CD Reviews: November 1996

Atomic 61
Goodbye Blue Monday
Cavity Search 

Audiophiles beware. This disc bears the dreaded ADD. Since the most expensive item in my system is a turntable, and the medium in this is a CD, the analog portion shouldn’t present a problem. Atomic 61 is a Portland band playing a fuzzy version of hard rock. Please adjust the system to eliminate the high end – there isn’t any. 

A constant barrage of cymbal crashes is about the only aspect of Atomic 61 that those with damaged hearing are likely to miss. There is a sound bite speaking of forming a circle preceding “Union” that might require the complete range of human frequency recognition. “Union” is especially enjoyable because of the ponderous rhythm and sedentary place. The song could concern communing with the Earth Mother – or it could be about a less-than-lively sexual encounter, or some sort of paganistic ritual committed to tape in a desperate attempt to sell the soul for monetary gain. 

“All In This” is Atomic 61’s road-weary song. “Doesn’t matter what slot we’re playing, we’ll blast a hole in the local scene,” and I’m thinking Pijamas de Gato once again. “Dig your scene” indeed. Atomic 61 did blast a hole in Salt Lake City’s local scene because Abstrak mentions the band in the “thank you” area of their latest. 

Two more songs are of interest. “Fifth Night” features the crime spree theme, which for some reason is becoming a popular topic for bands of the rock-heavy variety. Meanwhile, “Crash Outfit” explores a girl driving her way to her death. The old blonde bombshell crashing and burning in a black car song. Does every band have a murdering, robbing friend in prison and a dead girlfriend these days?

In a nutshell: Local Portland band makes good with a review in a Salt Lake publication. Hard rocking grunge-metal concentrating on the fatter strings of the guitar. —Salvio 

¡TchKung!
Post World Handbook
Tim / Kerr

I’m not sure how Gianni knows to pass the liberal propaganda my way, but somehow he does! ¡TchKung! is a Seattle-based collective playing world music. Their press release is light on the propaganda, but their CD is filled with it. ¡TchKung’s performances combine tribal theater, a percussion-based sonic assault, pyrotechnics and audience participation. Sounds like a bunch of damn hippies, doesn’t it? Powerful group drumming, huge, distorted bass lines, samples, didgeridoo, keyboards, violin, percussion, treated vocals and miscellany just shy of a guitar are all swirled together. That’s it! God damned hippies. 

But wait – these aren’t a bunch of hippies! Hippies smoke too much pot to create something this elaborate. There are instructions for spiking, a song about attempts to extinguish wolves, an essay on clear-cutting, a song about crashing the system, and a call for environmentalists and loggers to join together against the common enemy – the corporate timber companies.

Luddites are the same as the IWW and Earth First! Workers of the world unite! 

I listened to the music and read the thoughts in the CD booklet on the eve of yet another election. It seems that the simple solution is to install nut cases, socialists, the religious right, and Ross Perot all together in a new potpourri form of the government – and change them every two years. How could it be any worse? At least corporations won’t be in charge. 

With all that being said, Post World Handbook is this exact potpourri. Tribal and Irish tunes are combined with some downright astounding industrial-type noise. While trance is no stranger, more and more articles are appearing about the ever panicked attempts of the alternative nation to discover the next big thing before the empire collapses around them. Sadly they’ve missed the point. How about a return to free-form radio where the likes of ¡Tchkung! could mix with Hootie, etc? How about playing the cowpunk-influenced Evan Johns / Jello Biafra dirge “Truckstop” on the radio? College radio as the mainstream? Pirate radio during drivetime? Don’t hold your breath until you discover Post World Handbook. Inhale the fresh Northwest air. –The Mormon Cowboy

Billy Bragg
William Bloke
Elektra 

Needless to say, Elektra is not one of my favorite labels. The WEA group is a huge multinational corporation and I count many friends among their employees, except none of my friends work for Elektra. For some strange reason the employees of the label act like Love or The Doors are a part of their current roster. When I call and request an item for review the common answer is, “Who are you? Fax your request on a letterhead and I might respond.” Since I am stuck in Forrest Gump land where you reap what you sow, I have no trepidations about saying, “Cheese Whiz Billy, what in the fuck happened to you?” About 15 years or so ago, I thought Billy Bragg was the cat’s pajamas – now known as Pijamas de Gato. The fucker was a communist, and he belted out the lyrics all by himself armed only with a guitar disguised as an AK47. Today I find the man tepid at best. 

His latest is lacking in the energy that always made a Billy Bragg disc engaging even though the politics or nature of the disc wasn’t wholly attractive. Today he’s entered the island of The Carpenters, Barry Manilow or Michael Bolton. Don’t sha, la, la, me with your mature persona Billy. Bang the fucking guitar and give me some anger. The world is more fucked up today than when you began but your complacency is boring. Go back to sleep. Who gives a fuck about you today anyway? Certainly not your label. Hello Billy, welcome to tax write-off status, you fucking blowhead. —Miesel 

Ween
12 Golden Country Greats
Elektra 

The CD was recorded at Bradley’s Barn. It features Buddy Spicher, Pete Wade, Hargus “Pig” Robbins, Charlie McCoy and the Jordanaires. If the place and the names aren’t familiar, then you can “Piss Up A Rope.” Bradley’s Barn was the location of many a famous country performance and the names have appeared as session men on literally thousands of country recordings. Ween has released a country and western CD. Of even more interest was their recent appearance as part of a free show for the card carrying X-96 bashing. What the fuck was the radio station thinking when they booked Ween and their entourage of Nashville session men? Which of the twangin’ tunes are they playing on the radio? The fuckers are getting desperate. Unless they expand and format they’ll run out of music on no repeat Thursday. 

  12 Golden Country Greats is filled with 1970s-styled country music. These session men saw their greatest fame during the ‘70s and they signed on to reprise it. Thumping line dance music isn’t a part of Ween’s country version. Unless the Bayside Boys are coaxed into doing a remix the CD is destined for a trivia question. “Piss Up A Rope” is only the example of the Ween boys twisted sense of humor. “Mister Richard Smoker” concerns a dance club fool and for this one song Ween decided to imitate Leon Redbone. “Help Me Scrape The Mucus Off My Brain” is self-explanatory. Now we have Ween doing the Flying Burrito Brothers with Jay “Wilco / Flying Burrito Brothers” masquerading as Gram Parsons. The ‘70s are back for sure. —Wa

Blinker The Star
A Bourgeois Kitten
A&M 

Blinker The Star have now flipped their shining silvery disc into the air and as they watch it spinning through space they hope it lands in radio station changers everywhere. As is typical with the most “modern” releases three tracks are targeted. Not so typical is the discovery that none of the tunes opens the disc. After two thrashing pieces the first of the spotlighted tracks is reached. If the disc has a hit then “Bluish Boy” must be it – clocking in at under two minutes. “My Dog” is unplugged and ready for an MTV spot. “Undergrowth” isn’t particularly inspiring drive time fodder to these ears. It is best to listen again. Time is money and time wasted listening to the same mediocre disc twice is not productive. Curiosity presented itself because of the creative band name, so punch play. “Bluish Boy” is indeed it. These epics of speed have been the very best ever since the Minutemen released that gem of a record, Paranoid Time. It’s the perfect song for short attention spans. Fuck, it will fly by so fast that most will believe it’s a commercial! 

The influences include most of the San Francisco sound. A psychedelic bent from a Bay Area band? What a surprise! For the most part the songs concern girls. DOD electronics isn’t thanked in the usual space but I’m hearing at least one or two of their devices used to mutate the guitar sound… the vocals aren’t quite live to hard disc in all the pits. As the closing prayers approach I guess It’s necessary to sound something like “alternative” to make some money how about doing it like Blinker The Star? Sounds like every “alternative” band there is depending on the song. That’s cool and all but… —W.L. Ames 

Johnny Hoy & The Bluefish
You Gonna Lose Your Head
Tone Cool 

Oh my, Johnny Hoy leads the band with a harmonica. I’m sorry, but I was forced to listen to that horrible Blues Traveler double live CD about 30 times too many. After twenty minute Popper solos the very mention of a harmonica brings a cringe. What a surprise! Hoy is a blues harmonica cat. Half the fun of reviewing a blues CD is writing in time to the beat, make the fingers dance over the keyboard and hope the words make some sense, which mine seldom do, but I’m keyboarding not dipping my quill in my own fluids. 

You Gonna Lose Your Head is Hoy’s second release. While I have a lot of respect for Rounder’s publicity department it seems that they were overexcited about claiming influences this time. I’m not hearing the rockabilly presence in “Glad She’s Gone.” After four songs the zyedeco and country inspirations have yet to reveal themselves but Chicago’s south side is definitely present. Perhaps the most pleasing song on the disc is a cover of Ike Turner’s “Gong Gong.” But Hoy cuts loose with a solo, but the Barbara Hoy’s vocal duet with Johnny is a joy to hear. Kind of like Tina and Ike when they weren’t fussin’ and fightin’. As things move along the band pays a visit to New Orleans. It can’t be New Orleans without a piano and Jeremy Berlin is the man on the black and whites. Finally the zyedeco is revealed. Hoy’s harmonica duel with Berlin’s accordion is another of the disc’s joys. Now what is this “gage” they’re singing about? God Damned pot heads. 

I hope I’ve made it clear that the blues led by a harmonica cat is usually not my favorite style. Johnny Hoy isn’t the typical harmonica man, he has yet to rank with William Clarke in my book, but he keeps things cooking and the band he’s chosen to back him is as smooth and swinging as they come. Without question one of the better blues discs to cross my path of late. Tune into KRCL’s Monday night blues program, I’m sure they’ll give a free sample. —Brillo

Cardigans
First Band On The Moon
Mercury 

They certainly aren’t the Nomads. A casual listen to the Swedish Cardigans is not the way to go. Their latest sounds like light, downy cotton candy pop except there is something very weird going on with the music. There are the words. Then there’s the cover of “Iron Man.” The backing music is rooted in the lounge of Mancinni, Baxter and Lyman. Sure they’ve set things to a slight rock beat taken from polished disco floors and they steal ideas from Phil Spector and a whole slew of girl groups singing pop. The basis remains on the elevator. Now take the lounge pop and a song such as “Choke.” Take the words completely out of context to find this, “I held you in my throat, I stumbled by, attached to you, I couldn’t let go.” “Your New Cuckoo” is a kiss off song and so is “Been It,” and so is “Heartbreaker” and so is…. All the songs are about boys and how they love, leave or abuse girls. These words of devotion, lust, kinky thoughts and verbal betrayal are sung by the lovely blonde with a little girl voice. “Iron Man” completes the thought. A bit of sarcasm because while the blonde sings of the iron man with passion as the band plays on she has demonstrated with the other songs that she doesn’t actually enjoy iron men…or does she? —Shaft 

Morella’s Forest
Ultraphonic Hiss
Tooth & Nail 

Three press releases resulted in two advance CDs. As with the previous Tooth & Nail release this one takes about a sentence. Indie label pop rock, but this time the vocalist is female. The label address is Seattle, but they’ve gone far and wide seeking out the artists to release. An artist and repertoire man employed to travel the greater United States in search of a label identity? Perhaps so, but Morella’s Forest do have the girl vocals. I am well aware that the average reader on this paper is not in tune with how things work in the biz. A brief explanation is in order. Males are A&R, label heads and owners. Females are employed as publicists. The only publicists in the business that are male are gay. Publicity is a female job. Bands, if they have any hope of success, are fronted by females. This entire aspect of the business is directly related to the male A&R guy and the female publicist. The A&R guy slobbers over some lovely young thing singing onstage. He signs the band. Due to the nature of rock and roll the front line of the company is the publicist. She is a female. By now she is so tired of male vocalists trying to fuck her for positive words that a female vocalist is viewed as safe. Of course there are the lesbian tendencies of so many females today. Who can blame them. 

Thus we wind up with the current state of rock and roll. Sydney Rentz is the girl vocalist. Who knows if she prefers the tongue to the cock, but she is banned from driving the van. Her voice and the skills of whoever wrote the songs left Morella’s Forest into the realm of Magna Pop. Magnificent pop songs that manage to rock a bit while retaining the ear candy that turned into nose candy for Magna Pop as they attempted to scale the charts with their third release. Lay off the coke and lay with the boys/girls, who cares because when the rock is beautiful enough to avoid the razor blade and catch the ear without any nose involvement a winner is presented. The band comes from Ohio. Kelly and Kim are breeding in rehab and wishing for this touch. —Gavin

Skunkweed
Keep America Beautiful
Royalty Records 

“Hi there SLUG Magazine I’m Mr. Stoner boy from Southern California, Los Angeles to be exact. I’ve come up with a really cool name for my band. Since you are in Salt Lake City, Utah and don’t have any musical comprehension or local bands of your own we sent you our CD because we know that skunk and bad music rule in your town.” 

Look here, Skunkweed. I have enough of this shitty music in my own city without you trying to import it from Los Angeles. If I wanted to listen to shitty local music I’d head down to any bar in town and purchase a locally produced CD after a more jumping set than you reveal. Stay the fuck out of here and invest in something besides cheap Mexican Skunk. We grow better shit indoors during the winter than whatever you’ve been smoking. Either kill yourself or find a day job. Your music will certainly never provide a living. You suck, so get the fuck out of here and tell your friends that bad hippie music is bad hippie music no matter where it comes from. Content yourself with Van Halen and Journey CDs and hawk your guitars. “Humble thanks to Jah, Earth, and each other” with High Times also on the list? Jesus Christ! —Greene Jene

Pet Shop Boys
Bilingual
Atlantic
Marilyn Manson
Anti-Christ Superstar
Interscope 

Listen my children and you shall hear… In case anyone reading hasn’t caught on by now we at SLUG aren’t interested in doing “critical” reviews anymore. The entire music business has become a big wet fart. Songs dealing with homosexuality, drug use, promiscuity, and a decline in family values are acceptable as long as their messages are not accompanied by foul language. Let us now compare these messages. One band is out-front and vocal. The other hides their agenda behind pleasant, although sexual beats. 

Now how about a big dump of shit mixed with cum? You don’t use condoms? I listened one time only to this CD and found the smell of ass to cause an erection and the only Spanish I comprehend is coca? Chiva? Rather than take the ridiculous recording down to the used shop and sell it for 50¢ I decided to dispose of it in the most obnoxious manner possible. Let’s see… a can of Rightguard, a propane torch, the pantyhose I wore to Bricks, my padded bra and some fireplace tongs. Wrapping the CD tightly in the pantyhose and soaking the package with the Rightguard I placed it firmly in the tongs. Lighting the propane torch and holding the flame to the pantyhose/CD package until it was fully ablaze the next step must be accomplished with the utmost speed. Place the flaming package between the bra cups and shoot it like a rock from a slingshot into the night sky. Make a wish. I wish I was the Anti-Christ Superstar. 

Once upon a time a good parent was curious about Marilyn Manson’s lyrics. “Can I have Xeroxed copies of all the lyrics?” “No sir because in the United States of Amerikkka, I pledge allegiance to the flag, lyrics are considered art and there are copyright laws protecting them.” “But, but, I’m worried that the child I’ve sheltered from the evening news, the child I created in the missionary position while fully clothed except for the exposed male / female genitals might be swayed from the straight and narrow if he/she encountered MTV’s Real World.” “Don’t worry sir, the Anti-Christ Superstar will usher in the Millennium and your child will never live to procreate in this world.” Unless baptism has already occurred the young life is without sin and he / she can listen to whatever interests them. 

Marilyn Manson is a cartoon. The entire band can parade around the Delta Center stage with dildos shoved up their asses, which they periodically remove to lick the shit off of, and I still wouldn’t attend their show. They pretend to be Alice Cooper and the only thing I’m seeing is the Banana Splits. It’s about time for Kellog’s to come out with Marilyn Manson granola. A healthy, yet fatty breakfast for the wee tikes who love the band. In Ten years they will be as sordid and non-relevant as the Pet Shop Boys, or maybe they already are. Where are the Tubes when we really need a rendition of “White Punks On Dope”? —Fee Woah Bill 

Fluffy
Black Eye
(The Enclave) 

A four-piece punk band from England doesn’t seem all that uncommon, if the year were 1977. Fluffy open their first full-length CD with a pleasant little song titled “Nothing.” “Nothing makes me happy anymore.” The music scene in England doesn’t make Fluffy very happy because their brand of music has lost flavor with the British youth of today. The young people are more interested in taking in the sights and the sounds of Oasis, Blur, Elastica, Pulp, Cast, and so on into infinity. Fluffy is basically three chords and an attitude. The American shores appear more welcoming because there are thousands and thousands of three chord bands traveling around in vehicles of every shape and size. 

Three songs in Fluffy does the title song. You will never see me cry in spite of the “Black Eye.” By this time two musical references have come to mind – the Misfits and Deviance. Deviance stole their entire repertoire from the Misfits. Deviance is fronted by Sunshine, a female vocalist sounding surprisingly similar to Amanda Rootes of Fluffy. Fluffy is of course an all female punk rock band. One of their largest claims to fame, which will be long gone by the time they reach Salt Lake City, was Rootes habit of dressing in baby doll clothes less the knickers. Parading around in a little short dress without knickers is liable to cause a stir among the boys, but everyone needs a gimmick these days, and Fluffy managed a record contract from theirs. 

Musical Variety is not a big part of Fluffy. As they band them out only the lyrics change – more than a few addresses the issue of abuse. “Crawl,” “Black Eye,” and “Husband” are three of the most blatant. “Dirty Old Bird” concerns abusing a woman of the street. “Cheap” describes the morning after a virgin gives in. 

It would be easy to toss Fluffy off because they are only girls playing rock music in a most rudimentary fashion. It is raw and primitive, although not nearly as raw nor as primitive as a few other all-girl bands I could name. Strangely enough the lyrics and the vocals are a larger attraction than the three chord power riffing. Black Eye is not quite a work of genius but it is more pleasing to the ear than most of the work men are doing at present. —Splayed Eagle

Fulflej
Fulflej (Wack-Ass Tuba Riff)
Scratchie 

This is my punishment for bitching about advance cassettes. Now I get advance CDs. These objects are virtually worthless. Oh sure, they have music to listen to but that’s it. Fluflej is a band from Richmond, VA. Scratchie Records is at least partly owned by D’arcy and James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins. The band is promoted as being influenced by hardcore punk, hip-hop and house music. Is it true? After two songs I was kind of hearing the hardcore and still waiting for the hip-hop and house. Cool nonsense name though. That’s it, I only listened to two songs. I’m only kidding, and look I haven’t written mother fucker once. 

“Shells” is over six minutes long and if these mother fuckers start jamming like a bunch of god damned hippies… God damn it! Don’t even start with the Middle Eastern guitar influence. You know I picked up a copy of Austin’s version of the Private Eye and there wasn’t one single ad for a drum circle or even a store selling drums. Living in Salt Lake City is like living among a group of cloistered nuns. The society here is completely out of touch with the rest of Amerikkka. I’m still not hearing any hip-hop or house and the hardcore has given way to hippie. Where’s the god damned hip-hop? Who wrote the mini-press release on the back of the CD? Fucking liars. There isn’t a tube to be found either. Did I receive the correct advance CD? The titles are correct, but this is average college type alternative rock. The vocals receive a thumbs up for their breathy nature and the psychedelic touches present throughout do as well, but with four songs remaining Fulflej has failed to impress. 

Fuck, no wonder they had a heroin overdose in the band. Their minds are obviously ruined by drug consumption. Hardcore punk? Hip-hop? House? I think this is the Smashing Pumpkins recording under a pseudonym. Buy it for the collector value. Oh, but wait, the last song has it all. One hip-hop song on a disc filled with alt rock? Too bad you didn’t do it earlier, you are dismissed, dissed and sent off to piss up a rope. —Bobby “Wack-Off” Boringin

Blind Addiction
Lin Ditio Records 

This is one of two records from Gianni’s buddies in Michigan. Both metal bands from the great Tri-state. The other is Aceldama or some damn thing, anyway they sucked too bad to write about. Blind Addiction on the other hand has a cool record on their hands. The production could be better, but it’s metal, not Steely Dan. The songs make it past the production anyway, with vibraphone and synthesizers accenting the heavy guitar work, and acoustical passages. Kind of Black Sabbath meets Big F meets Budgie. All bands that start with a B… Hmmm. Worth checking out, but I don’t know how to get another one unless you write Blind Addiction, 1660 Seminole Lane, Saginaw Michigan 48603. —Wa

Hell On Earth
Biomechanical Ejaculations of the Damned
Neptune Records 

“Biomechanical Ejactulations of the Damned…” You gotta be fucking kidding me. Check out the bio they sent… 

“For years we have festered in the shadows waiting to spring our prodigy on this world’s music industry. This is our brainchild realized, will help us achieve all that we have strove for in our miserable human lives. Currently we are here exiled by SATAN for enjoying his torments all too well.” 

Blah, blah, blah. These guys saw a Marilyn Manson video and figured they could make one too. They are sure pushing the “shock” thing too hard. This band sucks like you can’t believe. They sound like Regan (The Exorcist) spitting up and gurgling over bad industrial metal. The CD has a drawing of “The Wheel of Phallus” (penis’ with nails in them) and other stuff to ‘shock’ you. Maybe if you’re ten years old. Well, maybe not. They have some incredibly bad songs with stupid names like “Fuck That Bitch,” “I Hope You Catch AIDS,” “Baptised In Semen” and of course, “The AIDS Infested Blood of Christ.” This my friends is what is wrong with the record industry. If you buy records like this, you are a part of the problem. I will say that I would love to interview this band so I could tell them what Girl Scouts they are and how lame the so-called music they are pushing is. This IS the bottom of the barrel that other shitty bands are scraping. —Mr. Pink

Mazzy Star
Among My Swan
Capitol 

You are either hypnotized by Hope Sandoval or you are not… or you are dead. My psychic friend George walks around all day dreaming about her. The new Mazzy has some great songs on it, and borrows some moods from the likes of Neil Young on “Flowers In December” and Cowboy Junkies on “Cry, Cry.” It is, however, unmistakably Hope Sandoval’s voice that sets this record apart from every other female vocalist. She breeds sensuality. She makes you feel like she’s approachable, but at the same time out of reach. The songwriting is quite good, all penned by Sandoval and guitarist David Roback. Sick on your porch, grab a glass of wine and listen to “All Your Sisters.” If that doesn’t send a chill down your spine, maybe you are dead. —Mr. Pink

Read more record reviews from the archives:
Record Reviews: November 1996
Record Reviews: November 1996 (Billy Fish)

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