SCENE & HERD

X__X  
CELLULAR CHAOS  
ANDERSON/CHASE/HOFFMAN trio  SEDIMENT CLUB

@ Cake Shop
Thursday, Dec 4th 

Van Gogh never got his due; while he was alive, at least. Neither did William Blake. Poe died penniless. There was a time when it seemed that one John D. Morton was destined to follow in such tragic footsteps. Following his muse for the last forty-odd years has led Morton down some dark alleys, but score one for the freaks -- and maybe the internet -- because, against all odds, Morton, professional artist and shit-stirrer, is finally getting his due. The man hasn’t met a convention he hasn’t mocked, or a rule he hasn’t kicked in the ribs til it broke. If they handed out MacArthur Genius grants for misanthropy, Morton would be short-listed.

Morton’s main claim to fame is his mid-’70s Cleveland band of nihilistic rock n’ roll lowlifes, electric eels. The eels plied their trade surrounded by post-industrial strife, the crumbling landscape providing inspiration  -- and a reason to get the hell out. But before Morton pulled up stakes for New York City, he made one more attempt to give Cleveland the soundtrack it deserved. X__X terrorized the city’s punk scene with a smart and muscular take on no wave, which Morton had already prefigured with the eels. X__X were more “musical” than the eels, as evidenced by their two singles, collected, along with unreleased and live material, on this year’s essential XStickyFingersX (Ektro). This past Thursday, X__X played the Cake Shop and proved, beyond a doubt, that you’re never too old to smash yer art into yer punk and vice versa.

The set started off a bit shaky, but after a too-quiet run-through of “You’re Full of Shit,” guitars were turned up to their proper volume and the band roared to life. Grinding versions of art-puke classics like “No Nonsense,” “A.” and “No No” followed, hammered out with conviction by Morton’s cohorts -- original member Andrew Klimek, Rocket From the Tombs’ Craig Bell and drummer Matt Harris. At one point, Morton whipped out an electric saw and used it to systematically sever a length of bamboo. Why? Why the hell not? The band crashed back into their set as if it had been a tuning break. Speaking of tuning, Morton’s other obscuro Clevo outfit, Johnny & The Dicks, didn’t bother, as they posed in rock-out freeze-frames while a friend snapped photos. Prescient as ever, it seems Morton invented “vogue-ing” years before Madonna. A reprise of “No Non cents” had the crowd howling for more, and during the set-ending anti-anthem “Cleveland Sucks,” even Morton, high priest of fuck you, couldn’t suppress a smile.

Due to a rip in the time/space continuum, your correspondent missed the first two acts of an all-around excellent bill, but we did manage to catch spazz experts Cellular Chaos.  Conducted by the tireless, irrepressible Weasel Walter and finding a voice within the charismatic Admiral Grey, Cellular Chaos flirts with no wave shred, but just as often reaches an MX-80 Sound level of density. Invigorating stuff.

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DEVO  

@ Best Buy Theater
6/19/14

Some forty-odd years ago, the men known as Devo began concocting their strange music in a moldy basement in Akron, Ohio. A little over twenty years ago these early experiments were made available to the listening public via the Hardcore Devo collections. Reissued last year by Superior Viaduct, the two volumes of pre-Warners Bros. Devo have been rightfully hailed as visionary examples of prime proto-punk. To honor recently passed founding member Bob Mothersbaugh (aka Bob2) and raise money for his family, Devo decided to embark upon a ten city tour performing, for the first time ever, the material from their gestational years of 1974 to 1977. As show time approached, you had to wonder – did the aging spuds still have it? Would they be able to do justice to the freakish, funhouse nature of their initial incarnation? 
Any lingering doubts were laid to rest immediately as the foursome emerged from an ingenious backdrop mimicking the cinderblock confines of a dank Akron basement, and launched into the malfunctioning robot lament of “Mechanical Man.”  There was to be no skimping on the weirdness as the run of “Auto Modown,” “Space Girl Blues,” and “Baby Talkin’ Bitches” demonstrated. As if the last forty years had transpired in the blink of an eye, Devo slipped back into these songs with great ease, shedding their commercial skin and reveling in the primordial ooze of their founding years. It was striking how effortlessly Devo dusted off these old, musty tunes and thrust them into a hyper-modern, movie palace-esque venue like Best Buy Theater. While still retaining their quirky lurch and mad scientist synth blurts, these songs were heavy, and thrillingly alive. Ace drummer Josh Freese is likely one of the few humans alive who could replace the late Alan Meyers, and his powerful, precise touch added a weighty bottom to the devolved mutant funk of songs like “I Been Refused” and “Midget.” Of course, the bizarre, decidedly non-PC lyrics of a song such as “Bamboo Bimbo” still perplex and amuse in equal measures. Bassist and noted ham Jerry Casale seemed to particularly relish glimpses into his own twisted, young mind. Except now there are several generations of weirdos to laugh along with him.  
And then the suits came out. Forgoing the iconic yellow hazmat suits and flowerpot domes, the quartet donned “Akron janitorial wear” and bank robber masks. As the previously nondescript basement set split apart into a dazzling yet tasteful lighting backdrop, Devo delved into the songs that established them as one of the great pop-art groups. Their genius take on the Stones’ “Satisfaction,” early hit “Be Stiff,” debut album kickstarter “Uncontrollable Urge” and the slow burn of “Gut Feeling” contrasted perfectly with lesser known tracks like “Soo Bawls,” “Ono” and “Fountain of Filth.” To the packed crowd, they might as well all have been number one hits as the band whipped the Devo-tees into a lather with official anthem “Jocko Homo.”  
After creepy mascot Booji Boy waddled out and serenaded the audience to the warped tones of “U Got Me Bugged,” Devo ended the nearly ninety minute set by dedicating “Clockout” to the late Bob2. Since the band seemed to have as much of a blast as the gathered faithful, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these old chestnuts found their way into the regular Devo set. Bob, Alan, General Boy and Rod Rooter would be proud.

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MUSIC BLUES 
ICE BALLOONS 
CALL OF THE WILD

@ Union Pool

Tuesday, January 13th

Under the seemingly innocuous name of “Music Blues,” three of the city’s finest craftsman of loud n’ heavy sonic demolition occasionally gather together to grind out their frustrations through the miracle of amplification. The power trio formed to bring bassist Stephen Tanner’s Things Haven’t Gone Well (Thrill Jockey) album to lurching life. You may know Stephen from his time with kings of slo-mo power-sludge Harvey Milk, or perhaps you’ve sampled his mouth-watering fried chicken at The Commodore (or the original Pies n’ Thighs). In either capacity, the man shows an abundance of skill, and he made a smart decisions in recruiting his bandmates (Tanner performs all instruments on the album). Just to make sure his band, in addition to crushing your skull, could cook you under the table, Tanner nabbed James Beard Award-winning pastry chef Brooks Headley to smash the skins. You may also know Headley from bands such as Universal Order of Armageddon, Born Against, and Wrangler Brutes. Finally, with Ben Greenberg (Hubble/Uniform/Pygmy Shrews) on guitar, it’s clear that Music Blues is a part-time band consisting of full-time dudes. Yet, the band is casual; Tanner seems unsure of his role as leader, which is kind of charming. After an (intentionally?) awkward beginning, the band roared to life as it navigated what seems like Tanner’s brain in riff form. Much like Harvey Milk, Music Blues deal in molten riffs with long pauses and gaps of near-silence between notes (which were conveniently written on the floor of the stage for the musicians). As the oddly-shaped off-time riffs pile on top of each other, you find yourself sucked into Tanner’s weird head-space. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, especially when Greenberg starts peeling off harmonic bends and brief flashes of solo shred.

Occupying the middle slot, Ice Balloons presented an entertaining spectacle. Warped visuals were projected onto the band as the fly-masked singer fronted a pulverizing rhythm section over which all manner of electronic noise was spread liberally; they even have a keytar. At their most aggressive, Ice Balloons brought to mind ‘90s greats like Brainiac, Six Finger Satellite and even Cows. Halfway through the set, they calmed down a bit and played some weird hybrid of surf rock and spastic new wave. Suffice to say, you should probably book Ice Balloons to liven up your next loft party.

Opening the show, Call Of The Wild brought their usual combustible mix of punk and metal. Basically, Call Of The Wild is the band that Crispin Glover’s character in River’s Edge should be blasting out of his souped-up Volkswagen Beetle. Hurry your ass!

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So Percussion feat. Man Forever 
Battle Trance 
@ Judson Church
1/9/15

Winter Jazzfest is a sprawling three-day festival that occurs at multiple venues throughout Manhattan’s Greenwich Village. While traditional forms are represented in abundance, the festival is careful to incorporate a selection of acts from the outer regions of avant-jazz and improvised music. The Saturday night showcase set by So Percussion, featuring Man Forever, at Judson Church was a perfect example of the Jazzfest’s adventurous programming.

Before the percussion-based ensemble took the stage, Travis Laplante’s Battle Trance stilled the audience with their Palace of Wind composition. Comprised of four saxophonists, Battle Trance utilize extended breathing techniques to weave an undulating tapestry of overlapping tones that stretch out and occasionally snap, erupting in squawks, barks and even mimicking unruly flatulence at times. The set was a nice counterpoint to the impending rhythmic display.

After a brief intermission, the four members of So Percussion came out and sat down at their homemade tabletop guitar stations. To call these constructions guitars isn’t quite correct, and they certainly aren’t played as such, but each one is plugged into a Fender Twin amp, so there is still a link to rock music. The quartet performed a composition that consisted of the musicians bowing and striking their lapsteel-like instruments in synchronicity, conjuring gamelan-like textures that at times echoed Tortoise-style post-rock while the louder moments harkened back to Glenn Branca’s massed-guitar orchestras.

The second part of the set featured local drummer/composer John Colpitts aka Kid Millions, longtime skinsman of Brooklyn fixtures Oneida, and a fearless musician willing to tackle any playing situation. Colpitts and So Percussion collaborated on last year’s excellent Ryonen (Thrill Jockey), an album that somehow achieves a glacial beauty amidst its flurry of percussion. On this night, the group, with an expanded line-up of drummers, performed the title composition. The piece began with almost African rhythms, introduced forceful, hammering blasts, and eventually settled into what can only be described as a landscape of drums. Despite the seven different percussionists on stage, the piece never felt busy or fussy. It’s not easy to be satisfied hitting one drum for twenty minutes, that’s why it’s best to leave it to the professionals.

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THE THURSTON MOORE BAND

11/12/2014 
@ The Marlin Room at Webster Hall

There was an interesting dichotomy at Manhattan’s Webster Hall last Thursday night. In the main room, NYC indie faves Parquet Courts headlined a sold-out show that was the culmination of a productive and triumphant year, while in the more intimate setting of the Marlin Room, longtime Sonic Youth leader Thurston Moore played with his eponymously-named band.  Since time immemorial, the young have always devoured the old, but the eternally floppy-haired Moore is still the world’s oldest teenager, and he can make a guitar shriek with the best of them. Although this performance was a bit light on such moments, it still provided some insights into Moore’s newest project.

Featuring material from his most recent album, with the seemingly rom-com-inspired title of The Best Day (Matador), Moore’s seasoned vets gave the songs heft, channeling ballsy rock more than any avant tendencies. It was nice to see My Bloody Valentine bassist Deb Googe in a different setting, laying down a thick bottom end with local Ryan Sawyer on drums. Youth drummer Steve Shelley plays on the album, but on this night he was head-nodding approvingly from the audience. With the presence of Lee Ranaldo as well, there was a possibility of some SY nuggets, but Moore stuck to the program of his recent efforts, except for an encore of “Ono Soul,” a college radio hit from his first solo album, 1995’s Psychic Hearts.

While lacking Sonic Youth’s combustible chemistry, Moore’s band makes up for it with fluid guitar lines that occasionally erupt into hard rock riffing. Pedal-hopping instead of string-abusing, Moore engaged in call-and-response sparring with British guitarist James Sedwards, as on the propulsive mantra “Forevermore.” The chugging “Detonation” was dedicated to Chelsea Manning and recalled past Youth screeds like “Youth Against Fascism.” Twisty rockers like “Germs Burn” and the title track seemed to satisfy the crowd’s desire for classic Thurston moves, but the billowing, Polvo-esque instrumental “Grace Lake” proved to be the highlight of the evening. Although he may have tempered his sonic terrorism of old just a smidge, Moore can still hold his own with today’s youth.

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COSMIC PSYCHOS

PAMPERS

CALL OF THE WILD

@ Cake Shop
9/22/13

This past weekend, the three-man Australian wrecking crew known as the Cosmic Psychos steam-rolled their way through the city with consecutive shows at the Cake Shop. Friday night was a certified rager, a top-to-bottom killer bill of beer-guzzling rock n’ roll, right in the heart of the increasingly douche-oriented Lower East Side. The Psychos made their name back in an era when the LES still provided a sense of grit and threat, and they are touring the US in celebration of thirty years of blowing eardrums and mooning audiences.  A new documentary about these hard-livin’ Aussies, Blokes You Can Trust, fills you in on the nitty-gritty, and Goner Records is issuing their initial run of records -- Down on the Farm (1985), Cosmic Psychos (1987) and Go the Hack (1989). In this business, stick around long enough, and someone is bound to make a movie about you. Friday night, Cosmic Psychos unleashed a nonstop barrage of fan favorites like “Lost Cause,” “Custom Credit,” “Pub” and “Hooray Fuck.” Singer/bassist Ross Knight dedicated “I’m Up, You’re Out” to “the cunt who tried to take my farm.” The raucous set ended on a ridiculous note with the sarcastic wish fulfillment of “David Lee Roth” (“I want long golden locks/I want a great big 20-inch cock”). The Cosmic Psychos may not be able to execute mid-air splits like Mr. Roth, but they had no problem splitting heads open with their Stoogeoid pummel on Friday night. Next stop: Gonerfest, where they’ll team up with old mates Mudhoney for dual headlining nights. 

Before the burly men from Down Under graced the stage, the surly dudes in local outfit Pampers strafed the crowd with their nasty garage spew -- the nervous tics of Devo sifted through the blown-amp aesthetic of prime Oblivians. In case you hadn’t heard, sci-fi love song “Purple Brain” was the jam of the summer. Pampers’ debut album on the In The Red Records is imminent.

Leading off the night was Brooklyn power-trio Call of the Wild, a perfect foil to the following bands. Guitarist Johnny Coolati solos like a demon, burning his way through the muscular throb of the rhythm section. Call of the Wild is probably the closest thing Brooklyn is gonna get to Thin Lizzy; pure hard rock, emphasis on both words. They sweat, you sweat, everyone goes home happy.



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GOOD THROB  
LA MISMA 
PRIESTS 
EXIT ORDER 
NUCLEAR SPRING

@ Death By Audio
Saturday, April 5^th 

This past Saturday at Death By Audio, a diverse bill of touring and local bands played to a house packed with all stripes of the punk rock rainbow represented. Perfectly mirroring the bands, all of which are female-fronted and –dominated, there were a lot of ladies in attendance. 
Unfortunately, we missed locals Nuclear Spring, but suffice to say that if you have ever put Crimpshrine on a mixtape or own the Blatz/Filth split, you should make it a priority to see them. Boston’s Exit Order tore through a set of clench-fisted hardcore punk led by the assertive presence of singer Anna. Priests have played their fair share of NYC shows of late, but they were off their game on this night. Equipment problems and long pauses stalled any momentum the Washington, D.C. band was able to muster, although they did manage to close with a decent version of their most bracing track, “Radiation."

For their first show in the US, London’s Good Throb justified their small-scale hype with a tense and fun set of poke-in-the-eye punk featuring songs from their brand-new Fuck Off album. Singer KY Ellie has a classic British snarl that cuts through the band’s spikey post-punk. The jagged “Acid House” recalls Erase Errata while the minute-long screed of “Double White Denim” is Wire stripped of all archness and going direct for the throat. Good Throb are an exciting band, partly because of their lack of pretense. Local quartet La Misma closed out the night, and none of their recorded material prepared me for their stomping pogo-punk. I can’t say I can understand the singer’s Portuguese lyrics, but her high-pitched yammering paired with an occasional guttural utterance gives the band a unique focal point. She bounced around the stage while the band raged behind her like Nog Watt’s long-lost sisters. La Misma are an appealing blend of obscure influences and just good ol’ fashioned ripping punk rock.


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KING KHAN & THE SHRINES 
RED MASS 
VOMIT SQUAD
@ Music Hall of Williamsburg
Saturday, June 7^th 

It was a family affair this past Saturday at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. International rock n’ soul collective King Khan & The Shrines headlined an excellent triple bill that mined the deep reservoirs of Montreal’s fertile underground scene. As Arish Khan leads his Shrines to the promised land, he’s also bringing old friends and co-conspirators along with him. Tourmates Red Mass and Vomit Squad feature former members of The Spaceshits, Les Sexareenos and CPC Gangbangs – Montreal legends all. 

Vomit Squad opened the show by ripping through a set of snotty punk as singer Richard Ritalin hopped around and contorted himself into poses that conveyed his paranoid rants as effectively as his adenoidal, Doc Dart-like vocals.  
Red Mass followed with a genre-defying mix that seamlessly blended garage rock, mutant disco, heavy riffing, bursts of free improv noise, and impressive soloing by leader Roy Vucino. The head-spinning set ended with Vucino smashing his guitar in ecstasy or rage, both key elements of Red Mass’ raison d’etre. The crowd responded with approval, hootin’ and hollerin’ for more.
Enter Mr. Khan and his ragged band of troubadours – a nine-piece group that functions like a juke-joint version of Sun Ra’s Arkestra. Khan is a consummate showman, unafraid to get down n’ dirty, like some sort of demented cross between GG Allin and a tent revival preacher. He led the band through old favorites and selections from their most recent album Idle No More on Merge Records. Cuts like “Born To Die” and “Bite My Tongue” got everyone moving, but it’s Khan’s special brand of stage banter that really loosens the crowd up. A lady in the upper levels was even moved to discard her pants and let it all hang out. The Shrines have that kind of effect people, and far be it for anyone to tell other folks how to have a good time. It was Saturday night, the band was rockin’, and everyone was having fun.

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FUCKED UP 
BIG UPS 
IN SCHOOL

@ Bowery Ballroom
Friday, June 6^th 

Toronto institution, the six piece rock unit known as Fucked Up, were in town last Friday celebrating the release of their latest magnum opus, Glass Boys (Matador). Truth be told, I lost track of Fucked Up after their first opus, Hidden World, so I’m not overly familiar with their subsequent opuses (opii? nope. Opera). But, to their credit, Fucked Up always bring the noise in their live incarnation (except the one time the singer had to go to the hospital after smashing a lightbulb on his face during the first song). On record, frontman Damien Abraham’s one-note bellow is a liability, but on-stage his good-natured fury is an asset. With his ever-present basketball shorts and bare-chested demeanor, Abraham comes off like the world’s most pissed off teddy bear. The crowd loves him, and when he makes his way onto the floor of the sold-out Bowery Ballroom, the people embrace him, literally and figuratively. There is an undeniable anthemic aspect to Fucked Up’s music, which, despite their epic song lengths and endless bag of riffs, reminds me of Avail shows back in the ‘90s. Everyone from punks to squares to the hardcore faithful would go to those shows, and even a grump like me couldn’t ignore the explosion of energy generated by the subsequent dissolution of the band/audience dynamic. Like any good hardcore show, there is no difference between the two. On the strength of Jonah Falco’s muscular drumming, the chugging guitars, and Abraham’s sweat and record-nerd between-song banter, Fucked Up put on a pretty good show for a bunch of aging hardcore kids. They closed the set with a spirited run through of fan favorite “Police.”

Local punk quartet In School opened the show with a clutch of DC hardcore-indebted stompers like “Conquest” and “Apocryphal Scum” from their Praxis of Hate 7”. Ending with a cool take on what’s become a virtual punk standard, The Urinals’ “I’m A Bug,” these ladies did a nice job of transferring their basement/loft-dwelling hardcore punk to a bigger venue like Bowery. The much-hyped Big Ups occupied the middle spot, and, while showing some promising moves, failed to fully deliver the goods. Spazzy singer Joe Galaragga has a good punk scream and plenty of nervous energy, but his band drops the ball at times. Their second song was a weak Jesus Lizard imitation by a freshly-showered high school band – not a good look. Big Ups is better when they are operating from a Dischord Records template, echoing latter-day post-hardcore heroes like At The Drive In. Galaragga’s urgent, motormouthed delivery on a track like “Goes Black” is dampened somewhat by the guitarist’s got-a-gift-certificate-to-Sam-Ash-for-Christmas guitar tone. Big Ups shows promise, but, based on the pedestrian “Wool,” I get the feeling they need a year or so of serious roadwork before they can truly provide the catharsis their audience craves.

 

The above -- along w/ photos -- originally appeared  at cmj.com

some FUCKIN' RECORD REVIEWS

Autodramatics  ‘Reaction’ LP

Former Horror (Iowa not UK) Andy Caffrey comes roaring back on this self-released platter. Plenty of fuzz coats some pretty good songs, with some pretty women singing most of them. “Tigerman” tears it up, hell the whole record does. ‘Reaction’ could’ve come out on Crypt circa 199something and you wouldn’t’ve thought anything was amiss. Ironically, mebbe ahm jus’ gettin’ ol’, but a little more fidelity could’ve helped a bit, there’s not a lot of sonic depth to the band itself. But they could prolly give a shit, so why don’t I shut it. Side B opener “Go Be a Lesbian” is the headsticker, and the swampy blues of the title track get you prepared for the last-call jones of “Methadone."  (Obsolete // theeobsolete@gmail.com)

Bone  ‘For Want of Feeling’ LP

Bleak and uncompromising, Bone pull off the weight of their intention. Any band who uses scenes from one of the most fucked movies ever filmed (‘Begotten’) is not dicking around for shits n’ giggles and nuthin’ but a good time. Bone is originally from Perth, with Cuntz drummer Mike on bass, but neither of those bits of knowledge prepare you for the desolate sound of math-rock stripped of all equations, post-punk stripped of any hope, replaced with a steel exoskeleton. A song like “Pedestal” is a perfect fusion of the choked hopelessness of early Swans and the right-angled grooves of the best Shellac. The construction of these songs sneaks into your head when you’re not listening, and when you do listen, they reveal themselves to have all sorts of memorable passages embedded. There is a similar path being trod as Drose, although less metal, more wire-y. Over the course of steady listens for the past half year or so, For Want of Feeling has maintained itself as a compelling listen. (Tenzenmen // tenzenmen.com)

Division Four  ‘1983 Demo Cassette’ 12”

This is goddamn glorious. I live for this shit. Thank you Smart Guy and dude from anti-PC punx Rupture for digging this little gemstone of a post-punk EP up from the cellar. Thirty years ago, five guys on the far side of the world (Perth, Oz) got together, jettisoned the guitar (doubling up the bass in lieu), and squeezed out this six-song mini-masterpiece. Of course, maybe a hundred tapes get made, and Division Four sink into the memory of the punk-scarred few that are still drawing breath following their self-destructive youth. There are similarities to what Soft Drinks were doing as regards to synth-driven punk, but Division Four were far more serious, and even more acerbic. “Doctor’s Wife” busts in like an accessible Screamers, singer Alan Hooper asserting himself with incisive lyrics and a snide vocal delivery that slices quick and deep. “Blank Prostitutes” is my kinda synth-punk, Hooper delivering the lines “Open your wallet and I’ll open my legs/Fuck me til you’re broke/ Your 20 dollars will buy me a hit/Take me away from life’s tedious shit” with such knowing disgust, that you imagine him creeping through alleys, telling himself he’s just doing “research.” It’s that Travis Bickle kind of disgust, the sort that comes from being at the same level as the scum surrounding you. But just when you think it’s all curled-lip bile, side two opens up with the lovely OMD-on-a-budget “I Was Walking”; it’s sensitive New Wave underpinnings go exactly where you expect them to, and the song is no weaker for it. “Azzaria” combines both these modes, verses positively seething in a Rotten-esque manner, chorus resolving into melody, the whole thing reminiscent of Flowers of Romance-era PiL, and reverse vice-versa, Total Control. This EP-that-never-was wraps itself up with the epic trudge of “Sewer Song,” a pit of sonic quicksand sucking you deeper into its foul embrace. Much like this 12”, it’s life-affirming in the worst possible way.  (Smart Guy//smartguyrecords.com)

THE FRESH & ONLYS  House of Spirits LP

The Fresh & Onlys are perplexing. Although they are linked to the recently ascendant San Francisco garage rock scene, they are not really a garage band per se. The Fresh & Onlys traffic in the sort of late ‘80s jangle best defined by Flying Nun’s roster, hewing particularly close to the literate sensibilities of bands such as The Verlaines, The Bats and The Chills. Unfortunately, House of Spirits, The Fresh & Onlys’ fifth album in nearly as many years, is far too languid for its own good. The Fresh & Onlys bear a superficial resemblance to standard-setters like Echo and The Bunnymen but, filtered through their Laurel Canyon-leaning West Coast haze, the music is lacking the kind of drama and tension that marks the truly memorable. Where Tim Cohen’s vocals should soar, scream or sink low, they remain at a consistent monotone, rendering his occasionally poetic lyrics into lukewarm sentiments that do not invite further investigation. Cohen seems almost embarrassed to show any visceral emotion that may get the listener’s blood pumping. Ironically, it’s the songs that intend to slow the pulse down that make the strongest impression. “Bells of Paonia” ditches the guitars for a bass-heavy throb featuring elegiac vocals. If “I’m Awake” doesn’t put you to sleep, “Hummingbird” will quicken the pulse a bit, it’s still not enough. After a stretch of colorless, Paisley Underground-recalling, ostensibly rock songs, closer “Madness” mines similar territory as “Bells,” and is far more successful than the bland tracks that precede it. In a different era, The Fresh & Onlys music would have been deemed “college rock,” but, all things considered, now such sounds are quite firmly in the realm of NPR “rock,” tote bag not included.  [Mexican Summer]

The Gotobeds  “Ipso Facto” 7”

Now here’s something to sink your goddamn teeth into. Who'da thunk it? A kick-ass new indie rock single in 2013?!? Say it is so, Joe. Packaged in a snazzy sleeve w/ a printed inner, this “record store day” release (part of a singles series of local bands by Pittsburgh’s Mind Cure record store) hits all the right buttons at all the right moments. “Ipso Facto” is like a great lost Volcano Suns tune rung thru a Swell Maps sweat towel. One rocking guitar, one chiming guitar and a melodic bass driving an insistent rhythm; is that so fucking hard, people? (help, I’m turning into Andrew Earles) Look here, folks, a cool breakdown followed by an extended coda. Is it too late to make up my mind? B-side? Oh, just an above-average run-thru of a lil’ rager called “Television Addict.” Personally (and you know I like to get personal), I wish someone would attempt to out-trip-over-your-own-guitar-chords “TV Freak,” but I also like American Horror Story, so whadda I know? I think I know that there’s an LP coming soon courtesy of 12XU, so……..cool beans.  (Mind Cure // mindcurerecords.com)

The Invisible Hands 2xLP/CD  

Following the dissolution of the long-running esoterrorist art collective Sun City Girls (feels disingenuous and pedestrian to call them a “band”), Alan Bishop found himself in post-Tahrir Square Cairo with a fistful of songs and a need to make sense of the chaos around him. With the help of a few skilled Egyptian musicians, Bishop was able to complete this excellent self-titled album. The Invisible Hands conjures a somber and elegiac mood; the bitter, biting humor of songs like “Hitman Boy” and “Nice On Ice” is pitch-black, nearly suffocating in its hopelessness. “Soma” brings sha-la-las and bright, nearly Beatles-esque accompaniment to an aching plea for “freedom from the slaughter.” Despite its carefully orchestrated and masterfully executed musical framework, violence seems to stalk every step of The Invisible Hands’ existence. “Black Blood” finds Bishop channeling Leonard Cohen; a lament for fallen friends, abducted and tortured by secret police. “Death Zoo” closes the album with a shuddering finality. Fortunately, Bishop is able to balance his fatalistic gallows humor with meticulous sonic detail and deft playing from his cohorts. And this really comes in handy for part two of The Invisible Hands, which shows that Bishop is no mere dilettante cautiously dipping his toes into exotic waters. On this companion album, the same songs are performed (with slightly different mixes), but here they are given voice by Aya Hemeda and guitarist Cherif El-Masri. This is protest music, and it needs to be heard by everyone. Apparently a documentary is in the works, so stay tuned. 
(Abduction; http://www.suncitygirls.com/abduction/) 

Joel RL Phelps & the Downer Trio  ‘Gala’ LP

The people love Silkworm, as well they should, but the best Silkworm stuff is early-mid 90s when they were a four-piece, and this cat, Joel Phelps, played second guitar and wrote/sang about a third of their songs. After he split following ‘Libertine,’ the band was still good, but diminished without his idiosyncratic voice, both literal and writing. His physical voice is a weedy but strikingly powerful presence, and it enhances songs of naked emotion and a sort of existential clutching -- for others, for meaning, for something, for anything. Phelps’ trio of songs from personal S’worm high point Into the West, still send shivers racing down my spine. Even now, I’m still slightly unnerved by the time I saw this line-up and Phelps played the entire set sitting in a chair with his back facing the crowd, periodically and reluctantly stepping up to the mic, and letting loose with a caterwaul that sounded exactly as his contorted body looked. And that’s pretty much where I’ve kept Phelps all these years, trapped in my own little memory box. But, with his Downer Trio, he went on making records every few years. I never really checked in, which was stupid, cuz the guy is talented, and he’s not so far removed from those twenty year-old songs. ‘Gala’ is the first new one in nine years, and opens with two meticulously-recorded (you can hear every inch of that drumkit, in a warm, non-clinical way) songs -- sparse, yet tense, full of feints, parries and surges. And it continues apace, stopping for the occasional murder ballad (“Exiting the Garden”). ‘Gala’ is an excellent record of minimalist rock music played with a subtle grandiosity that compliments its blatant honesty. (12XU //  www.12xu.bigcartel.com)

Neo Boys  ‘Sooner or Later’ 2xLP/2xCD

I was pretty excited by the prospect of this release, but decidedly underwhelmed with the finished product itself. While it’s obvious that a lifetime of love went into this career-spanning collection, I’m not so sure Neo Boys deliver the musical goods. At least not to an extent that justifies this overlong overview. I’ve always dug the first Neo Boys single (put out by fellow Portlander Greg Sage’s Trap Records), particularly the B-side “Rich Man’s Dream.” Their excellent ‘Crumbling Myths’ EP opens with another of their finest songs, “Poor Man’s Jungle” (detecting a theme here?). ‘Sooner or Later’ jumbles a pile of Neo Boys recordings into a sprawling mess of mid-level femme post-punk. Neo Boys are not boys, but they don’t quite equal the heights of the best in the worldwide boom of female-guided post-punk. As a local concern, the Neo Boys are a classic Portland punk band, but too much of this collection is flat, tuneless and doesn’t quite justify their legendary rep. I’m not trying to out-and-out diss da Boys, they have some good stuff, and you can certainly hear their influence in a band like Grass Widow. But a single LP with the 45, the 12” and maybe the best of the unreleased stuff would have gone a lot further in solidifying their legacy. We don’t always need the kitchen sink. And no, that’s not a “wash the dishes, woman” pun, it’s a plea against warts n’ all. Calvin, some more careful curation next time, please. (K // krecs.com)

 

Pampers  s/t LP

I’m completely biased re: Pamps by both geography and friendship. I don’t care. You’re a dumbfuck if loud-ass banging cavemen-who-can-write-songs-type rock n’ roll is your bag. And you’re a dumbfuck if it ain’t. If the cover (by bassist/singer Jordan Lovelace) grosses you out, we’re off to a good start. These guys are getting up there in years, so any resemblance to an Oblivian or Spit-style pummel is not a coincidence, nor is it some new affectation. It just is. Lovelace-yelled “Not” is a live favorite, a relentless rocker with a sweet change-up. With bad-ass new slamma-jammas like “The Wigga,” I’ll admit I was slightly bummed about re-recorded 7” cuts, but damn this version of “Monkey Drip” is just stellar. Carl’s songs are generally more melodic, and his “Purple Brain” is the winner on this debut, and was quite literally, my favorite song of this past summer. To me it sounds like a science-fiction ode to love – spacejunked Devo. But the extended psyched-out pounding of side one closer “Sack Attack” comes in a close number two (and live it’ll make you doo-doo). Nice to see the boys on such an esteemed label. I think this was recorded in a cabin in the middle of the woods. Well done, boners. (In The Red // intheredrecords.com)

PYPY  ‘Pagan Day’ LP/CD

PyPy are somewhat of a Montreal supergroup, pulling together Choyce from Red Mass/CPC Gangbangs and Annie-Claude, dynamo singer of aggro-electro unit Duchess Says. ‘Pagan Day’ is a hard record, and a party record. PyPy songs are not quite Andrew WK posi-anthems, and based on the death disco of “Too Much Cocaine,” hard drugs may have contributed to the decadent squall made by this quartet. “New York” captures a sleazy post-punk vibe better than just about any bearded fuckface from the 11211 zip code (or 11249 to you johnny-cum-latelies), and if you think “Molly” is about a girl, then this probably isn’t the record for you. Meanwhile, “Daffodils” could score a Miami Vice drug-dealing montage. “Ya Ya Ya” is a warped dance number that sounds like Les Sexareenos got left out in the sun too long. “Psychedelic Warlords” brings you down easy.  (Black Gladiator // slovenly.com)

 

Quailbones  ‘In Lord Dion’s House of Discovery’ 7”

Good but ultimately forgettable garage moderne. Which means > a whole lotta OhSees. Now, I like them OhSees, still do, if less attention is paid (and payed). And I would put these cats near the top of Oh Sees tribute bands (that Wooden Indian Burial Ground band does a striking imitation too). Well-played, energetic, pretty deece recording, but all the hallmarks of that band’s style are here in droves, spades, and other things that come together. The flipside’s “The Long Hair of Death” does stick to the ribs a bit, but between its yodeling vocal hook and even the title itself, it’s just Dwyer-damaged thru & thru.  (Ghost Orchard // ghostorchardrecords.blogspot.com)

Sex Tide  ‘Flash Fuck’ 12”          

Things sure have been Sex-y as of late; between yer vids and yer churches and yer cults and yer tapes and 8-traks and......it’s enough to make you say Sorry, not tonight honey, I’ve got a headache. But here’s another Sex rolling in, and once again, we gotta say Yes, let’s fuck, as if we were in a flash-flood of Biblical proportions. UNFFF-NNNGGGGGG-UUUUHHHHHH----OH goddDDDD. Ain’t no atheists in the bedroom, who said that? Here we have 8 songs of loud n’ crude bashing from Cowtown USA (that’s Cbus to you). Sex kitten on obnox vox/standing Moe-drums, two dudes on geetars (one ex-Geraldine, who did the best Gun Club cover I’ve still seen yet).  Plenty of Pussy refs for you ref-heads, plenty of stanky punk for you panty-sniffers. Let's go deeper, baby, and say "Jackknife w/o the speed." Final cut “Gone” is a slo-burner that nicks the lead lick from “You Only Live Twice.” There ain’t no wheel reinvention going on here, but plenty of groovy hate-fucking. How else can we mention swampy genitals in fetid basements? Hey, what’s your name by the way, wanna fuck?  (A Wicked Company // awickedcompanyrecords.bandcamp.com)

Sperm Donor  ‘Accidental Incest’ LP

The underground will always have room for bespectacled geeks who carry around bucketfuls of pent-up rage, and attempt to exorcise said rage via tight rock group dynamics, angular riffing and non-melodic speak-singing. Call it the Albini factor. Sperm Donor are the latest to don the wire-rims, and they acquit themselves……okay. Opener “She Fucked Kevin Bacon” is def Rapeman outtake material, and the following “Compulsive Fornicator” doesn’t do much to dispel the notion of Sperm Donor as, well, a collective of compulsive masturbators. “So Long Motherfuckers” and “Dolly Parton” bring the proceedings down to a typical ‘90s plod. I’ve heard enough sludgefeasts like this to last a lifetime. It’s Melvins-lite, and it’s no fun. Besides, isn’t Dolly Parton getting a bit saggy these days? I mean, she’s like 100 years old (OK, yeah I would, fuck you, you would too). These “heavy” rock tropes are goddamn saggy. Soggy, even, but still not heavy enough. Side Two opens with “Song X,” which I wish sounded as close to Karp as Sperm Donor probably thinks it does. Dammit, I wanted to like this more than I did, and while it hits its markers well enough, in the end, that’s really the whole problem. (self-released // spermdonor.bandcamp.com)

Ultrathin  ‘Minimum Payout E.P’  cass/download

Melty Montreal negative space punk more onna Blade Runner tip than a blast into interstellar overdrive; fun stuff like Monoshock, Simply Saucer and Chrome gets the bomb-shelter treatment. “Walk Into the Void” and the relentless/obsessive “Downward Spiral” seethe with frustration and noisy head-down effects-riddled riffage; not gazing at shoes, just trying to avoid the average citizen’s zombie stares. Didn’t everyone hear yours truly when I declared a moratorium on Urinals covers? It was on Twitter (j/k #notfunny). Despite being slightly gauche, the live “Black Hole” here acquits itself well, but we’re more keen to hear the ‘thin’s take on The Pagans’ “Real World,” which they killed on stage. “A.K.A” is the two-minute punker that makes the Pagans influence more than apparent, convincingly desperate and thoroughly rockin’. If Ultrathin only wrote songs like this, they could open for The Spits in Halifax. No surprise that the cut called “Cyborg Skin” is the Chrome-iest of the lot, but, despite it being a bit long in the tooth, I’ll be damned if it don’t scratch that itch better than anyone has in awhile. “Spaceman” gets loose and far-out, all 3 Ultrathinners going for broke, like Loop huffing gasoline in the garage.  (Bruised Tongue//bruisedtongue.com)

JACK SHACK HYPE MACHINE

FOSTER CARE  Bad Vibe City LP


The name alone conjures images of screaming brats, covered-up systematic abuse, and future employees of the state penitentiary.

The music itself crashes your party, steals your beer, then steals your girlfriend, kicks a hole in the wall, and then careens back out into the night, once again on the endless search for more kicks. This is their idea of fun, and fuck you if you ain’t ready for it.

Seeing Foster Care play is not a passive experience. A flurry of flying elbows, toxic sweat, broken gear, and bug-eyed intensity forces you to make a decision: Dive head-first into the chaos, or slink back into the corner; safe, dry, bored. Every Foster Care show is an eviction party, and their bodies are the soon-to-be-abandoned houses (no temples here). Anything goes, short of setting them on fire (actually, that’s probably OK too). Fittingly, Foster Care makes you feel like a kid again, hopped up on sugar (or the adult-equivalent), with no responsibilities and no worries.

Harnessing the speed of early 80s hardcore, the snot of prime Killed By Death punk, and the grit and grime of their New York City environs, Foster Care are channeling all of their pent-up neuroses and aggressions into first-rate scum anthems. Their debut LP, Bad Vibe City, is an aptly-titled journey through the underbelly of “The Greatest City in the World.” You may need a shower afterwards (sample lyric: “sucking on a hobo’s cock”), but you’ll be humming these tunes as you scrape the filth off of your body.

But this is no one-note “rager” of a record. On the surface, the 5 AM lament of “Don’t Make Me” could be mistaken for the kind of sappy pop-punk ditty that lesser bands have made a career out of; but there’s real emotion as singer Chris Teenager tells us how she not only stole his heart, but also took off “with my money.” Hey, this is New York City, and love don’t come cheap. Even on fuck-you sing-alongs like “Don’t Want To/Don’t Need To” the melodies come fast and furious. And don’t mistake these miscreants for dummies: the lurching swing of “Death on The Installment Plan” references infamous nihilist French novelist Louis-Ferdinand Celine.

Half of Foster Care are NYC-born and -bred. The other half (also half of the excellent Ex Humans) came crawling out of the South, hungry for the kind of oblivion and transcendence only the Naked City can provide.

Echoes of New York’s glorious punk past can be heard in these grooves. The swagger of the Dead Boys, the putrid stench of The Mad, the ferocity of Heart Attack, and the staring-down-the-barrel-of-a-gun intensity of the Testors (drummer Josh Martin, formerly of Carbonas and BeatBeatBeat, is the lead guitarist in Testors mainman Sonny Vincent’s current band) runs through the veins of the young guns that make up Foster Care.

Buy the record, go see them play, lock up the booze, keep your girlfriends at a safe distance, and get ready to party. Foster Care is coming, and, judging by the maniacal gleam in their eyes, they mean business.

CALL OF THE WILD 7"

While you were in school studying the three Rs (readin’ ritin’ ‘rithmetic), the three born rockers in Call of the Wild were boning up on the three Ms (Motorhead Metallica Misfits).

Call of the Wild (COTW) are living, fire-breathing proof that Brooklyn NY is not just a playground for animal-collecting, beard-pruning, soft-chin-stroking hypesters. There are, in fact, real, red-blooded rockers amidst the sea of gauzy Garagebands, and COTW might just be the bloodiest of them all. They have a solid pedigree; skin-pounder Allison was in notable psych-rock unit Awesome Color; axe-wielder/main shouter Johnny was in AC off-shoot, Used to Be Women, while youngblood Max was in Nashville upstarts, Turbo Fruits.

On their debut 7-inch, Call of the Wild break loose with two meaty cuts of in-your-face ferocity. “The Call” opens with a blistering guitar riff, then divebombs into NWOBHM stomp, making time for alternately vicious and ominous vocals, and of course, a ripping solo. Filtering that kind of nasty hard rock through a Midwestern basement punk sensibility, COTW recalls underrated shitkickers like The Dogs (of “Slash Your Face” fame) and even a tougher take on the Suicide Commandos (whose own “Call of the Wild” may be an inspiration). “Tightrope” brings the groove, a horny ass-shaker that begs to be fingered on a jukebox’s controls. Hey, it’s a sweaty Friday night at your local watering hole. Loosen the tie. Pull the stick outta yer ass. Call of the Wild is howling from the hills. Answer them.

 

PAMPERS 7"

Pampers. I would forgive you if you were grossed out by that name. I would understand if you quickly flipped passed one of their 45s at the record store. Bug-eyed demon smile cackling at you with a wink and a snarl. But don’t be afraid. Snatch it up. Back at your home, where you are safe, put it on the turntable. You will shit yourself with glee as the waves of psyched-out garage punk pummel you into submission. Sometimes getting smacked in the face is refreshing; necessary.

Early Pampers material could have been somewhat accurately described as “Spits doing lines with Thee OhSees,” but these days the band has carved out its own identity. They seem to fit on any show, always providing a loud, messy blare, but focused; serious fun. The kind of band you just surrender to, and dance like a fool, beer flying every which way. Mongo vox, cranked Vox, primitive yet precise drumming, a cloud of warped sonics swirling above the rock n’ roll thud; Pampers delivers.

And that is the case on their new single (numero dos for the band). The A-side features “Guts,” a bad trip you can dance to, and “Rat Hole,” a short n’ sinister lil’ ditty that recalls prime Urinals. On the flip is the more melodic “Lies,” a cavernous rock n’ roll song that will get trapped in your head, pacing back n’ forth. It doesn’t make sense, but Pampers gets under your skin. A rash that you welcome, it feels good to scratch.