'Hugely Negative Reviews'

CELTIC FROST - Cold Lake

Noise International 1988

Back in the 80's when Metal was still a new-ish and evolving form of rock, kids like me were VERY protective of our favorite bands. So when these bands lost the plot, or worse, you'd take it as a personal betrayal. My first experience with this was Motley Crüe's 'Theater of Pain'. I had just turned 14, spending Christmas with a Group Home councilor in Vermont surrounded by strangers and deathly ill with the worst case of strep throat I've ever had. I got one gift and it was the new Crüe. Gone were the pentagrams and zombie drag queen art / fashion, replaced with creams and pink hued graphics and the band looked like fucking CLOWNS now. They used to look gross, now they just looked stupid. Embarrassing even. The music inside was as bad as the imagery hinted at, I mean, it was like a completely different band. No balls, speed, violence, HOOKS, nothing from the prior two records. They did a classic rock cover with Brownsville Stations dated, corny-ass 'Smokin' In The Boys Room'!! 'Home Sweet Home'? I was DEVASTATED. I pulled the cassette out of the boom box and fucking SNAPPED IT IN HALF. How could they do this to me???

That was the worst. It's happened plenty of times since but I had already gone through it, so I was able to take it better. I mean, I was still disgusted when I heard 'Enter Sandman' for the first time ('Off To Never-Never Land' anyone?) , but it didn't send me into an existential crisis like 'Theater of Pain' did.

Still, some records are sooo unbelievable, the confusion could become overwhelming.

When Celtic Frost released 'Into The Pandemonium' in 1987, it was, for me, a "HOLY SHIT" record like 'Reign In Blood' or 'My War' were. Following Voivod's mind-blowing 'Killing Technology' it seemed like thrash metal's horizons were wide open. Adding strings, operatic female vocals, and electronics, Celtic Frost were on the cutting edge of thrash metal, you could trust anything they did from here on, right? Imagine the shock to their fan base when they followed it up with 'Cold Lake'.

Have you heard this fuckin' record???

'Cold Lake' is, perhaps, one of the WORST Metal records EVER. I still have no clue as to how Tom G. Warrior thought this was his ticket to the big leagues, and YES, I've read 'Are You Morbid?' and the answer just ain't there. I mean, I'm sure the reasoning was sound for a metal act (as Motley Crüe undoubtedly figured out):

"Well, guys, it's a packed house AGAIN!"

"Yep. Packed full of dudes."

Pube 'stachioed fan rushes up.

"DUDE! YOU GUYS FUCKING ROCK! I WOULD KILL MY FUCKIN' GRANDMOTHER FOR YOU, DUDE- JUST SAY THE WORD!!"

"I'm thinking there must be a way out of this..."

So Tom and the boys (oh yeah, the real band quit before this shitstorm rolled into town, replaced by pouty lipped poodle hairs) put away the leather and corpse paint and went wardrobe shopping at the Gap. Then Tom tried writing songs he thought chicks on the Sunset Strip would like, but he's so terminally European the lyrical results are even more pretentious than 'Pandemonium's and that's saying something.

Contrary to the load of crap that is the 'Cold Lake' Wiki entry (where I nicked this posts goofy title), musically all the tunes sound like old Celtic Frost tracks in patent leather pumps (except 'Human', a, ahem, 'rap' song). I mean, Celtic Frost work within a certain musical vocabulary, a set of signifiers if you will. These are all present, so the idea that Oliver Amberg wrote these tracks is total bullshit (not to mention the book claims that he was uselessly drunk for the majority of the session). Tom even uses his trademark 'WHO!' and 'HEY!' barks, but his delivery is TOTALLY RETARDED. He whines his way through the entire album, like that's going to be all it takes to get some women to buy his record. It's even worse than the comparable and equally bizarre 'Grave New World' by Discharge. Okay, maybe that's pushing it, but still...

And just when you think things can't get any more unappealing, guitar wizard Oliver Amberg's stink flower solos come swooping in, seemingly composed in a vacuum. I swear they just don't match the songs in any way. It's crazy!

AND CHECK OUT THESE OUTFITS!!!



WHAT THE FUUUUUCCKKK??



LOOK OUT JON BON JOVI, HERE COMES TOM BON G WOVI!



Good Sweet lord... This record is so fucked that I actually traded 'Vanity / Nemesis' to Greg King for it and although I never make it through the whole record, I'm glad I did.



VOIVOD - RRRÖÖÖAAARRR

Noise International 1986

It's hard to believe that Voivod - one of the most respected and influential Metal bands ever - were initially regarded as talentless morons. Well, RRRÖÖÖAAARRR goes a long, LONG way in explaining why that would be. Now, let's be clear, to most of the readers of SLN, myself included, this record is gold. I LOVE THIS RECORD. But in the world of thrash metal circa 1986, it was like listening to a bunch of amateurs struggle their way through a set of ill defined 'songs'. I remember thinking "These guys have no clue how to tune their guitars".

It's funny, all of the things they would employ a year later to great effect on the groundbreaking 'Killing Technology', is here, but all at once. The off kilter Brian Egeness (Die Kreuzen) / Frippian guitar spasms of Dennis 'Piggy' D'Amour, the whammy bar enhanced 'Blower Bass' of Jean-Yves 'Blacky' Thériault, Michel 'Away' Langevin's pounding circular drumming and Denis 'Snake' Bélanger's yammering and unique take on English. They're all there and all at the same time, all the time. The record never lets up. It's just 'THRASH!THRASH!THRASH!THRASH!THRASH!' 8 seconds of silence into guitar or drum intro and 'THRASH!THRASH!THRASH!THRASH!THRASH!'

The production is so awful, you find yourself wondering how it was allowed out of the studio. Unlike 99.999% Metal records released since 1970, RRRÖÖÖAAARRR isn't guitar dominated, but drum and vocal dominated. The rhythm guitar ends up dueling with the 'Blower Bass' for face time in the spaces between snare whacks, only rising to the surface for barely controlled and truncated solos.

So, yeah, it sounds bit closer to 80's J-Core than the Canadian Progressive Metal Juggernaut they became famous as, and is deserving of a place in any thrash / hardcore fans archive.

BUILD YOUR LINKS IN THE COMMENTS SECTIIIIOOOONN!!

Fasten Yer Earholes

PATTY WATERS - Sings (1966)

This place needs an estrogen injection-- not sure why I've neglected the bearers of mammalian protuberances, but I will attempt to remedy the situation here and now, without resorting to Lilith Fair-style lameness (hahaha, like that'd ever happen). Anyway, here's what you need to know about the lovely & talented Ms. Waters:

1. She was recommended to ESP-Disk by none other than Albert Ayler after catching her performance at some long-forgotten club in Greenwich Village.

2. She only recorded this 1966 LP, and one other for ESP-Disk ("College Tour"), before seemingly falling offa the face of the Earth. This changed in 2005 when she re-emerged with a live album called "Happiness is a Thing Called Joe."

3. She has the voice of a Goddess.

Very seldom has an album cover belied the sounds contained within as does the tranquil image of Patty that adorns this LP-- at least if yer talkin' 'bout Side 2 (see kiddies, we useta have this thing called "vinyl" you hadda flip over that was split into halves we called "sides."). The first handfulla tracks are basic torch songs complete with woozy tempos and Waters' husky, sultry voice. The kinda stuff Lady Day Herself'd be proud of-- I even tend to slow my Maker's Mark guzzlin' to a savorin' sip (no pinky sticking out though). By all accounts a seemingly shy, unassuming lady, it's almost as though Patty was was embarrassed of her gorgeous croon... at times it is little more than a whisper-- like she wanted to disappear into the sparse instrumentation. Beautiful stuff no question, light another cigarette, watch the smoke curl in the air blahblahblah. Then you get to "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair"...

Let's try this scenario: you're stretched out on a hammock in some isolated little paradise, feeling the balmy air caressing yer wage slavery-ravaged carcass. Relaxation has enveloped ya so completely, yer eyelids begin fluttering... you're entering the throes of REM sleep. As a a contented sigh escapes yer lips, you feel the thrust of an icepick into yer rectal cavity-- turns out some deranged, droolin' psychopath has been lying in wait underneath, wanting to catch ya at yer most vulnerable. Yes, "Black Is the Color" is THAT jarring.

The only way to describe the anguished shrieks, improvised mantras and overall descent into madness that Waters tears from her guts is courageous. All boundaries are not only crushed, but spat and pissed upon. There is little to no semblance of meter, key or "proper" phrasing. Simply "Black Blllaaack Blackkkk BLLLAACCCKKKK!!!" bent to her will, and unlike many practitioners of vocal acrobatics, this is no ego-driven attempt to impress with her range. It is more like an exorcism-- a purging of the demons I can only begin to speculate existed in the mind of the-then 19 year-old Iowa native. I'll give the last word to one of her more prominent followers:

"People ask me (about) my influences, I would have to say Patty Waters. They say other people and I say, Nahh, Patty Waters, listen to Patty Waters. I listened to her twice. That's all it took for some grain of inextricable influence." -- Diamanda Galás

Look in comments.


HIGH RISE - Live (1993)


Ever wonder what it sounds like when icebergs collide? Me neither, but it seemed like a cool thing to type-- regardless, I'm gonna take a wild stab that it'd be almost as deafening as Munehiro Nirita's guitar. He is the foremost torchbearer of the pulverizing, sheets of feedback-squall-laden axe-slinging as pioneered by Les Rallizes Denudes' Mizutani Takashi. Sure, Asahito Nanjo's (also of Mainliner) bass and Yuro Ujiie's drumming are impressive and cataclysmic 'n' all that, but it's Nirita's unglued six-string antics that leave my mouth agape time and again. And what better way to experience his inventive wailing than in a warts-n-all live setting?

Answer: None.

Truth is, as great as this Japanese Power Trio's studio concoctions are, they don't hold a bottle of Sake to this live document. With infinite space to improvise, unshackled from the cold, clinical atmosphere of the world of knobs and dials (except the ones that go to 11), their sound grows from being merely mammoth to monolithic. By far the ultimate way to experience this incredible band.

Look in comments-- and how about making like Munehiro's geetar and leaving some feedback!

I'm a Legend, I'm Hyper-Space

VOID - Potion For Bad Dreams

unreleased 1983 Columbia, Maryland

Straight up, I nicked this over at Punk Not Profit and I thank them for it as I haven't seen it anywhere else.

Okay, so this is the same Void who produced what is, to these ears, the perfect hardcore record. Their side of the split with The Faith (which I couldn't listen to after Void) has every ingredient for what I consider 'Mhm! That's good hardcore!': Fast tempos with shaky meter on the drums (is the record warped? WHO CARES), young, extremely pissed vocals and guitar going bonkers while the bass keeps it all together. It's the kind of music that ONLY young people can do right. It's just a complete impulse drive; technical talent is a hindrance. Technical talent will have you second guessing and courting the DEATH of good hardcore: thinking.

No, the Void side of that record has none of that. It's wild and crazy and filled with killer 'I just found out the world is total fucked and that sucks' lyrics. It's just 100% perfect.

So here comes this very strange album recorded, but not released, just a mere year and a half after that fabled slab. The differences are both astounding and non-existent. Allow me to explain...

Void were probably always a metal band at heart, they just hadn't figured out where to put their fingers yet. On 'Potion For Bad Dreams' half the band figured it out. The other half didn't. The results are completely weird! Bubba Dupree, the east coast answer to Greg Ginn on the first LP, and bassist Chris Stover have made dramatic technical progress adding elements of post-punk/funk, Motorhead chugging, and..ah...glam metal to the stew. Drummer Sean Finnegan (who recently passed into the mosh pit in the sky, R.I.P.) bought some roto-toms and has definitely learned some tricks but, thankfully, his meter is still pretty uneven and thusly keeps a link to the previous LP. Jeff Weiffenbach, one of my favorite hardcore singers, period, hasn't changed AT ALL. As different and varied as this record gets, Weiffenbach still sounds like a 15 year old singing to himself in a mirror to his favorite record. He's off key, he has no clue how to sing to the track, he howls like a drunk on top of a bar, still all about the pitch shifter effect (like on 'Organized Sports' from the first record). These are compliments!

Now, the record itself is like an audio example of four individuals going in different musical directions. Some tracks sound like proto-cock rock, others like mid period Die Kreuzen, there's even a tune that could have been on M-etallica's 'Kill 'Em Awl'. 'Next Time' is almost beyond classification. Ultimately, had they decided to release it, it would have been right at home on 'metal-era' SST between '83-'85 right down to what passed as 'almost good' production (gated drums, spoken mumbling background vocals, etc.).

Now, whether or not that's a good thing is entirely debatable, but if you know the material I'm talking about, you'll be well prepared for 'Potion'. Personally, this album doesn't hold a candle to the first LP, but some of it is far better than expected. 'Spiral Staircase' is awesome in my book, as is 'Red Death' (the album version gets cut off, the guys at Punk Not Profit kindly added a full version from another demo) and 'Breakaway'. Despite the goof troop intro, 'Start The Night' is pretty good, too. Well, check it out and let's shoot the shit about it!

Black, Jewish and Link In Comments

It's Artastic!

ELECTRIC EELS - The Eyeball of Hell

So what exactly is the significance of today again? Is this the oh-so-holy day when Jesus saw his shadow or somethin'? Or is it a reminder of when he re-animated a rabbit (are we sure that wasn't a parlor trick involving a puppet?) to the delight of children everywhere? Whatever it may be, it fills my heart with hate as it brings together family AND X-anity which never did anything but a shitload of bad for anybody. So if my misanthropy goes offa the rails here, you now know why. Speaking of hate, if you've ever wondered why I loathe AMG, this review of "The Eyeball of Hell" (to think I only went there to pinch the cover art to save me from scanning it my own damn self-- never again) has gotta be the biggest pile of steaming doggie doo-doo I've read since the last time I was unfortunate enough to be exposed to Pitchfork Media (could you creeps yunno, DIE or somethin'?). It's bad enough that the de facto Ground Zero of punk rock is relegated to less than a footnote by rock (ahem) "historians," but when ya got some careerist asswipe comparing their Rudely Crude Magnificence to ZZ Top and Guy Picciotto of thee ultra-sucking Fugazi (hated 'em then, now and forever-- the reason there's alla these shitty "emo" bands), that is nothing short of sodomizing the barely-breathing carcass of R&R itself. I Piss on Thou, Stephen Howell.

Chief Eel/guitarist John Morton once revealed that: "I remember listening to Ornette Coleman, John Coltrane, Sun Ra and Albert Ayler. That's what the Eels was supposed to be, but we didn't really understand it." No quote better unveils the mystery of creating great R&R-- it tends to be made by those who don't know any damn better, wanting to join The Party with questionable technical abilities, BUT pushing those limitations as far as they possibly can. It's not so different a tale than a young Hasil Adkins hearing Hank Williams on the radio for the first time, thinking 'twas Hank Himself playing alla the instruments simultaneously. This is why the Electric Eels (and Hasil, for that matter) still sound so obscenely vital after all these years, and the Clash sound like hacks out to make a quick buck-- or at best, a Reggae-lovin' novelty act.

We got 24 tracks here-- most importantly, the original (45) version of Thee Punk Anthem That Destroys All Other Punk Anthems, "Agitated." You will ooh and aah at its sheer, unashamedly cruddy primitivism; Ultimate Brat Dave E.'s vox will remind you of that snotty little bastard from high school who kept getting up-- right back in yer face in fact-- to hurl unthinkable verbal abuse in your direction even after you'd already beaten him down three or four times-- choice insults too, the kind that REALLY got under yer skin. You will thrill to the sub-Ayler jam, "Jazz Is (Pt. 2)," where Mr. E.'s untutored clarinet scree engages in a No Holds Barred Death Match with Mr. Morton's equally unhinged geetar skronk. And, of course, there's a motherlode of rehearsal recordings including versions of popular favorites like "Bunnies" (see, it's all coming together now), and "Spin Age Blasters" (aka "Spinach Blasters").

Look in comments-- oh, and in case you hadn't noticed, John Morton was featured here too.

LSD MARCH - Shindara Jigoku

2004 LP-only release from Japanese multi-instrumentalist Shinsuke Michishita & Crew-- this time it's Masami Kawaguchi (guitar, whom you may remember from Aihiyo) and ex-Fushitsusha drummer Ikuro Takahashi. Seems every LSD March album I buy is boldly emblazoned with thee legend: Picks up where the Velvet Underground and Les Rallizes Denudes left off! Which has some merit on a superficial level-- there's some feedback-ridden squawk here 'n' there, and Michishita's flat monotone of a voice occasionally brings to mind a young Lou Reed-- but what I find myself most enraptured by is the all-pervasive sense of melancholy. (Are you Japanese people okay? Yer getting your daily allowance of minerals 'n' shit, right?) Seriously, this stuff'll pull down yer shutters for ya even if the sun is blazing outside. It can be a bit too much at times; Occasionally the band slips into some of the most tuneless grooves this side of Jandek-- but since I like Jandek, you can take that however ya want.

Look in comments.

Feelin' Kinda Froggy

NINE POUND HAMMER - Smokin' Taters!

Yee Haw! Yet another chance to bitch about the musical wasteland that was the early nineties. With the majority of punk having become a bad joke, it was almost inevitable that ya'd hafta turn to bizarre hybrids that breathed some new life into its rapidly decomposing corpse. So... how about some Southern Hostility straight outta Lexington, Kentucky??! I've oft-heard this here hooch referred to as "cowpunk"-- whatta load of shit! I don't hear a trace of Rank & File or Blood On the Saddle or any o' their collegiate kin in Nine Lb. Hammer's reverently redneck rantin' & ravin'. These boys were the real thing, wavin' the confederate flag in yer face one minute and doing their damnedest to dispel gun-totin', bible-thumpin' clichés the next. Whatcha really got here is a band firmly entrenched in the giants of C&W like Hank & Johnny, the bombast of Southern Rock and the fury of hardcore. The lyrics are brilliant-- filled with tales of incest, racism, fist fights, booze and sex. They also contain many pearls of wisdom (listen to "Turned Traitor for a Piece of Tail" if'n ya don't believe me) and an obsession with unabashed, familial loyalty. Political correctness was not high on their list of priorities, thank dawg.

Too bad that a few years later we'd be inundated with bands from Pennsylvania and New York wearing cowboy hats, sporting Betty Page and 8-Ball tattoos telling us all about the "Good Ol' South." That's like my Canuck ass forming a band to write odes to the Australian Outback-- I won't mention any names: the posers know who they are. Vocalist Scott Luallen and drummer Adam Neal would go on to form the Hookers (check out "Black Visions of Crimson Wisdom" their toxic cocktail of Venom & Skynyrd), and axeman Blaine Cartwright would find fleeting fame with Nashville Pussy, a dumbed-down version of 9 Lb H, who, although I'm not a big fan of their records, put on one of the most pee-pee scorchin' live shows you'll ever see. But fuck all that, this is a good ol' time for white trash and trash aesthetes alike.

Look in comments.

JOHNNY THUNDERS & THE HEARTBREAKERS - Live at the Lyceum

If yer a Heartbreakers fan, ya know by now that finding live performances in decent fidelity or acceptable sobriety ain't too easy to come by. Luckily, y'all can come to SLN and find one that delivers both. This set was recorded at London's famed Lyceum Ballroom in 1984, and features Johnny & the Boys in fine fettle-- particularly Mr. Thunders, who, when he's not tearing off those patented (as an acquaintance once described to me) "is his hand broken or is he a genius" licks, interjects some hilarious rants.  Particularly amusing is when he informs the crowd that his fondest wish has always been "to turn da fire extinguisher on youse douchebags." An absolute must!

Tracks:

1. Pipeline
2. Personality Crisis
3. One Track Mind
4. Too Much Junkie Business
5. Do You Love Me?
6. Just Because I'm White
7. Copy Cat
8. Baby Talk
9. Born To Lose
10. All By Myself
11. In Cold Blood
12. Seven Day Weekend
13. So Alone

In comments-- and leave one!! Otherwise this blogging shit gets fucking old!

No Speed or Glue

SHINKI CHEN - Shinki Chen & His Friends

(Since so many of youse pulled yer puds to this post)

An orgy of fuzz and pretty much every other form of excess (musical and otherwise) ya wanna reel off, Shinki Chen's 1971 solo LP is a cherished artifact among brain-damaged low life everywhere. Backed up by his short-lived blues outfit, Power House, "Friends" is little more than a monument to Chen's beyond wasted guitar pyrotechnics-- and whatever adjective exceeds "beyond"-- wasted psyche. Beginning with cymbals and who-knows-what-the-fuck-else (most likely 50 reasons why you should be stoned before you proceed any further) on a backwards loop augmented by some ivory-tinklin', you are then treated to 40 minutes of heavily-phased vocals (so much so that you'll feel like you've been underwater for nearly three-quarters of an hour), charmingly inept drumming and the sweet tonality of Chen's beatifically sustained, singing licks. The undoubted masterpiece is "Farewell to Hypocrites," 13 minutes of unhinged riffing that somehow manages to soar despite some monotone-- in fact, kinda robotic-- backing, courtesy of "His Friends," who occasionally drag things down to a Procol Plod. Luckily, Thee Shink's inventive string-bendin' is always there to save the day.

Look in comments.


KURO - Discography (1983-86)

Kuro delivered a primordial thrash cocktail laced with a penchant for violence-- usually on their audience (that's what those screams you hear in the background are). Of course, they bear the hallmarks of all great J-pcore -- the formless, white noise as guitar riff aesthetic is here in abundance, as is the broken washing machine drums and deranged vox-- in fact, some of their early work borders on generic, albeit in a good way. However, when they later began to adopt a mid-tempo, metallized attack-- complete with pronounced, chugging basslines and nimble, saturated in high-end guitar work, my ears prick up. This is when the bizarro world of Japanese "interpretation" comes into play-- the art of taking an inspiration (in this case, Lemmy & Co.), placing it in the Xerox that is their minds and spitting out an entity that is familiar, but not exactly recognizable. So, whatcha get is the majority of their oeuvre: Their first (unnamed) flexi, the "Fire" 7-inch, compilation appearances and a five-minute "gig" from 1983. Proof that being influenced by Motörhead can never be a bad thing.

In comments.

Are You Morbid?

SUTCLIFFE JÜGEND - The Victim As Beauty

Have you been very, very bad? Do you need to be aurally flogged for your sins? I hope not, because not only does that make you some kinda sick, masochistic twit, but probably a Catholic as well (my condolences if this be the case). Sutcliffe Jügend, taking their moniker from the charming Peter Sutcliffe, were perhaps the most disturbing exponents of the early Power Electronics movement-- there is little chance to catch your breath, brutal frequencies pummel you into submission in waves; Seldom are light/dark dynamics used to set you up for the next bout of soul-rape... I mean, why mess with a good thing, right?

Born as an offshoot of your friends & mine, Whitehouse -- SJ's Kevin Tomkins was early member-- they gained infamy for the legendary 1982 ten-cassette box set, "We Spit on Their Graves," (which I must shamefully admit I only own four of) an endurance test in extreme noise terror without equal-- and that includes the works of any modern purveyors of the sound be it Grunt, Deathpile or Bloody-Minded. Yes, along with partner-in-grime, Paul Taylor, Tomkins set the bar pretty high for subsonic repulsion-- which is mebbe why they took a break for nearly a decade, returning in 1995 to inflict more torture upon us with "The Victim As Beauty."

Here, they examine the anatomy of murder which is split into five distinct phases: "Abduction," "Fear & Anticipation," "Humiliation," "Torture & Death" and mercifully, the "Cold Aftermath." Unlike cartoonish grindcore bands mining the same turf, Sutcliffe Jügend's music(k) is genuinely terrifying and unnerving-- if I wasn't an armchair student of the psychopathic mind, it would be easy to believe that the twitching, throbbing (and extremely well-recorded) squalls of white noise presented here are the sadistic impulses flooding through the brain of the nameless predator profiled here. It's about as close to feeling the cold, clammy hands of death around your throat that you'll ever wanna experience until Your Time Comes. In short, the soundtrack for a snuff film that hasn't been made yet (at least we hope not don't we? Don't We??!).

Sure ya wanna look in the comments?

DICTATORS - Live in Stockholm, 1996

I'm not gonna waste a second of my time covering the history of this seminal band-- ya know 'em, ya love 'em... if not, who cares about you anyway? This music is a soundtrack to my life-- be it that unforgettable euphoria I felt the first time I heard "Go Girl Crazy!" or lying on the floor, waaay beyond inebriation screaming, "I think Lou Reed is a CREEP!" along with Handsome Dick Manitoba, the 1000th time I played it-- the Dictators are Eternal. I loved Manitoba's Wild Kingdom too-- so what if it had hair metal production? The songs were killer, and that's always the bottom line in my book. Here we have NYC's Finest tearing through the kinda set that'll make so-called punks half their age cower like the spoiled little non-entities that they are. I have no recollection as to how I got my grateful mitts on this 'un, nor do I have a clue which venue they were playing (don't care, either)-- what I do know is that they play tighter'n nun cootch, and that the source is a radio broadcast someone was astute enough to record for posterity.

Tracks:

1. New York, New York
2. Haircut & Attitude
3. Master Race Rock
4. I Want You Tonight
5. Faster & Louder
6. Baby, Let's Twist
7. I Am Right!
8. Call Me Animal
9. The Party Starts Now!!
10. I Stand Tall
11. Science Gone Too Far
12. Had It Coming
13. Search & Destroy
14. The Next Big Thing
15. Stay With Me

Look in comments, and leave one or die!

Appetite For Distortion

C.A. QUINTET - Trip Thru Hell (1969)

This is the kinda album I was forever seeking back in Thee Olde Record Store Clerk Daze-- y'know, the kind that'd jump out atcha no matter how large the sluice of product ya hadda pick through whilst stocking the shelves was... I mean, lookit that cover art! Hieronymus Bosch as reinterpreted by a stoned kid in 11th Grade recently enthralled by Dante's Inferno... song titles like "Cold Spider," "Underground Music" and "Sleepy Hollow Lane"-- it's obvious it can't miss! And it doesn't-- we're talkin 'bout a bargain basement version of Deep Purple or mebbe the Crazy World of Arthur Brown, complete with majestic church organ, wild, wah'd fuzz geetars, ethereal, choral femme backing vox and detours into Morricone-like Spaghetti Western passages with blaring brass. Turns out the C.A. Quintet were the brainchild of Ken Erwin, a teenage, Minneapolis-based singer-songwriter & multi-instrumentalist who'd never touched anything stronger than cough syrup (ah, but was it Romilar?) until AFTER "Trip"'s release. See kids: Ya don't need to inundate your defenseless braincells with toxic chemicals. Why, if you stay on the straight & narrow, you too may form your own Psychedelic Mariachi Marching Band From Purgatory some day.

Enter your perdition in the comments.


MICHAEL YONKERS - Microminiature Love

"The body was sawed off, and it was silvery, and there were a couple of large knobs on it, and --I swear this is true --some kind of antenna thing sticking out of it. Kind of spronging around, like a prop from a 1950s science-fiction movie. Then he plugged it in and we went for the first take. Hraww wrahhraw hhharah hhhrahhh! It was wah-wah-ing even before I knew what a wah-wah was! And I started laughing, it was such a shock!"

--- Recording engineer Steve Longman on his first encounter with Michael Yonkers & his heavily-modified guitar

In keeping with that ever-elusive "conceptual continuity" a certain Mr. Zappa useta harp on about, I give thee another underground legend from the Land of 10,000 Lakes: Michael Yonkers. This is one o' those platters that is often relegated to the "Record Collector Rock" pile by snobby rockcrits (no money to be made pimping this kinda stuff, y'see) insuring that only a handful of those of us with an Appetite For Distortion will ever seek it out. You can remedy this situation by playing it for yer granny and gramps, 2.4 kids, Ma and Pa... it should be experienced by all and sundry.

A DIY electronics wizard, Yonkers cut his Telecaster in half, outfitting it with a variety of homemade effects and gadgets (the "antenna" that Longman saw was actually a theremin protruding from Yonkers' guitar case-- he'd made it out of a PIAA kit)-- oscillators, a makeshift echoplex constructed from a cassette deck with an extra recording head-- he also designed his own distortion boxes, one of which, the "Fuzz 'N' Bark," earned raves from local musicians. "Microminature Love" was recorded at Minneapolis' famed Dove Studios in an hour-long session (!) in 1969-- most tracks being (natch) one take wonders (!). Initially, a deal was in place with Sire Records to release it, but for reasons unknown, this never came to be. The master tapes languished in Yonkers' house for 35 years.

According to legend, Yonkers discovered his odd guitar tuning when he accidentally knocked over his axe at a gig-- liking what he heard at first strum, he memorized the outta whack timbre and began using it regularly as it also conformed nicely to his vocal pitch. Its mournful drone blends in perfectly with the all-pervasive sense of doom hovering over this LP-- Vietnam figures prominently in the lyrics, albeit in a cryptically poetic way, making this a work very much relevant to the political climate of today. Ditties like "Kill the Enemy" and "Boy in the Sandbox" positively reek of death-- the latter particularly affecting with its irony-laden storyline-- a boy who loved to play with his toy soldiers in his sandbox, growing to adulthood, sent to war and ultimately, "a tomb of sand."

It is Yonkers' fretwork that will keep you returning to MML, though-- whirring and sloshing around in shapeless fragments one moment, slicing through the murk with punkish authority the next. I can think of no one doing anything quite this extreme at the time-- not the Stooges, the 'Five or even VU's epic odysseys into Feedback Hell on the dozens of live boots I've heard. Yonkers was exploring a musical dimension that contained only himself-- and fuck all the high-falutin' types that would dismiss this magnificent goop as yet another poorly-executed stab at "downer rock": Michael Yonkers was/is a one-of-a-kind innovator on par with Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman and Sonny Sharrock. Too bad we had to wait over three decades to find that out.

Look in comments.

Your License Has Been Revoked, Comrade

PLASTIC PEOPLE OF THE UNIVERSE - Egon Bondy's Happy Hearts Club Banned

Y'know, for years I always thought the "Velvet Revolution" was when Lou Reed wrote "Sister Ray." Turns out there was a little more to it than that (though that was pretty damn revolutionary). See, in former Communist Czechoslovakia, ya needed a "license to rock," if ya weren't playing "State-Approved" swill that'd embarrass Dean Martin. Needless to say, Prague's Plastic People of the Universe didn't play that shit, had their R&R privileges revoked, and were thrown in jail. The band themselves wanted nothing more than to be famous for playing the music that they loved; they had no desire to be revolutionaries. However, after their arrests, an entire community of dissidents sprung up around the band, many of whom-- like future Czech President Vaclav Havel-- would be instrumental in the overthrow of communist rule.

Formed in 1968 as a Fugs/Velvets cover band by bassist Milan Hlavsa, they were approached by art historian and cultural critic Ivan Jirous, who convinced them to concentrate on writing original material-- he also became their manager (he had Warholian aspirations), hiring Paul Wilson, a Canuck teacher stationed in Prague, to translate their lyrics into English. Wilson, who became their vocalist from 1970-72, encouraged them to revert to their native tongue before his departure. Taking his advice to heart, they began working on a series of songs based around the words of Egon Bondy, a Czech poet/philosopher whose work had recently been banned by the government. Thus, Hlavsa, with bandmates Vratislav Brabenec (sax), Josef Janíček (guitars/keys), Jiří Kabeš (violin/viola) and Jan Brabec (drums) entered the studio in 1974 to record this LP, their first "proper" release.

More than two decades has not diminished the Freak Appeal of "Banned"-- as steeped in Eastern European Classical composers as it in the Mothers/Fugs/VU triumvirate . This is doom-laden music infused with black humor and impeccable musicianship. Opener "20" with its Van Vliet-like meter sets the tone:

Today when one is twenty
He would vomit with repulsion

But those of forty even more
Would puke in sheer revulsion

Only those of sixty have it easier
They sleep in peace with their amnesia

"Toxica" has a spider-running-across-the-fretboard guitar solo that dukes it out with some wigged-out theremin abuse-- two-tone squalls of sound battling for skronk supremacy. "Okolo Okna," features a sinister bass line augmented by some positively creepy violin-sawing that resembles Jean-Luc Ponty-- if he'd ever been taught the art of restraint. Brabenec's demented, Peter Brötzmann-esque saxophone excursions will liquefy your gray matter immediately-- not only is his work on par with any "free" player you care to name, his hellacious honking is soaked in reverb, giving it a detached, otherworldly quality not captured before or since.

PPU would disband in 1988, with some members forming Pulnoc. Their visionary leader, Milan Hlavsa, died in 2001 of lung cancer, aged 50.

Look in comments.


VARIOUS - Surfbeat Behind the Iron Curtain

Another example of musicians in need of a "license to rock," this compilation, part of the "Planetary Pebbles" series, has a title that is a bit misleading: Not only is this not really surf music, a sizable chunk o' the artists featured aren't/weren't from Commie-ruled lands. So you end up with a Battle Royale of early 60's Eastern and Western World musicians enamored of the Ventures and pristine, Joe Meek-style production -- especially the Tornados' "Telstar". Many of the Eastern Bloc entries are also the most absorbing-- in particular, Czechoslovakia's Slava Kunst Orchestra's "Lucifer in Coelis," one of the most deranged ditties recorded in ANY era. It has not so much a lead vocal as a narration, that brings to mind Mike Myers' "Sprockets" character, underlaid with blasting horns and alien, gypsy-like folk melodies adapted for fuzz guitar. East Germany's Thunderbirds serve up a heapin' helpin' of ultra-compressed, Duane Eddy-style twang on "African Guitar," and Poland's Alarm contribute some groovy, ivory-tinklin' fun on "Nocny Alarm."

Tracks:

1. Pe Linga Plopee Fara Sot - Sincron
2. Beginning Of Autumn - Capras
3. Theme From Unfinished Symphony - Bunnys
4. Komandosi - Black 'N' Whites
5. The Saint - Eliminators
6. Return Of Gemini - Mefisto
7. Sputniks Thema - Die Sputniks
8. African Guitar - Thunderbirds
9. Nocny Alarm - Alarm
10. Crazy Guitars - Boomerangs
11. Leicht Verdreht - Trocadero Sextett
12. The Bumble Beat - Orchester Charles Blackwell
13. Corso - Klaus Lenz Sextett
14. Lucifer In Coelis - Slava Kunst Orchestra
15. Twistin Safari - Thunderbirds
16. Aladin - Theo Schumann Combo
17. Take Blya Moja - Black 'N' Whites
18. In Gara La Leordeni - Sincorn
19. Werwo's Rock - Gisha Brothers
20. Colorado - The Constellations
21. Javalins Rock - Javalins
22. Melodie Fur Barbara - Franke Echo Quintett
23. Wipe Out! - Eliminators
24. The Coach - Karel Duba & His Guitar Men

Look in comments.

Blimey! Biker Rock From Blighty!

CRUSHED BUTLER - Uncrushed (1969-'71)

Right from the opening bars of corrosive, anti-wage slave anthem "It's My Life," it becomes immediately apparent that it ain't just Mick Farren & the Deviants or the Pink Fairies who can rightfully lay claim to the "First Punks in the UK" mantle. With vocalist/drummer Darryl Read sneering lines like "Workin' like a slave, workin' for you/Doin' somethin' I don't wanna do," while pounding out a mutant strain of Diddley-beat and fellow no-goodniks Jesse Hector (guitar) and Alan Butler viciously pissing all over what was left of the Hippie Delusion, no doubt is left whatsoever.

Recorded in glorious mono at a variety of locations (EMI House, Decca Studios, Regent Sound and the Marquee), "Uncrushed" is ample proof, once again, that punk wasn't birthed in the sleazy, capitalist brain of Malcolm McLaren and his dastardly dupes-- hell, they weren't even the first ones to give the finger to EMI. Crushed Butler already had that dubious distinction by recording "Factory Grime," a rowdy punker fulla Moon The Loon-esque bashing and fevered power chord-slashing the company absolutely despised. As penance, they were sent to record "Love Is All Around Me," a boogie penned by their producer, Roger Ferris. No matter-- with CB's naturally grungy performance, the song is lifted to blistering heights it didn't deserve.

Read is still releasing solo LP's to this day, at times accompanied by the likes of Ray Manzarek and Mickey Finn. Hector and Butler formed the also-excellent Hammersmith Gorillas (a future SLN feature, mebbe?), a garagey combo that found favor with early punk audiences, despite little in the way of record sales. Butler died in 1981.

Look in comments.


WICKED LADY - Psychotic Overkill (1972)

For full enjoyment of this slab o' UK proto-metal, when listening imagine the following:

(a) That it was recorded in a studio on par with Abbey Road.

(b) A producer with the pedigree of a Martin Birch or a Norman Smith was brought in to fine tune the long, fumbling solos and overall lack of concise arrangements.

(c) That the drummer was replaced by a tubs-master like say, Cozy Powell, erasing the erratic tempos and amateurish, lackadaisical anti-thud.

None of this is true of course, but it's best to look at "Psychotic Overkill" as a sketch of what coulda been. Whatcha really got here is three uncouth, British hairies who suckled at the teat of Cream and the Sabs-- when not frying their brainpans shiny on a diet of pharmaceuticals that Ozzy Himself'd be envious of. Formed in Northampton in 1968 by vocalist/guitarist Mike Weaver, Bob "Motorist" Jeffries (bass) and (ahem) "drummer" Dick Smith, they released a demo-quality debut LP, "Axeman Cometh," the same year. Gaining a small following of bikers, among other violence-prone heathens, gigs were infrequent, eventually drying up completely when the Wicked Ones, intoxicated on who-knows-what would launch into sets comprised of the same song over and over again... getting the plug pulled on 'em by pissed off club owners.

Determined to live out their degenerate R&R fantasies, Weaver and Jeffries sacked Smith for slightly-less inept sticksman, Del "German Head" Morley, and unleashed "Psychotic Overkill" to a largely indifferent public in 1972. Once again, the production didn't exactly CRUSH the way it shoulda/coulda, but it does scrunch a bit, which is a decent enough upgrade for a private press recording. However, disregard my bitchin' as what really-- and always -- matters the most is the quality of the riffage, and Herr Weaver could wail and flail with the best of 'em. Combine the amphetamine abandon of Alvin Lee with the burly, fuzzy muck of Leigh Stevens, and you've got a pretty accurate picture of his style. His vocals aren't particularly distinctive-- mainly an everyweirdo yowl, but since they're written mostly as a device to fill space till the next six-string onslaught, it matters not a smidgen.

Opening cut "I'm a Freak," with its full-throttle wantonness anticipates the scuzzy thrash Motörhead would hone to perfection a few years later-- a total fuckin' corker! "Why Don't You Let Me Try" resembles another future stalwart of the NWOBHM-era: Angel Witch. Filled with cheeky humor, and a catchy as hell, heavily metallic, yet melodramatic main riff, it would fit just fine on the aforementioned legends' classic debut LP. An awkward adaptation of Jimi's "Voodoo Chile," complete with one of those infernal "talk boxes" Peter Frampton milked as a gimmick to stardom reduces it to a parody of the original's mystic grandeur-- well-intentioned, but farcical. Such missteps are quickly forgiven by the time you've reached "Ship of Ghosts"-- twenty-one minutes of some of the most over-the-top, wah'd into oblivion dirge rock ever committed to tape. What's most incredible is that not for a moment will you feel the urge to stifle a yawn-- you are pummeled with feral intensity for every second of its epic duration.

Weaver would go on to lend his stellar axework to local prog-outfit the Dark, appearing on their "Round the Edges" LP, which conjures up no shortage of drool from collectors-- unfortunately more for its rarity than quality. I've yet to hear his work in the Mind Doctors, but I'll bet it ain't a patch on the merciless shredding of "Psychotic Overkill."

Look in comments.


WITCHFINDER GENERAL - Soviet Invasion (EP, 1982)

I've thrown this baby in as a (pretty damn special) bonus, as it fits in nicely with the overall, er... "vibe." While the majority of their NWOBHM-era brethren were looking to punk and/or more technically challenging forms of rock to push metal forward into the next decade, Witchfinder General never looked any further than the original masters: Black Sabbath. This elusive 4-tracker is a tasty slab of their Sabbariffic Sloth Rock that would help codify doom metal as we know it (unless yer one of those putzes that considers that tedious, neo-goth shit to be "doom").

In comments-- and how about some you apathetic bastards dearest darlings?

Dark White

MOPS - Psychedelic Sounds in Japan (1968)

Much has been written about Japan's "G.S." (Group Sounds) scene that emerged shortly after the Beatles' 1966 performance at Tokyo's legendary Budo Kan Hall-- so allow me to pound my fist on the table and exclaim, "They are full of shit!" I've heard most of 'em-- be it the Spiders, Tempters, Golden Cups, Bunnys etc., ad nauseum-- and the sad but honest truth is that the majority of it is absolute swill. The "rocking" (I use the term very loosely here) stuff is stiff and soulless and those ballads... oh fucking man... those horrific ballads. We're talkin' the kinda tripe granny & gramps would have no trouble doing the chicken or stroll to, BUT NOT any self-respecting Rock 'n' Roller! You're being sold a bill of goods by collector scum looking to jack up the prices of the original pressings-- I don't care how much of a Nipponphile you happen to be, stay away-- much of it has more in common with pathetic schmaltz-meisters like Wayne Newton than the Pretty Things. Granted, I hate that mindset "if it comes from country A or B it's gotta be good!" so mebbe I shouldn't be so generous with my always sterling consumer advice.

So, with some reservations I recommend the Mops. Like so many of their G.S. brethren, they were obsessed with their American & British beat/psych counterparts-- padding out their albums with some completely unnecessary covers. Do you really need another version of "Light My Fire" (though the Mops' version has a fiery guitar solo that stomps the balls offa Krieger)? How about "Somebody to Love"? Didn't think so. On the other hand, their take on the Animals' "Inside Looking Out" rocks quite righteously-- too bad they stick to "locks & sand"; Grand Funk hadn't introduced the infamous "nickel bags" line yet. Their original material fares far better-- they stir some traditional Japanese folk melodies into their lysergic stew (the lyrics are in their native tongue as well for the most part), sounding like an embryonic version of the Godzilla-meets-Black-Sabbath crunch later taken to (much) loftier heights by Flower Travellin' Band on "Satori."

Standout track: Undoubtedly their "theme" song, "I Am Just a Mops," (sic sic sic!) which takes a dilapidated Diddley-beat, infuses it with some nice tremelo fuzz, and sadly confesses (I think) a tale of teenage trauma. In this case, the perpetual melancholy that awaits those who are... a Mops (sniff). Keep in mind that transcendent moments like this are the exception, not the rule. For the most part, this is music executed with polite professionalism-- not inspired madness (but I know damn well you Japanese R&R freaks are gonna want it anyway).

Look in comments.


BONNIWELL MUSIC MACHINE - Ignition

"Talk Talk" sits high atop the Mt. Olympus of 60's Garage-Punk Greatness-- very seldom will you hear me use the adjective "perfect" to describe a ditty, but when it comes to the aforementioned monster, there's simply no other term available. It is so brilliant that it has dwarfed its creators-- forever hurling 'em into the "one hit wonder" trash heap-- so much so, that Music Man Sean Bonniwell abandoned the business in the early 70's, sold off all of his possessions and embarked on a long spiritual odyssey that ended with his conversion to a deity I'd sooner not discuss (all religions are like anathema to me). Sadly for Mr. Bonniwell & Co., they arrived at a time that stressed the importance of the hit single over the LP.

Amazingly, this collection of rarities works as an album, despite varying time-lines and lineups (1965-69, three different memberships, from the Ragamuffins to the little-heard third Machine). Why? The answer is simple: The songs are magnificent! In Bonniwell, the Machine possessed not only a gifted vocalist capable of whispering sweet nothings and spitting venom with equal aplomb, but a tunesmith par excellence. Take for example "Black Snow," the saga of a blind man-- supposedly inspired by a chance meeting Bonniwell had with José Feliciano: It begins as a surreal montage of Guile Wisdom's suffocatingly fervent power chords and Bonniwell's agonizing vocal, ever-growing in intensity to the nigh-unbearable breaking point before granting a brief reprieve with a slowly-simmering guitar solo. But this is merely a break in the clouds, not lasting sunshine as what sounds like an electronic timer begins its countdown growing louder and louder as the song reaches its thundering climax-- relentless bass drums enter the fray, accentuating Bonniwell's shriek which by this point, has become positively catatonic. Whew! I need to take a breath after writing that (even though I have by no means done the song justice)!

The true Crown Jewel of this opus (and title of this post) is "Dark White," a slow-burner boiling over with sexual tension. This time out, Bonniwell adopts a soulful croon, relating the mini-drama of a "part girl, all woman" who's been keeping him awake at night. Delving into her neuroses ("She feels lost & abandoned") he finds himself transformed from Hunter into Hunted, consumed by his lust, yet enraptured by her damaged psyche as equally... helplessly caught in a web he thought he'd been weaving (can any of you boys relate?). However, before you get too uncomfortable, the rest of the band joins in with backing vox that resemble nothing so much as a choir of androids, and, as if to solidify my analogy, Wisdom's guitar tears off some licks heavily-treated to mimic the sound of a raygun (particularly of the 50's Z-Grade, sci-fi flick variety). My all-time favorite Music Machine creation.

Look in the comments and do some "Talk Talking" while yer in there!