CD Reviews: December 1996

Acid Bath
Pagan Terrorism Tactics
Rotten Records 

First of all, I love the band, and I love their record label. They sent me one of the best videos I’ve viewed in my life (and no, it wasn’t played on MTV) when I had initially called to request a copy of When The Kite String Pops, their first. Due to the kind heart (ha, ha, ha) of the evil SLUG boss, Mr. Elvis Christ himself, I came into possession of a copy of Acid Bath’s latest. 

The band is so twisted and sick that they had several paragraphs devoted to their cover artwork in Billboard Magazine. Their latest feature reveals a painting done by none other than Dr. Jack Kevorkian. When The Kite String Pops had a self-portrait drawn by John Wayne Gacy of himself as Pogo the Clown. The band also released a radio play EP branded as a sketch drawn by “the Night Stalker” Richard Ramirez.

The band is from Louisiana, and I’m not referring to the civilized area of the state. The best music Louisiana ever produced came from the swamps; there is even a name to describe it – swamp-rock.

Acid Bath isn’t playing what the archivists call “swamp-rock” – they have some new ideas for “swamp.” Swamps were – and remain – the setting for all manner of unspeakable horrors. Unspeakable horrors are what Acid Bath are all about. For those inclined to partake of tamer, more manufactured versions of horror (please refer to the horrors of the inner city and the cartoon horror produced by Mansonites and NINies), their music is probably much too abrasive and melodic for your preference.

Tattoos, spandex, and strap-on dil­dos are tame when compared to a two-by-four wielded by a hairy, three-eyed maniac in tattered coveralls with a two-headed phalis. Imagine monsters of humans danc­ing around a bonfire fueled by bones deep within the swamps, crocodiles cowering before their evil presence. Take a bath in the waters the corpora­tions have turned to acid. Watch the flesh melt from your very bones, and when you are nothing but a skeleton, prepare to fuel the fire. — Cavorting Jack

Son Seals
Live Spontaneous Combustion
Alligator Records 

I am truly spoiled! Two Alligator CDs in one month. Son Seals: June 20-22, Chicago, Illinois. Twelve songs that make you love music. Son Seals and company create a vibrant palette of blues and rock with the accompaniment of a two-man horn section. Like Michael Hill, Son displays his guitar as a true extension of himself. Organ and drums come together for per­fect rhythm that you have to lean in on the speaker to differentiate. 

This is living, breathing music. Whoever mixed the sound left Son’s audible directions for the band dispersed in the lyrics. Son sweats in his yellow sequined jacket on a hot summer day in Chicago. A drop falls down on the stage, and from it his music grows. The band is on the same wavelength; you can hear it in every riff. You have to wonder if the band itself was surprised when the music cleared at the end of 4 perfect minutes of “Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone,” and the realization dropped that they had just been taken someplace. Seals just smiled, breathed in, and let the astonishment dissipate. — Mad Reverend

Bernie Bernie Headflap
Cheese On Wheat
Creep Records 

I don’t know if this sounds more like the Pixies or just Frank Black‘s solo materi­al?!? Don’t get me wrong, since either way I dig it in a big way, baby! There are hella songs on this disc, slapping down some heavy sounds that bounce all over the spectrum. The power of this trio seems to come from the fact they don’t tie themselves down to any specific style or sound, cap­turing the crunch of VU-influ­enced bands, yet experimenting with Ween sounds of distorted voice and fucked up samplings. At times the vocals are a strange combo of They May Be Giants and Geggy Tah (ugh!), but it was adds nice­ly to the happy and playful lyrics that bleed dark sarcasm at times when you least expect it. This keeps you on your toes, since most of the music tends to fly all over the play, from hard thrashy tones to slick pop that melts in your mouth like tasty candy.

I played this for a few of my wannabe hip to the new style friends and they looked at me like I was truly testing their own opinions, which I was. In the end they tossed a coin, yet I had made up my mind long ago…a keeper! —Billy Fish 

Bush
Razorblade Suitcase
Interscope

Interscope is the label poised to save Christmas for music retailers. Retailers earn close to 50 percent of their income during this short period of weeks. The Interscope family of labels has released Marilyn Manson, 2 Pac, Dr. Dre, Shaquille O’Neal, and Death Row‘s Greatest Hits in the last few days. Now there is Bush. MTV is reportedly chang­ing their format to include less rap and grunge and more pop and electronic dance. Don’t worry, the effect won’t kick in soon enough to ruin Christmas. If the sound of Seattle grunge is attrac­tive to the ears, then so is Bush. Ah, if only Silverchair had a new CD prepared for the shopping season, it would be a Seattle-sounding Christmas indeed. 

For the children who find Razorblade Suitcase under the evergreen on Christmas morning, please bow down and worship the graven image of Kurt. I guess Gavin can’t help it if he sings like the dead one. Bush is Bush, and I am already sick of “Swallowed” that I’ve set my player to skip it. Before and after that are more songs which illus­trate the growth of Bush. Two years ago they were complaining about their lack of success in Britain. Now they are happy because in their hometown, they can walk down the street in freedom, without any of the overwhelming fame interfering with their lives.

“Insect Kin” is the most British song I’ve ever heard from the band. Nigel Pulsford‘s gui­tar is all scratchy and clanging. Rossdale authentically whisper–screams the words, yet he unfortunately returns to his old ways for “Cold Contagious.” The hip thing is to dismiss anything popular. I sat down with an open mind, hoping for a great record, but I found it was a skip “Cold Contagious” too.

“A Tendency To Start Fires” is another keeper; the voice is still there, but the band takes over – especially Pulsford. He’s buzzing and clanging, feeding back all over the place. Dave Parsons and Robin Goodridge are the busy lit­tle bees circling about the flower­ing Bush. “Mouth” is an alterna­tive rock formula. Stop, start, quiet, loud, start, stop, loud, quiet, everyone knows what it sounds like. Don’t worry, the strings are coming right up.

“Straight No Chaser” has the strings to call it an alternative rock ballad – a love song if you will. The strings do indeed give the song depth, and the addition moves Bush beyond their grunge past. This is what I was hoping for! Finally the CD winds down with a few ballads. The second-to-last song, “Bonedriveo,” again has the strings. The rest of Bush is in a quiet mood, and dammit, I like it. After you get past “History,” it’s almost a new CD. Let them grow! They’ll make a few million off of Razorblade Suitcase. The true test comes in a couple of years when it is time to make the third. —Orin “Tipper” Hutch 

Phish
Billy Breathes
Elektra Entertainment 

Phish – what the fuck are you doing? You are neither the Grateful Dead nor The Beatles and you certainly can’t hold both realms in your reign. As a fan, I find you exhilarating and creative, but my cynicism comes shining through and grows the more pop­ular you get.  You started out as a happy little band with happy lit­tle ditties of “Junta” that swamped my soul. But I guess you’ve outgrown me and have turned into some sort of totalitarian regime out to conquer the world.

I should note that I’m not one of those assholes out there who are all pissed off because of the “posers” who go to Phish concerts. What the hell is a “poser” anyway? In fact, I’ve never met a Phishhead who liked the fact that there were other people at the concert besides them. Any Phish fan is a “poser” no mat­ter what you think. There is always someone out there who heard Phish before you, so just shut up and enjoy their music, which is exactly what Phish wants you to do with their new CD, Billy Breathes.

Musically it is amazing, but it isn’t Phish. It should be called Hoist: Our Second Attempt At Widespread Mainstream Popularity. It is a fine-tuned pop album and there is no doubt in my mind that the boys at Elektra (What do you know, a division of Warner Entertainment) got together with the band and decided to capture the favor of the pop world. It just might work with this album, every day I hear the single “Free” on the radio.

Maybe they made this album for future generations to ponder at the wide range of styles that Phish encompasses. My feelings are that they aren’t so future-oriented. Phish: You will never be a complacent pop band, nor will you ever be that in my mind. You transcend and don’t look for approval, but your last two studio efforts and actions prove that you are trying to overcome yourself for life’s greener acceptance. —Mad Reverend 

Karma To Burn
Roadrunner 

Dis ‘ere kid is from some dem hicks who lives in da woods er some damn thing er other. There (SLUG spelling used all the way through) birthing occurred ’round a still. These ‘ere boys couldn’t make any decent whiskey so they went to New York City ‘n bot em some. Their original tape didn’t have any words cause none of em could sing. But their friend Baka could bella a bit so they got him to sing fer em. Now they have a brand new kid in da store jes in time for da Christmas shoppers. 

Go into a store and ask dem fellers or girlfriends what works der, “hey where’s yer guy­ses Karma To Burn CDs?” ‘Cause if there’s a gal er guy on yer list what happens ta lak lumbering, dark, heavy droning metal music what has ponderous instrumen­tals and meaningful words what don much interfere wit da plea­sure den dis ‘ere kid will do da trick. If’n ya got a hotty what likes da bang real slow den play “Mt. Penetrator” for her. If’n ya got a friend, what can’t figure out when Ozzy left Black Sabbath den dat big ole dummy will sure lak da whole damn album. Der is one final thing. Dis ‘ere band lacks Joy Division. “Twenty Four Hours,” played by a God damned bunch of booze guzzling hillbillies in cowboy hats , is something to ponder on with a straw stuck in yer mouth. Spit, ding. I made myself a bullseye writer in my coffee can. —Roy Bob Jensen 

Burnt & Bent
Cow Crazy (Compilation)
Burnt Sienna Records 

I’ve said it a thousand times before: I love compilations, and for good reason. You get a mess-o bands, usually for a low price, and a taste of many different sounds to taste-test. With the young indie labels (like this one!), some of these bands would never have the widespread attack on the unsuspecting listener unless they gang up and attack in the safety of numbers on one sampling. Boy, is this a raw treat that needs to be heard and quick! Most of the groups, like Mudflap Girls From Venus and FF, are so bloody rough it’s enough to make you want to track down the specific garage they recorded in and look for the repeat session of foul guitars and beat-out drum kits. Plenty of punk, hardcore, and sick noise anyone can handle, this is the guide for your next order of seven inches to purchase out of Maximum R&R. I don’t know what the fuck the Haynes Boys and their corn-fed Memphis tunes are doing here (although I still love them), but the rest is straight out of the gutter-style, roughneck rock and roll. I got my copy…where’s yours? —Billy Fish 

The Jimmy Dawkins Band
Blisterstring
Delmark 

Fuck Clapton. Does anyone reading know a white yuppie who believes Clapton is God? Pick up a copy of Blisterstring and play “Feel So Bad” for them. There is no way in hell that Clapton could duplicate Jimmy Dawkins’ guitar work. Clapton dreams of being as good, why do you think the only blues album he’s released in the last 30 years was all covers of Black musicians? Once again, bring Billboard Magazine into play. They spotlighted the actual white blues underground in the November 23 issue. The white blues underground is a bunch of punk rockers fucking up the blues. That is innovation, that is creativity, and if white people feel the need to play the blues at least they can fuck with the style and not pretend they are black. 

Jimmie Dawkins is a Black man and he is playing West Side Chicago blues. He’s bending strings and distorting shit all over the place. The album was recorded at the old Chess studios and it represents the last blues session ever held there. It sounds like a Chess blues session. The cold­ digital format can’t disguise the warmth. The tones Dawkins brings forth from his guitar are a joy to hear. Dawkins doesn’t thank a string manufacturer or a guitar company because it is plain that vintage instruments and amplifiers were used. Plug that baby in and wail. Extended guitar solos are a part of the blues, but so many times they come off as boring. There are four songs on the album stretching well past the six minute mark. Dawkins has plenty of time to solo and as one of the truly great blues guitarists he selects each note for maximum impact. “Welfare Line” is nearly eight minutes long, but it whizzes by in almost an instant because the vocals are filled with grit and reality; the solos are brilliant. Since the exact date of the record­ing is missing from the liner notes I’ll hazard a guess and state that it was originally recorded and released around 1972 or it could have been in 1976. Whatever. Blisterstring is far from dated and while it is at least 20-years-old, the youngsters on the road today can’t touch Dawkins style – they can only try. —Hawkshaw Hopkins 

Nerf Herder
My Records 

These guys are on their way to something big and I hope it’s a giant fucking cliff. Do you understand where I’m going with this? The songs blended together for a half an hour of the band telling us what shitheads they are. You know what, I really do believe them, but I didn’t need to take that much time to figure that out. You will be hearing the band on the radio because of their angst ridden lazy boy lyrics that are dangerously close to Green Day. “Gee, they’re popular so why can’t we.” Yes, Nerf Herder, can’t we all, if we just do the same things all our friends are doing. How hip there; singing an ode to the nosering girl, “I love you and I want you,” hey there alternative. And if I hear any more songs about whacking off I’ll do some­thing that is ultimately severely harmful, in fact I’ll probably just listen to the Herf Nerders. Despite all these particulars, I’m sure we’ll be seeing these dingleberries on MTV Unplugged sometime soon! —Former Mad Reverend 

Grita!
Greeta = Scream
GRITA! Records 

GRITA! is a record label based in New York which is releasing a variety of punk rock type records. The bands come from Spain, Argentina, Brazil and America. The vocals are sung in Spanish, Basque or English. The CD currently under consideration is a sampler of what GRITA! has to offer. Three bands are of special interest. The Psychotic Aztecs have Tito Larriva, who is best known for his work with Cruzados and the Plugs, but also known for his sound­track work as Tito & Tarantula. That band played in Park City last year at the Slamdance Film Festival. Completing the band are Johnny Vatos and John Avila (formerly of Oingo Boingo). They have two songs with “Hombre Secreto,” a Spanish version of “Secret Agent Man” as the stand-out. 

The Pleasure Fuckers gain attention because of their name. They are a Spanish punk band with a sound not unlike early Damned. They are billed as garage-punk but I’m not hearing it. Old school, not hardcore. Their fan club is the Legion of Fuckers. More details on joining up are contained in the review of their full length. Finally, come the Blind Pigs. They are billed as “surf­ punk,” but again I’m not hearing it, it is old school with power pop thrown in. They come from Brazil. Their leader is an English teacher so one song is in English and the other is in Portuguese. “No Pistols Reunion” is anti­-Vicious-less-Sex Pistols. There are 17 songs and as expected some are good while others are not. The last eight are the most excellent examples of international punk rock. Cerebros Exprimidos (Squeezed Brains), The Pleasure Fuckers and La Polla Records (Cock Records) have CDs avail­able now. The Psychotic Aztecs and the Blind Pigs will release new ones early in ’97. Where to buy is a huge question, because I have no idea. —Sew. The Psyc 

The Future Loop Foundation
Time And Bass
Planet Dog 

Here’s another geek from England trying to upset the applecart of “alternative” rock and “new age,” which when com­bined together have created a race of young and old who are too fucking stupid to face the pathetic reality of their meaningless lives. In Salt Lake City, the new world capitol of hippies who have yet to take a true acid test (and they never will), reggae and the organic beat of a drum fuel their ridicu­lous attempts to reinvent time gone by – a time they can never recapture – while the former holders of the flag of disobedi­ence are so frustrated and stressed out from their sell-out efforts to gain every conceivable consumer item their big screens tell them is needed for a comfort­able and “quality” lifestyle – the beat goes on and on. 

I enjoy listening to techno music during and after I’ve got a huge buzz going from about three “growlers” of locally brewed beer. If I was daring enough and if I could find the quality of the past, I might ingest some of the old lysergic Timmy lived and died for. Sadly, it is all of such a pathetic quality nowa­days that God can only be revealed if I partake of his flesh and blood at a sacrament meeting hosted by the worst perverts imaginable. The sacrament is administered and presided over by liars, thieves, thugs, bank rob­bers, child molesters, con artists and perverts of all persuasions. 

Meanwhile, some lost and lonely soul is sitting in his apartment armed with all manner of electronic gadgets and an internet account with email and found sounds easily downloaded from all over the world cre­ating music the few humans not pro­grammed by the square box, their political rulers and the complete medioc­rity running the world at the present time can enjoy. Play the CD in your stupid bubble shaped car as you drive (until next year when the freeway shuts down completely) to your poisoned cubicle job at the stupid corpora­tion and chill out, motherfucker. Ride the fucking bus to discover what Dee Dee and Evil “Mike” LeBaron Leavit haven’t told you about. (Gee whiz Lamar, could you give me $20,000 or so to pay off my student loan?) Welcome the world to Salt Lake City, the most ridiculously moronic, cor­rupt city in the world (Chiva, coca? Sorry, but we can’t lock them up because I can’t pay my house payment without them.) and wait for the Angel Moroni to play the Olympic Fanfare to open the 2002 Winter Games. The world ends here as was predicted by the biggest con artist of them all – Crazy Joe – in his book. (That’s it boy, no more mush­rooms for you. They make you crazy, you might commit suicide and then I wouldn’t have a “street” paper anymore) —Queen of the Jed 

George Clinton
Greatest Funkin Hits
Capitol Records 

These are the remnants of the funk we knew as The P­-Funk All Stars. It has encom­passed generations and now comes to rest in the period of gangster rap. This isn’t necessari­ly a bad thing, but this is by no means the funk envisioned. I honestly never knew Clinton was such a gangster, but that’s beside the point. 9 of the 12 tracks are remixes of some sort featuring contemporaries in rap such as Coolio and Ice Cube, the other three are the original “funked out” hip-hop transcending mixes. Most will know what’s up and realize what a viable form of music this is and how it has affected our music scene for better or worse. The CD does what it is supposed to and what Clinton has been up to for 30 years now, creating music that can’t be described in any way except as funky. James Brown meets a digital keyboard on some strange planet where the 70s and rap are held in the same stasis, and we all know who is sit­ting up on the mountain looking over it all: George Clinton. 

The Crash
Groovin’ Hard
Creep Records 

Wilmington, Delaware has a lot of cool things going for it. It’s small (about 5000 nuts live there), just about an hour from Baltimore (go Orioles!), and the best damn sub shop on the east coast (Sonny’s Subs & Liquor). Now it has another reason to be such a great underground town to check out…The Crash! This is American 90s white suburban punk rock at its best! These three brats spray out kicking rock and roll with such honesty and pure pop power it’s staggering. Probably recorded in one day for a month’s rent at a flophouse, this record had me reeling like Tyson in the 11th round of his last fight versus Holyfield. Wow! Young and hun­gry, this modern day Cream meets The Germs had me slap­ping the shit out of myself, happy to be awake and not dreaming of such amazing and raw talent. This is the reason why kids pick up fenders and drumsticks in the first place, man! If for anything, to express their deepest thoughts, fears, and emotions through the basic rock and roll sounds that have been universal since the first strains of “Louie Louie” could be heard bleeding out of The Kingsmen‘s garage. Get a clue and get this record, or end up missing the boat we all desperately need to be on more often. —Billy Fish

Hunter S. Thompson
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Margaritaville 

Here it is – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas dramatized and set to music. Don’t even think of audiobooks, the whole thing isn’t here and the cast of characters would never sit still to read the entire text out loud. Harry Dean Stanton is the narrator. Jimmy Buffett, Buck Henry, Laraine Newman, Maury Chaykin, Jim Jannusch and others act out the masterpiece of gonzo journalism. Classic songs directly related to the story are inserted at the appropriate points. Hippie had just ended and the new drug culture of the 70s had only begun. To the average American, drug use and hippies were something they read about in the newspaper or viewed on televi­sion. The tale describes fucking with Las Vegas society, a society completely lacking the knowl­edge to understand that they were being fucked with. Drug-crazed hippies on an adventure which, as much as the “new hip­pie” wishes or pretends, will never be duplicated again. 

Those who were there will flashback to “good” drugs and read the original manu­script in the pages of Rolling Stone while under the influence. Others might remember reading the book. For the rest of you …too fucking bad. Beat your meat, sorry drums and listen to your Grateful Dead, Hunter S. Thompson got off the bus to engage in a war of words with society. Maybe you should as well. —Ken Queasy 

Creedle
When The Wind Blows
Headhunter 

My disc player would not accept track one of the CDs. That tells me that either the disc is defective or the time for a new player is quickly approaching. As I’ve discovered, it costs nearly as much to realign a laser as it does to purchase a new disc player, especially now that countless price slashing electronic warehouse stores have invaded the town. I missed seven minutes and 17 seconds of Creedle. The CD cover has some informative reading material cour­tesy of Donald R. Stampone, who apparently is a personage of some importance in the San Diego “scene.” I learned that Creedle are viewed as a jazz act by many in their “scene.” I also learned that the A&R men have left town because the “scene” is dead. The closest San Diego came to becoming Seattle was Rocket From The Crypt, a band the Seattle lovers in Salt Lake City tried to boo off the stage when they arrived with an actual Seattle band – Soundgarden. Oh well, Creedle hardly plays the type of music A&R men are going to fall all over themselves attempting to sign to a million dollar con­tract. 

Another note of interest is the presence of Rob Crow, the dude from the failed Heavy Vegetable, as a guest. Some guy named Rob Patton is here as well. Whatever happened to his band and the loss of Faith anyway? Are they called Mr. Bungle now? As is pointed out in the liner notes, Creedle are playing some jazz, but they aren’t the typical jazz band. If they were, they’d move north to San Francisco and become like unto Charlie Hunter. Then the A&R guys would descend. Fuck, they’d probably have articles written about them in both Billboard and Downbeat. As an example of why Creedle is too weird for their own good, take “Los Calapalos, Los Capalapalos.” Say it really, really fast. A quite lovely jazz number is followed by a short burst of com­plete and total lo-fi rock titled “Kansas.” The next one, “Middletown (Almost Downtown)” lasts over ten min­utes. Short attention spans beware, it is a rock opera. 

Bands like Creedle are the reason I’ve begged Gianni to put me in the Cargo/Headhunter loop. I love a challenging listen­ing experience. Compare the review of Thumbnail printed in the November SLUG with the one printed in the November grid.

There are those who simply don’t get it unless it is spoon-fed by the radio and the television. When in the mood for a challenge or some “difficult” music, check into this new one from Creedle – or how about their two previous albums? —Shark Bait 

Michael Hill’s Blues Mob
Have Mercy!
Alligator Records 

Everything that good blues creates is contained in this CD. The sound of the music is amazing, there isn’t a hint of a contrived studio mix. The sound of the drums and piano are full, which gives it a live sound behind the expert guitar of Michael Hill. Complicated riffs abound out of Have Mercy! – Good blues isn’t blues at all but a mix of rock, jazz and any­thing else that the musicians picked up. The differing elements are thrown into a large Gott cool­er like a jungle juice concoction. The kitchen sink approach is recorded so there is no hint of a contrived studio mix that comes out in most recorded albums, blues or likewise. The sound of the horns and piano are full, giv­ing it a live sound. The songs change gears as fast as songs change with force from the rock solos of Michael Hill’s expert guitar to happy little tunes like “Women Make The World Go Round” The Blues Mob even does reggae. If anything, the funky bal­lad “Lost In The Sauce” is some­thing straight from The Ohio Players set list. Blues that defies any barriers. —Mad Reverend 

Crass
Christ – The Bootleg 

Just when everyone thought these maniacs had gone away they return with an autho­rized bootleg of an unauthorized bootleg. Shades of the Butthole Surfers. Don’t think for one sec­ond that the Crass were punk rock. As the album demonstrates, they were sound­ bites, white noise and ranted vocals, which on rare occasions could include strings. The bootleg was recorded live on 5-2-1984, probably at the last performance the band ever played. I’m sure Gianni destroyed any press mate­rials accompanying the CD out of fear that if I read any Crass propaganda I’d go completely off into insanity. It doesn’t get any more radical than the Crass. They lived in an anarchist commune and they ran their own record labels. The lyrics are political rants of an obscene and blasphe­mous nature. As they say in the only liner notes present, “For the lyrics to the songs featured you are strongly urged to seek out the original recordings that they appeared on. They are avail­able on both vinyl and CD for­mat. However, we suggest the vinyl format as they are far more artistically beautiful, appearing as they were originally released and intended.” By all means please do so. Christ – The Bootleg is only an introduction. “God saved the queen but screwed you and me. Their swindle continues. Believe in the ruins?” 

The ruins the Crass pre­dicted are upon us. According to the tabloids, Jesus is walking among the homeless. Repent now or suffer the consequences. —Chairman Meow 

Dink
Blame It On Tito (EP)
Capitol 

After a few years away from the release of their self-titled debut, Dink is back to throw a sampling out of their latest sounds. Groovy and gritty, but with a taste of old school metal at times, the five new songs are more meat for new and old fans to take a bite on. Not afraid to use samples or loops, the main course is served up with some tasty gui­tar, letting riffs ride, as well as throwing down some yummy solos. Their version/cover of Neil Young‘s “Ohio” isn’t the best ever offered, but consid­ering most of these guys went to Kent State, which is the subject of the song, I can let it slide. Many critics have compared them to bands that are labeled industrial, but I haven’t got the slightest clue where that came from! Instead I would throw more of a compari­son to either Paw or maybe Thee Hypnotics, with just a pinch of Dig for added season­ing. This is just a preview of the next full length album that is due out next year, so enjoy the appe­tizer while the entree is prepared in the studio. Bon appetit! —Billy Fish 

Tricky
Pre-Millenium Tension
Island 

Thank God for the local reps. A phone call to Island Records is like entering an entirely different world. After being passed from one office to another and leaving messages at each stop… phone calls are seldom returned. More famous names than myself of course receive any “product” Island releases. Since I’m hacking the shit out at the street level, the street level people are my friends. How is the new Tricky album, anyway? I wasn’t lucky enough to receive any of the side project releases of the last two months, but I’m thinking Tricky is indeed a star awaiting his rise. I’ll have to buy his next record because only the famous will receive free copies. 

I’m sure we’ll see pages and pages of reviews describing Pre-Millenium Tension as a trip hop or hip hop CD. Sure there are raps and the music is quite trippy, not hippie, but dub is the root. Most of the album was recorded in Jamaica. Sex, anger, and drugs are subjects for words. Martina and Tricky are reciting them, except Sky and Rock receive their turns as well. I could go off waxing all smart about each song and such, but I’ll simply take the album as a whole, not pieces, and say “this is where it’s at homeboy.” Follow Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with Pre-Millenium Tension. If that isn’t more than enough “dope” music for one day, then I guess the didgeridoo lessons haven’t helped one little bit. Go Phish! 

The Pleasure Fuckers
For Your Pleasure
GRITA! Records 

If the Butthole Surfers can have a hit single, why not the Pleasure Fuckers? My pick is “30 Seconds,” mainly because it is so tongue-in-cheek obscene. Here are most of the lyrics. “I see a pretty lady, she’s tall blonde and heavy / She’s just the kind of thing I need / I say hey baby, she says yes I’m ready / The next thing I know she’s on her knees / Thirty seconds a blow / Fifteen seconds to go / 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1 I’m gonna explode / She laid it on the line and she took what was mine / She left me standing out in the cold / She cost me fifty bucks and ‘Jesus’ that smarts / Two tits I couldn’t even hold.” Imagine those lyrics spit from the face of a Spanish punk backed by primal rock that is better than nearly anything I’ve heard from an American band lately. 

These Spaniards seem to have just discovered 1977. Forget pop punk and hardcore, they are blasting the shit out as if the last two decades never happened. They have more than one song, too. “Sexy French Motherfucker,” “Hungry Man,” “Gin Blossoms,” “Last Smoke Last Dime” and four in Spanish to boot. There are so many punk rock bands around today that the readers probably know about more of them than I do. I enjoy the pop punk sound if it’s done right, and hard­ core has its appeal, but I lean more to the old school garage sound of The Oblivians, the New Bomb Turks, the Smears, the Red Aunts, Fluffy, the Fixtures, Los Ass-Draggers, and Total Chaos. The Pleasure Fuckers are the latest and the greatest to capture my ears with a primitive sound and honest, yet sarcastic lyrics. A fucking great CD. —D’arcy Crash 

Mother Hips
Shoot Out
American Recordings 

“An album of songs about being homesick, hotels and holding things together,” a little self proclaimed mawkishness from the CD notes. That aside, the Mother Hips sound like the reincarnation of the Allman Brothers Band in a little harder sounding, brief and certainly skinnier pack­age. We all remember that coun­try-fried band of the 70s. The Mother Hips songs and music connote shooting up signs in the backroad, getting really drunk while hunting, and The Dukes Of Hazard (oh Daisy Mae!). These aren’t necessarily bad images to associate with The Hips, but they are justified. Songs like “Whiskey On A Southbound,” and “Shootout” are exactly what I’m talking about. The songs are well crafted and the guitar is hauntingly mixed in the background. I heard this band compared with The Grateful Dead, and if you’ve heard the same nothing could be more false. Enjoyed the change of pace of the slow melodramatics of The Mother Hips despite the overt country style. 

The Nines
Hi Fi Lo Mein
Clamarama Records
8-Ball Shifter
Hanson
Clamarama Records 

The Nines are the basic 90s band playing music as it used to be heard on a tiny car radio speaker tuned to AM radio. They are certainly not a garage band nor are they paying some kind of tribute to the past. The band, three boys and a girl drummer, simply bypassed the last 30 years of influence and landed sometime between 1963 and 1966. The whole British invasion was underway and local bands had begun to move away from surf. There were teen dances, teen clubs to play in and believe it or not local radio stations sponsored battle of the band contests. The winner usually received some kind of prize related to producing a record which the radio station then played. It really wasn’t that different from the way things are today. Well, The Nines won the battle in Boston and Clamarama gave them enough studio time to record six songs. Six songs of power pop with a little bit of fuzz in the guitars, a little bit of R&B presented in the vocals and just a touch of the British Invasion for songs like “The Witching Hour” where the drummer, Linda, joins the boys in harmony. Why doesn’t the radio play a song that is catchy? Call them and ask.

8-Ball Shifter is an entirely different matter. They too are from the Boston area, but they think it’s Texas. The CD was recorded using 8-tracks except for two tracks recorded with only a 4-track. The studio had basements, attics and bedrooms. With a band like 8-Ball Shifter the underwater result is not unattractive. The song title gives it all away. “Devil Man,” “Dracula’s Daughter,” “Party at the bottom of the swamp,” and “Haunted Beach.” The X-Files references inside the CD cover describe a group of four in love with horror and sci-fi. Let me see if I can put it all together. Texas-influenced psychedelic garage rock with plenty of echo on the vocals and the tried and true spy/surf/horror soundtrack licks from guitar and bass. Nothing really new or exceptionally creative is presented and I don’t care because 8-Ball Shifter take their 13th Floor Elevators/Chocolate Watchband/Cramps bit to the limit. Yes, they do it well. “Haunted Beach” is over eight minutes of the purest psychedelica heard this side of of ’68 while “Under A Killing Moon” is only one example of an album filled with psychedelic-garage-psychobilly-acid rock all rolled into the same PCP laced spliff – put that between your lips and smoke, it hippie. —Dr. Ross 

The Insteps
Eleven Steps To Power
Another Planet 

Ska bands are either taking over the music business or an overwhelming number of them manage to find their way to Utah. The Insteps aren’t one of the new breed who combined last year’s major label attempt to make a million – pop punk with ska. Nope. This is an honest to God ska band with their roots (an interesting statement since ska formed the roots of reggae) in reggae. They’ve also found some actual musicians to play in the band. “The Dragon” features the best guitar work I’ve heard on a ska album lately. “The Sufferer” is reggae-ska and so is “Don’t Ask.” “Don’t Ask” has some quite amazing keyboard work as well as a guitar solo. On guitar is Don Louie and on the piano/organ is Dave Stone. Please worship. The horns are of course present. One reason modern ska turned me off, after the flush of excitement and the English Beat, was the tendency to move the brass up front. The Insteps’ horn section is impressive, check the sax break of “Always Remember” for an example, but they don’t overpower the rest of the band. There are three vocalists in the nine-piece band. Their harmonies pile more praise on the recording and when one or the other takes the lead they are indeed smooth. Make no mistake, this isn’t the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. Abrasion is absent, the samba is not. Believe it or not, these cats have a samba titled “Saladin” with the reggae beat and more of the absolutely killer guitar, horn, and keyboard work. Before I ran across the Insteps I believed the Blue Meanies and Mephiskopholes were at the top of the pile because of their experiments with the form. The Insteps prove that traditional ska can be played in modern times and it can sound good. All lovers of reggae, ska, world beat and jazz are invited to sample the Insteps – it is without question the best CD of the genre I’ve heard in years. —Skankster the Gangster 

Pet
Igloo / Tag 

Ho, hum… what to say?!? I could either rip the shit out of this disc, or just let it go. Whatever the decision, I just don’t care one way or the other. The plain truth is that this is a mediocre band that must have had a lot of friends at the club where they auditioned for the label reps, or some amazing fellatio technique to seal the deal. The female singer reminds me of a bad copy of Eddie Vedder, trying way too hard to scrap up overzealous emotional styling on top of every damn song, sounding as if it were her last attempt to impress some­one, anyone at all. I don’t mind the guitar work, but it’s mixed way too low and in the background, needing to pop up in front to carry the band, instead of relying on the overpowering vocals. The drums are actually pretty cool, sticking some sly and steady beats, without the usual 4/4 beats that bore the tears out of my eyes with most no-namers. The trouble with these guys is that it just ends up sounding like they haven’t played that much at all together, and need to practice a bit more. That and maybe a real producer that can amplify the few strong points, like guitar and percussion, while toning down the theater major on vocals. If you want a listen, check out the discount bin at Graywhale and hear for yourself, otherwise just thank me for steering you clear instead. —Billy Fish 

The 1-4-5S
Rock Invasion
Estrus 

Oh my God! Let me rec­ommend the 1-4-5S to anyone who loves Wesley Willis. They, like Willis, love to rock. Their brand new album has songs titled “Wanna Rock?” “Rock The Night,” “I Like To Rock,” “Full Of Rock” and so on and so forth. What they do is take a moldy oldie, “Hankie Pankie” or “409” for instance, change the lyrics to fit their mood, change the music to fit their musical ability and rock out. Their little CD thinger has instructions for playing in the manner of the 1-4-5S, complete with diagrams of fingers on the fretboard; it has instructions for mixing drinks; drinks like the 1-4-5S; it has the winner of the “Draw The 1-4-5S” contest, a crude car­toon; it has photographs detailing the recording of the album, poor­ly reproduced artwork used in the past for another purpose; it has Major Trouble pleading for a law requiring all participants in the rock ‘n’ roll experience to wear a helmet, complete with a letter to your legislature and biographies of all 1-4-5S mem­bers. 

The 1-4-5S are a good example of why parents should not purchase musical instruments for their children. If the children didn’t have instruments they couldn’t make such a dreadful racket. They could grow up fresh faced and morally fit. They could play golf or tennis, they could learn to bowl. They wouldn’t be booz­ing it up in seamy bars annoy­ing the other patrons with this silly rock nonsense. —Ward 

Swingers
Music From The Mirimax Motion
Hollywood Records 

It’s billed as a “lounge” release, but I’m wondering where I can find a lounge with Average White Band, George Jones and Roger Miller on the jukebox. Oh? Burt’s and Spanky’s might be the local night spots? I guess Dean Martin, Love Jones and Tony Bennett (retch) and pretty loungey, but how does Big Bad Voodoo Daddy fit in? Jumpin’ jazzy blues from the school of Louis Jordan isn’t my idea of “cocktail” music and the man himself follows their first selection. Ole’ Louis loves jam, but this ain’t no jam, it’s a kiss. Jam is what comes out when the butter is fully churned. Amos Milbourne would have fit quite well for the sex scenes and shut the fuck up Forgach. Go back to your Manowar. 

I’m certainly not “hip” enough to understand how all of this fits together in a movie chronicling young people in search of a lifestyle. Somehow I doubt the “lounge” tribe will understand the music. Anyone joining a “tribe” or a “gang” is desperate. Desperate is in your kiss, which brings things back to Louis Jordan. You poor bastards is about all I can say. A circle pit is the same as a dance floor littered with ballroom or jitterbug dancers. It’s only too bad the only thing the young have invented is Steve Halpern wearing a Dr. Seuss hat. 

Red Hot + Rio
Antilles 

Red Hot + Rio is the ninth Red Hot album. There is a companion album titled Nova Bossa: Red Hot on the Verve which I didn’t receive, it could be better than this one. Red Hot + Rio has a couple of artists I absolutely despise contributing. They are saved by their partners. George Michael is paired with Astrud Gilberto, the original “Girl From lpanema,” and their song “Desafinado” turns out pleasing. Antonio Carlos Jobim, the man the album is dedicated to, the man who died after donating his songs to the project is paired with Sting. “How Insensitive” is better than Sting’s entire catalog. Flora Purim + Airto join PM Dawn for a trippy number, Crystal Waters gets to do “Boy From Ipanema” and her version is hot. There’s a bunch more Brazilian type of beats presented, but just the high­lights please. Money Mark opens the album, Stereolab sit in with Herbie Mann, and the Mad Professor does what else but a drum and bass mix. David Byrne has proven himself to be some­what of a jerk of late so he’s dismissed. 

For the rest, it is best to make a pur­chase. Brazilian pop music with plenty of jazz along with hip-hop and dub make for over an hour of relaxation. Meanwhile I’m off in search of a copy of Red Hot on the Verve. 

NY Loose
Year Of The Rat
Hollywood 

Here’s a rarity. A young group from New York City does­n’t claim any roots in the hardcore scene. The bass guy was a roadie for the Ramones and he played in a band with Stiv Bators. The singer, a female named Brijitte West, was introduced to the Stooges and the Ramones by an older brother. She also claims Patti Smith and the New York Dolls as inspirations. Next on her list is the Pretenders. The band first gained some popularity in England, they spent six months living and playing there and they returned with an English drum­mer. Finally, NY Loose covers “Sunday Morning” on the album. West does the Nico bit. Besides a series of singles the band has released a five-song EP on Flipside.

Year Of The Rat is an album of gritty, old-fashioned punk with touches of glam and pop added. The music is more polished than what most consider as punk today, but I doubt most consider Patti Smith or the Pretenders punk. “Detonator” and “Kiss My Wheels” are about as close as it gets to thrash. The opening song, “Pretty Suicide,” was inspired by an old Life Magazine photo which pictured a lovely girl splayed out on the hood of a car like an angel. She had jumped from the Empire State Building. The closing song, “Spit,” was featured in The Crow: City of Angels. “And you know I like it when you spit / ah, I like it when you spit / and when you do that / ya know I’m getting wet / wear me on your head …yeah that’s what I said.” Hmmm … —Geezer 

Monster Truck Five
Dry Leaves…Hotwire
Sympathy For The Record Industry 

This guy at Sympathy For The Record Industry, which is your basic indie label run from a spare bedroom, claims he is too tiny to send out promotional items. Well, here ya go sir, this CD is a promotional album I picked up from a source who shall remain anonymous. The CD cover depicts a bonfire. On the inside are the men of Monster Truck Five standing around the bonfire and on the rear they are strung with Christmas tree lights. The music they play will never make them cover stars of any publication devoted to “alternative rock.” It won’t even gain them a cover on this publication devoted to trash. 

The tiny yet never-the­-less label is world renowned because the dude has artist and repertoire skills. The name the band has chosen for themselves is enough to give a clue. They are quite obviously mechanics during the day. At night they venture out of their trailers and attempt to avoid the numerous pieces of rusting metal decorating the yard. All five pile into one monster truck, the perfect vehicle for a touring band by the way, if there were room for them all in the cab and the gas mileage was a tad bit better. They head out to some stu­pid venue hosting local music. Their version of greasy, grimy, punk rock is played to a crowd of five or six who may not realize that a red rag and a bar of Lava has only just removed the oil stains from their fingers. Yes, it is punk rock, it’s noisy and badly played, therein lies the charm you dumb fucks. —Earl 

Read more CD reviews from the archives:
Record Reviews: November 1996
CD Reviews: November 1996

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