Monday, July 25, 2011

No t-shirt time

TERRY HUGHES, 'TIME TO TURN' b/w 'SO GLAD' (Rubber Ball, 1982)

It’s a good thing there are several states separating Terry Hughes and Justin Trouble, otherwise I’d expect there’d be a Johnny Thunders imitation showdown at the Loveland corral (winner earning a one-way trip to New Orleans and death).  Fairly inexplicable and simply irresistible shirtless guido junk rock plus Stones-y pop moves circa 'Between The Buttons' with definite ideological nods (tambourine, Jagger vocals) towards the late 60s.  The first of three single-servings along Mr. Hughes’ rather unpredictable flight-path - his second is hesher-lite party rock, while the third is total G.G. Allin worship with the lyrics to ’Don’t Talk To Me’ changed to insult some skank from Bayonne. After Damian & The Criterions, I think Terry Hughes is definitely my second favorite New Jersey rock loser.  And he’s STILL GOING STRONG! 


Also, would like to dedicate the b-side of this record to my friends Daniel and Megan who got hitched over the weekend and whose wedding I only slighted ruined by forgetting the rings to their ceremony.  Thanks for allowing me a chance to redeem myself guys!  Have fun in the DR!




Sunday, July 10, 2011

Hyped 2 Life


As the great soul-patch philospher and unmatyred monochrome t-shirt saint Aaron Lewis of the band Staind might say:  'It's Been A While.'

Been a while since my last real post and definitely been a while since it was fashionable for good, long-loined, round-eyed American wimp rock to garner any attention round the roost of this here blog.  And to that I say no more!  No more!  With this post I demand a return to North American normalcy!  A risorgimento of suburbanity!  A responsibility AND an excuse to post both sides of the Responsible Teenagers' excellent lone single!
Familiar to most from their track on Teeline (and to Evan Dando enthusiasts for containing a couple of pre-Lemonheads), this was the Responsible Teens' lone NYC bow from 1980 on their own Responsible imprint.  Despite the 'R & R Warhead' tagline, the R.T.'s keep it short and play it clean; two beer limit cos they borrowed mom’s Volvo.  And while the presumed A-side to this double B-side single has hogged the majority of the Hyped2Death spotlight (thus far), I'll stump like Stephen Douglas and go to my grave believing forever that it is the faux-Byrds-y, out-of-tune D.I.Y. flipper that is the true Most Likely To.  Also, if you harbored any illusions as to the dwindling amounts of cache remaining within the reservoirs of Max's Kansas City's back- room at the dawn of the Nineteen Eighties, you need only glance at the rear-side of the sleeve and catch the trio of dweebs slack-assing (bespectacled unabashed) to realize that the well had long since been wrung dry.

Hop in the new wave car pool lane ahead for both spotty sides:



Quaalude dial-up

....that is the approximate speed at which my computer is currently moving.  Sludgier than Lilian Roxon at a truck-stop buffet.  Still, I VOW - like MacArthur - to return with more bountiful offers of bad music very soon.  In the meantime, here's a snapshot of L.A.'s favorite Punk Rock jock in happier times.


An Epistle to Timmy

TIMOTHY, MR. MOONLITE (mono/stereo) (Segue, 197?)

When it comes to ecclesiastical real estate, it’s hard not to feel pity for the dozen or so books that precede Revelations. As obscure today as the membership of the Hanseatic League, with messages ringing nearly as relevant as the slogans for Smoothie King or the Sunglass Hut (’Free Shipping! Free Returns‘), the intercalary New Testament glut ’a gospels as personified by the likes of 1st, 2nd or 3rd John combine to truly put the piss into epistle. And whether or not Jude, Titus or Philemon were the unwitting victims of some unforeseen, corrupt canonical ‘bubble’-scheme or if the position afforded them today is ultimately fitting in regards to their Baltic-Avenue-urban-sprawl-level of contribution to the greater overall logos is not for this humble, non-ecumenical blog to speculate on. What is infallible fact is that Timothy - the Saint - was deemed worthy of a measly ten short chapters - a veritable Biblical memo - of Saint Paul’s time, spread out over the course of two equally svelte books. Whether we should thank Paul here for his brevity or feel a tad bit narkey for our Tim is a matter better off left to Nicea. At the very least, Saint T garnered much more in the way of recognition than his late 20th century namesake from Pittsburgh, PA (but should he?).

Timothy Wahler is a mystery, that is, I‘m not sure if he was circumcised or not. That said, if for the one song that comprised both the ‘mono’ and ‘stereo’ sides of his lone single, it is clear that Timothy deserved better. Recording for the Pittsburgh-based Segue label in a late-night, ragged, pop psych style reminiscent of the Sidewinders or Michel Pagliaro, ’Mr. Moonlite’ offers yet further proof of the incipient, pre-punk 70s pop underground Greg Shaw seemed forever to be trumpeting. No date on the label, but in the early 80s Wahler relocated to New York City and formed Racer X with Allan Zane of the Speedies (the one with the big perm) and recorded a mini-LP for France’s New Rose Records, which is sporadically sweated by power pop collectors, before tragically contracting HIV and passing away in 1987. For ’Mr. Moonlite’ alone, Wahler should be beatified or accorded minor sainthood. R.I.P.

Listen to ’Mr. Moonlite’ below...



In the beer belly spirit

THE NEW CACTUS BAND, 'DADDY AIN'T GONE' (mono/stereo) (Atco, 1973)

This song really has no business being good. A fake, reformed Cactus (yes, that Cactus) trying to go mainstream boogie-woogie with future tax-scam impresario Mike Pinera and a few other bros from Iron Butterfly along for the ride, sadly, not including Doug Ingle (because – as everybody knows – when Doug’s there it’s insanity). However, in this case Doug’s absence may in fact be a mental mercy of sorts, as the prospect of this record not aurally resembling the 'Ot ‘N’ Sweaty' waistbands of Canned Heat roadies already borders on Burmese write-in candidate odds as it is (‘madness’). This record’s palatability is akin to going to see one of the three touring version of L.A. Guns or Ratt at the county fair or catching ‘The Four Tops' at a reservation casino and enjoying one’s self without the intake or assistance of drink, drugs or comp tickets (or funnel cakes).

All that said, ‘Daddy Ain’t Gone’ is a tasty, if inexplicable denim home-brew, with the residual foam left behind in your flavor-saver perhaps most suggestive of an American Faces and with that first, great, guitar-draught striking pure, unintentional pop gold in the vein of Estus, Frankie & Johnny, Appaloosa and a million other similarly happy accidents. Not a home-run maybe, but still a strong at-bat. And, if what is written on my copy’s label is to be believed, there also apparently exists an album from whence this fine song was drawn. Still, as fun as the NCB prove to be at 45, something inside tells me that I shouldn’t make the New Cactus Band's acquaintance at 33 a top personal priority.

Move over Magic Dick, it’s these poseurs’ turn now!


GET DOWN MAMA with ‘Daddy Ain’t Gone’ right here chere below:

It's Great Apes!


Jack Kevorkian expired over the weekend and to commemorate an event of such significance we here at Brave Old Waves thought we would offer up a note from the back-pages of another prominent Royal Oak, Michigan native that is sure to have the crust punk coterie flying their butt-flap flags at half mast and (hopefully) the more sexually insecure Still Single subscribers reaching for their razorblades.

That’s right: it’s Marshall Crenshaw - pre-Beatlemania!, in the basement with some buds, shotgunning anything saccharine they can lay their hands on into the double barrel of their lone private issue single, circa 1974. Often and very disingenuously hyped as hard rock or even proto-punk, Astigafa enjoys much more in common with the smooth early 70s style of Hall & Oates mixed with the MOR/pop revival approach of, say, Emitt Rhodes or Todd Rundgren (all of which being VERY good things!). The band’s name is supposedly some obscure Beatles’ reference, but I don’t have the energy to figure it out now (they do have a website – complete with pictures and blow-by-blow – for anyone who must know the truth). While the A-side is the obvious cup-winner of this set – with Crenshaw’s distinctive sparkling wine vocal delivery already firmly in place – the B-side stands a close runner-up with its very clear debt to the Beach Boys by way of Steely Dan.

Even though my spirit rests eternally with the brothers Gruberger in the holy year ’73, Crenshaw and his crew kind of have me curious now to find out what happened next. Did it really all end up coming back? Greg? Allan? Gene? ANYBODY??!?!

Enjoy both sides of Astigafa below!

'Oh My Lady'


Lethal, hate and obscure

Let the appalling lack of all quality controls commence!



A true blues for Jack Ruby as recorded by and delivered in the severely damaged twang of one Kenny Smith. Recorded at Indiana State Prison - no year provided - though from the subject matter it would appear that inmate Smith never quite got over the traumatic events of November, '63. Both sides deal in weird, late-night conspiracy babble about the Kennedy assassination, but it's on the record's B-side that Kenny truly lets his inner Legendary Stardust Cowboy shine with frighteningly bizarre results. What I can only assume were intended to be backing vocals on "The Triangle" sound more like budget haunted-house sound-effects or post-lobotomy psych ward groans. A truly fried affair with proto-late-night-Art-Bell-call-in-show moves, made all the more puzzling by the Baton Rouge, Louisiana label which released it. Maybe Kenny was the man Jim Garrison really needed to talk to.

Slip inside "The Triangle" below:

Affronts to Decency - Coming Soon!

Get Bummed!