOUS SUCKY-SUCK BAND THAT SUCKS. There. I said it. So if yer looking for John Dildo & Co., you've come to the wrong insignificant corner of cyberspace.

This X was put together by ex-Rose Tattoo bassist Ian Rilen in Sydney, Oz in 1977. Original axe-slinger Ian Krahe died in his sleep before they'd laid down a note (aside from three demo tracks that showed up on the "Why March When You Can Riot?" comp), and was replaced by Geoff Holmes for about five seconds, making way for Peter Coutanche. The carousel continued with drummer Eddie Fisher giving way to Steve Cafiero, and finalized with (deep breath) lead howler/guitarist Steve Lucas. This obviously volatile crew hit the bricks, did their time in the local clubs with plenty of booze and spit gobs hurled their way, got harassed by cops & club owners alike, yet still managed to record the lost masterpiece "Aspirations," in 1979 (produced by Coloured Balls Guitar God Lobby Loyde). An LP that managed to blend their skanky, junkie street trash with the disjointed arrangements Wire would perfect on "Chairs Missing."

"Live at the Civic" is a 2JJ broadcast that languished in the ABC (not that one, you myopic swine!) vaults for nearly two decades. The short-lived 4-piece lineup of Cafiero/Rilen/Lucas/Coutanche is the one featured here, and they sound unlike they ever did before or after, steamrolling through a set of positively brutal R&R with any/all of their artier tendencies tossed to the wayside. The uncouth reading of their best-known cut, "I Don't Wanna Go Out," despite having its bizarre descending riff intact, once stripped of its studio niceties (like the helium pitch backing vox) is undistilled barbaric fury. Ditto "Lipstick" and "All Over Now"-- they even manage to make Del Shannon's "Runaway" sound like a punk delinquent call-to-arms.

X would make more great --though slightly more "sophisticated"-- music for many years to come, but this is the stuff thee shouldst crave. On a dispiriting note, thundering sticksman Steve Cafiero passed away in 1988, making it impossible to not dedicate this post to his memory.

Look in the comments unless you love Exene.

Between a ROQ & No Place

DRAMARAMA - Hi-Fi Sci-Fi

Hailing from Wayne, Noo Joisey, formed in 1983, Dramarama are best remembered for "Anything, Anything (I'll Give You)," a ditty played to death by Rodney Bingenheimer before the band even had a record deal (FYI: It is the most requested song in the history of KROQ). It's a killer track to be sure, with Peter Wood's brash main riff and John Easdale's gasping delivery-- but hardly the whole story. Throughout their five album discography you will find at least fifteen tracks that put it in deep shade.

I've never met the man, but Easdale, their resident Bard of the Bar Rooms, always struck me as the kinda guy who could talk the most devout nun outta her habit... and into another one; something far more unwholesome. Could it be his lyrics that allow the inner Alpha Male to mingle in perfect harmony with the sensitive laureate? Mebbe like Sean Bonniwell, I've got a Masculine Intuition? I dunno, but on "Hi-Fi Sci-Fi," their 1993 swansong, he bestows some of his finest verbiage upon we undeserving sniveling shits. Take for example "Work for Food," where he spins a tale of an eccentric who wanders the streets of Hell-A:

No one wants to pay me for my for my broken heart
So now I've got this shopping cart
And I keep on rollin'
I can't live without eternal gratitude
And I won't work for food

The punchline being that the subject of the song is a former rock star. As a matter of fact, there's a loose conceptual thread following much the same line of self-deprecation throughout this LP-- as though they knew their days as a band were numbered. In the haunting semi-ballad "Senseless Fun," Easdale proclaims "Every time we load the gun/And say that this one is the one/It's senseless fun... disappointed." Regardless, they go down swinging-- they knew how to combine their sumptuous melodies with unrelenting guit-crunch-- much like Cheap Trick so effortlessly harnessed on their first three longplayers.

Look in comments.

Note: Be sure to stick around for "28 Double Secret Bonus Tracks," a fun knock-off of immortal garage nugget "One Ugly Child" that features cameos by everyone from Mojo Nixon to Davey Jones to Gilbert Gottfried.