Monday, November 5, 2012

I Dreamt Of Goth Clubs...

ANODYNE, "ANACELICA" b/w "THE SEA"  (GRIG Records 45, 1985)

...I truly did.  In Jr. and High School I REALLY wanted to be Goth.  I occasionally wore pink scarves, hung out in front of mall book stores well after closing, pretended to read Nietzsche.  I even spurned high school graduation to lie on a mattress at a friend's house, eat cucumber sandwiches and listen to Kraftwerk in the dark (and, to my later credit, The Louvin Brothers' 'Satan Is Real' which we borrowed from his mom cos it had the devil in the title).

But, like so many other things pre-matriculative, I lacked fluency in the social cues that would have opened & allowed me to rub clove-smelling shoulders with the jnco jean goth jet set. SO, instead, I had to settle for standing invitation Saturday nights spent playing AD&D and getting good grades.

So lame.

Thankfully, some 'rich college twentysomethings' - to quote people who saw them live - from near my neck of the woods (Mobile, Alabama) were much more successful in affecting a death rock southern pose.

Anodyne - for those less quick on the wikipedia-draw - is not only a (good) song title by the Cocteau Twins and a (dumb) album by (fake rural dumbos) Uncle Tupelo; it is also a generic term for late 19th century patent medicinal concoctions believed to ease pain.  Laudanum and the like.

Which is fitting as Anodyne's attack is patent Chameleons UK guitar-goff with a dash of Bauhaus.  ...which is probably inadvertent unless the import bins in the Port City circa 1985 were A LOT more adventurous (which I highly doubt).  Dudes probably thought they sounded like poo2.

Aspirations notwithstanding, if I had heard this in H.S., you can best believe I would have added it to my solo ethereal spotlight dance fantasy mix.

Can you believe girls weren't lining up to date me?  Maybe Anodyne had better luck with the ladies (or men) in Mobile.

SO!  Pile up your hair and close the blinds and dance like only Daniel Ash can see you.



Wednesday, October 17, 2012

It's A Swift Kick Life For Us

KICK, 'KICK' (private press, 1980)

In which I offer zero excuse for my absence and give up any semblance of a regular posting schedule and instead commit to continue to upload retarded hard rock and heavy metal records as I find them or, as in the case of Kick, they find me.

People make up fake genres all the time - ye-ye, acid-folk, biker-punk. And if they can get away with it then so can I. ...cos - the way I see it - KICK - along with mono-syllabic cross-coast plasma brothers BLOOD - may be the torch-bearing vanguard of 1980s BEACH METAL! I'll scan in the back cover tomorrow at work (NO I WON'T!), but you should see 'em: not one, but TWO dudes in creased white chinos, matching color flying V, one dude with a sailboat on his shirt, everybody with patented business-casual styled coiffs. All centered against a black and white backdrop of tasty waves.

Kick get mega credit for rocking so hard and keeping things t-totally beach-centric from their inland home-base of Atascadero as well as for parodying the Annie soundtrack with their cover-art AND - not least - for including the word 'HOT, 'ROCK' or 'ROCKER' in three out of the eight tunes on offer: all of which move in a pomp/late 70s hard rock direction akin to early RATT and a million other opening-act, satin-jacket scuzz-dispensers.

That said, KICK's lone LP smokes pretty much all of the way through; the dedication to their craft attentively reflected in the AUTOGRAPHS my copy bears. Lead vocalist Chuck Lynch states 'I LIKE ROCK N ROLL HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!' Thanks Chuck, I will and I do! Lead guitarist Ed Blackburn advises that the listener and former owner of this record might perhaps 'ROCK IT OUT!' Huh - I might just do that, Eddie; thanks! Drummer Vaughn CASTLE, on the other hand, is more succinct, simply signing his obviously fake and awesome name.

'KICK' is beer-and-beach, top-down-turf-and-surf satisfaction, the only misstep arriving in the form of the proggy, one-bong-hit-too-many 'Wake Me When It's Over.' Kick have no business talking or playing for over six minutes at a stretch, but they do it anyway; use this track as a piss-break or pop out to check the mail and you'll be fine.

Found this record for the sum of one dollar in a flea-market in Meridian, MS. when I should have been visiting my aged grandmother. Well, I'm no Gram Parsons, but in his immortal cornpone accent, I'll dedicate this blog:


UPDATE:  Perhaps fittingly, moments after typing this blog post I spilled half a can of Coors Light over this record.  Where was my autograph warning to drink responsibly guys?!??!









Thursday, August 23, 2012

Complicated Camaro Situation


I foolishly sold this record years ago when I had to move back in with my parents.  Luckily for me, that didn't last long.  AND, triply luckily for me AND FOR YOU, I reacquired the record in question AND the ebay listing of our unsweet particular parting survives like an ebay wrinkle in time.

So!  As I don't think I could describe this record any better now if I tried, I'm just going to copy and paste my old ebay pitch.  PLEASE NOTE THIS RECORD IS NOT FOR SALE!  YOU'LL NEVER GET THIS ONE OFF ME AGAIN, SUCKERS!

More private-label mystery-band action, this time from Hauppauge, New York’s BLOOD – Long Island’s answer to the mighty Flying Sixty-Nine!  And despite its relegation to the single’s b-side, ‘Bombed At The Beach’ is the obvious stand-out track, earning the green-light of approval for its utterly bone-head lyrics and crude almost Dicators-esque narrative approach.  Select lyrics include: 

At the spot, It’s a wild scene,
The girls are hot and the guys are mean,
In the sand, The world in my hand,
Living in the fast lane in this great land.’ 

The chorus similarly succeeds by rhyming ‘beach’ with ‘unleashed.’  The verse following continues in this vein, primarily concerning driving fast and laying chicks; all over a skuzzy, lo-fi, metal grind (the part where the singer tries to sound crazed and scream is terrifically unconvincing as well).  The other tracks are average to fine; split between an ineptly atypical AOR/glam rocker with - I think - an anti-drug message and a humorous ‘blues’ about the Cambodian genocide.  Borneo Jimmy would be blushing with pride.

Not sure if this ever came with a picture sleeve.  Judging from the extremely primitive label design and the overall lack of sophistication to the band’s attack, it seems unlikely.

Now I really wanna hear their second single!  Anyone holding???





Tuesday, July 31, 2012

A Wink Is As Good As A Nod

WINK, ‘I FEEL FINE’ b/w ‘LAST CHANCE’ (WINK! Records, 1979)

This band has everything that I like – Mott The Hoople looks, finger-tapping, mustaches and a fan club I can join!

I don’t have any idea who Wink were or why they chose to do this to the Beatles, but their treatment is a winner. Nick Gilder take notice – these guys can sing high, harmonize and look stupid almost as good as you can!

Probably from California. Probably their lone release. Probably gonna want to buy it the next time you see it (if you can afford it that is!). And probably gonna keep you up late at night wondering why these guys ever bothered writing original songs at all (the group original B-side is probably closer to the journeyman AOR capabilities of the quintet’s combined perspirations than the stellar A).

Also like that the lead singer’s last name is FUNDERBURK. WHAT A COUNTRY!
Enjoy Wink!


Friday, July 20, 2012

It's A Blue Morning

BLUE RAIN, 'LIFE' b/w 'NEW MORNING' (Blue Rain Records, 1986)

Since the local weather lately has resembled nothing quite so much as an Ernest Hemingway death-dream, I figured I would go on with the flood-plain flow and post up this late Louisiana mystery disc produced by a group of Baton Rouge weirdos who previous-to had slogged and smogged their way in unrecorded combos with such arcane names as Vacation Bible School and probably many others.

It's Nineteen Eighty-Six (okay) and only the synth drums give it away. Otherwise no jury in the world would convict you if you had subtracted a few years off of that sum or even reversed the order of the final two digits. I can't decide if Blue Rain were left-over punks, siphoning-off and shooting-up the bad trip residue of such loser antecedents as THE SHIT DOGS or THE ZOOMERS or if they were just hippies who accidentally smoked their way to success.

And success is obviously what they had in mind - why else would they think to include a paste-on map of their home-town on the back of the primitive, over-size picture sleeve? Why, so the major label record companies could come visit them, of course! Also, the combo of business card and the 'thanks to everyone who made this record possible' dedication is always a good local look.

While the A-side of this effort, 'Life,' is cool in its primitive repetition and druggy delivery (did he just rhyme 'Sea of Saragossa' with 'John Dos Passos?'), it's the jumpy, fake U.K. D.I.Y. sounding B-side that here wins honorary Latin distinctions. I only were it was longer.

A cool single still available in mass quantities cheap on ebay from the guy with the seemingly limitless supply of Boyz and Whizz Kids 45s. REAL HEADS KNOW THE DEAL!

Also, for anyone ever in the vicinity of the Red Stick and clutching a copy of this record to their bosoms, make sure to make use of the map on the back and take time out to visit Carville, just to the south: the nation's leading and - to my knowledge - only Hansen's Disease Museum (that's leprosy for those of you not up on the current PC-isms - also, the birthplace of identically-surnamed political pundit James).

Enjoy, but before that, a short ode to the greatest left-handed pitcher of all-time.

'First we'll use Spahn 
then we'll use Sain 
Then an off day followed by rain 
Back will come Spahn 
followed by Sain 
And followed we hope 
by two days of rain'



Monday, July 9, 2012

My Works Cited Pages


I'm not sure I possess the right amount of letters following my surname to properly interpret the AOR tea-leaves of Carl John Sattler's 'Pictures At 23 (Link)' single.  You thought they only gave titles to albums?  We-he-ll, you obviously don't know Carl John Sattler!  He's so high-minded that he not only named this private-press single, he also thought it proper to include a parenthetical in its dubbing (No Augustus Pablo).  Think of it as a chaser or an after-dinner mint.

I'm not fooling, I really don't know what to make of this record besides the fact that it rules in an extremely ideological fashion.  Beatles interview snippets, semi-locked groove, profanity, whispered backwards lyrics, total Rundgren/Cheap Trick guitar.  An intricate label design and a one sided picture sleeve only adds to the mystery. 

I'm also not sure if Carl John Sattler is the performer or the songwriter here.  In any event, I think the b-side 'One Page, One PAUL' totally rules. A proper paean to the clearly better Beatle.

One year past Orwell:  here we are.  This is Bobb Trimble with a perm and a degree in the humanities if his life's ambition was to to be a guitar tech for Boston or Crack The Sky.  Enjoy then and please make sure to circulate your papers before next week's seminar and to be prepared to discuss romantic facts of musketeers and the mongrel dogs who teach.


EDIT: Uh Oh.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

No Anti-Christ Devil's-Child Left Behind

GYPSY SAVAGE, 'NEVER DROP OUT' b/w 'GOODBYE NOW' (World Records, 198?)

April is the cruelest of months. So cruel in fact that me and t.s. had to take the entire month of May off to recover.

But now we're back and we're here to show you that we can really shake 'em down!

Thinking of changing the title of this blog to Bad Heavy Metal Records I Like And Buy. Cos I like and buy a lot of them. So, without further adieu or delay, here's another fine example in an incompetent and shitty series. AND, these boys are local!

GYPSY SAVAGE - Gretna boys allegedly, though captured here in full flight on the front steps of McMain High off S. Claiborne - may not have been the hey-bras-most-likely-to in their headband and poodle mullet heyday. However, time, slavishness and pure boneheaded naivete has done much
to rehabilitate the mighty GS's rep and to amplify their charm immensely.

It also may represent a lyrical first for a genre notoriously infamous for its attitudes disdainful towards the benefits of a classical education. No smokin' in the boys room or ringing hell's bells for Gypsy Savage. Nope, school is in and on! Complete with parental guilt-trip fear-mongering and PSA/school assembly-style moves.

And if the music is budget Motley Crue, so what? Since when is that a bad thing?!?!?!

The b-side, 'Goodbye Now,' is only so-so, but, even if it wasn't, the chances of it bettering 'Never Drop Out' are lower than the aggregate state test scores of the Recovery School District.

Gypsy Savage later recorded a full-length, self-titled LP which I haven't heard, featuring the same excellent cover 'art' as their earlier 45 rpm. Why mess with success when you're batting 1000 and the aesthetic altiplano has been secured?

Enjoy then the mess and mediocrity of my writing, my blog and these total losers.  Long live the local bin.


Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Two Pints Of Lager And A Increased Risk Of Heart Disease


Richard Hell's ex-girlfriend might well have been speaking about me and not Terry Ork in cautioning any and all who would listen to not make promises that they can't keep.

What did I every so recently declare vis-a-vis this blog's temporary direction?


And what have I managed?

Quoth The Sleepers' Ricky Williams:


So...full confession in. I'm sorry.

Hopefully then this offering will soften the blow and encourage me - in the future - to lower the vaulting bar to more realistic heights and move my full digital expiation down the highway.

Though I lack any pictorial evidence to substantiate my claims, from the grooves on his lone single it's clear Fat Bruce was the Brat Champion of Brewtown boogie. Now, Bruce ain't husky, nor is he pleasantly plump or big-boned. Naw naw: Bruce is FAT, BABY!

Similar to the New Cactus or Rebel Band, this is retard waistband-expansion swill-mongering-by-numbers that shimmies and stomps along memorably, if not particularly stoutly (though don't tell that to Heavy 45s).

Not sure of the year, but likely mid-to-late-70s. I can imagine the first few rows of Fat Bruce performances being the hirsute sweat splash-zone when they cut into 'Got To Get It' while on 'Nest In A Fallen Tree' one can practically smell the mildewed carpet and Blazt B.O.. Unsure as well what Bruce is up to these days, but hopefully he's watching his cholesterol and triglyceride levels and leaving the cheese curds alone.

Also curious to know what projects producer BETH ENTERPRIZE is busying herself with too.

A decade earlier Bruce might have been Mitch Ryder; a decade later George Thorogood. Yet further proof (if at this time any was needed) that Homer Simpson was correct in his assertion that rock attained perfection in 1974 A.D.

So, I have said all that to say this: Chubby chasers and porky prime cutters rejoice, it's boogieing time!



Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Objectivist Pop For Beach People

In keeping with the Lintian theme prescribed and proclaimed by me - unwitting to workload and scheduling conflicts - here IS Kenosha Wisconsin's finest proponents of conceptually dum dum new wave/power pop/punk rock, MUS-SUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-LE BEACH!

Muscle Beach existed from roughly 1978 to 1980 and, during the course of their rough three-year lifespan, marked time at nearly all of Milwaukee's major punk and new wave haunts (Zak's, the Palms, Starship, etc). Conceptually distinct and lyrically fully-formed, Muscle Beach were a cut above 90% of the 77-year-zero Midwestern milieu for which they were inevitably stuck opening. However, despite their obvious compositional superiority, the M. Beachers recorded and issued only one now very rare single on their own DUMB imprint in 1980 before atomizing and dispersing to the four winds forever.

A shame. Milwaukee was then forced to bear both the Bo'Deans and the Violent Femmes in the decade to come.



Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Gash Wednesday


I refuse to believe that there does not exist a hair metal band by that name.

However, as it is Lent and the time for self-denial and restraint, I have decided - that in response to great public outcry - I will for the proceeding forty day period restrict myself solely to posts concerning great records from the great state of Wisconsin.

I'm gonna give YOU the keys to the Lamborghini so hold on tight.

From the town on the Fox River that gave the world manhole covers and one of the greatest wearers of striped shirts and sunglasses ever in the form of Paul Reject, comes Freight with two hot rockers and - GASP! what's this? - tantalizingly stout amounts of info! There's a recording and release date, band names, studio details, cool lil' label logo - EVEN A PHONE NUMBER! Now my question, who will pony up the long-distance courage required to holler at an ex-Freight?

Of the two songs on offer, both win, if in completely different directions. The A-side could be called 'glam' at a stretch with its bump-n-grind rhythms, Dolls-y backing vocals and Motty Motty pee-any plonkin', but is more likely just an attempt at ripping off Aerosmith (there are worse things). The B-side, on the other hand...excuse me, the AA-side is pure grinding shreditude, with a SWAT Team-like assault that fairly reeks of Motor City diesel fumes; the Sonic's Rendezvous of Lake Winnebago? Maybe. Whoever the guitarist was, his attack was deft and true. And really, who can argue against pick slides like that? YOUR HONOR, THE PROSECUTION RESTS!

If any of you so-and-so's do end up calling Freight, please refer them back here as I desperately want to know if female trouble in Neenah was truly as severe as they make it out, as well as the story behind the rear of the picture sleeve. What is going on there? Is that Dracula and, if so, why is he a midget and dressed up as a lounge singer? Also, is the tailor who made those tight satin duds still in business? So many questions, so little time.

Anyway, I'll shut my manhole now and make with the auditory evidence. SPEED KILLS!



Saturday, February 11, 2012

Bring Back The Bring Backers


I think I once heard absurdism defined as viewing the correct path and choosing not to take it: a description which could just as easily double as a summation of my record buying habits.

Over the last weekend, with a friend who was in town for a visit, we hit the stores and thrifts, flipped through tons of worthy titles, both in the bins and on the walls. We held some. But did we deign to buy any of them? Nope.

I don’t really know what it says about me personally or as a conscious consumer that I tend to gravitate towards the bowels of the most boned-out dogshit imaginable (biggest score aside from this 45 was a Hare Krishna disco LP).

Maybe I’m an absurdist? Maybe I’m bored? In any event, to say that maybe I’m amazed at the way Steven Hartley chooses to broadcast his love for Liverpool’s fave foursome would be putting it mildly (the line about their hairstyles being particularly choice). The swansong lounge suicide flip is also pretty rad.

Listen: if this is the sound of the abyss staring back, then I’m more than content to window-shop in the void forever, all the live-a-long day.

David Peel, consider yourself on notice! BRING BACK STEVEN HARTLEY!



Sunday, January 29, 2012

Throbbing Amateurs


After losing out on the greatest record ever to come out of the booming metropolis of Laurel, MS. recently (AND costing a friend a hundred or so bucks in the process), I decided I would console myself within the arms of another pack of local losers from the Magnolia State.

I originally bought this record for the name alone thinking it might be a Johnny Rebel-style ummm, 'novelty' single (the A-side's song-title doing much to increase my hopes). Turns out, there's not a hint of racial prejudice to be found. Little to no competency either.

What is this record even supposed to be? Are they intentionally trying to be funky? Why are they singing like that? What year is this from? Is this a song about drugs or girls? Typically, the Rebel Band's lone (?) effort ask many more questions than it could ever hope to answer (a drum solo too???). To confound things even further, the b-side is some velvet moaning about a lost antebellum past or some shit that is way too close to the Marshall Tucker Band for my liking. All that is sure is these Rebs recorded at Malaco in Jackson and hailed from the hometown of fictional show-girl Blanche DuBois.

At the end of the day, the truth may never be known, which allows The Rebel Band to pass seamlessly into the speculative beer-belly ranks of accidental bar-band loser-geniuses alongside the likes of Fat Bruce and Smokehouse. Enjoy?


Sunday, January 15, 2012

Pure Guap For Now People

DESPERATE ANGEL, ‘SHAKE YOU DOWN’ b/w ‘THAT IS ALL’ (December Records, 1978)

This one’s dedicated to my favorite Tucson Tostito; for not only turning me on to this record’s existence, but also for still speaking to me after I made a spectacle of myself at his wedding*. …and who is now (I’m told) a full-time, graduated so-and-so, so let’s hear it from the tree-tops for my main tofurkey T-top! Love ya, Muff Rocker!

Doing their best to look like Mick ‘n’ Keef on the cover, whilst doing their utmost to sound like Starz or Artful Dodger in the grooves, the ATL’s Desperate Angel, minus the inseminating influence of the nascent new wave, would likely have been just another bunch of opening act AOR satin dolls; appetizing after-thoughts before the inevitable BTO/REO denim buffet. However, if the DA’s weren’t exactly hep to Seditionaries high chic or the dress code at La Mere Vipere, they certainly were on-time and up to date (enough) for Greg Shaw’s prophesied late 70s pop revival.

And yes, before you soil your signed, stamped Exploding Hearts bed-spread (number 1 of 50!), I realize that most people don’t think of mainstream melodic 70s hard rock as conforming to the skinny-tie strictures of what today we know as power pop. …which is unfortunate, as schlock groups like Starz, Piper, Rex or even The Babys have a helluva lot more to do with a workable post-Raspberries aesthetic than dross like the Fast Cars or the Pointed Sticks. Only one of dozens of examples of the draw-backs of a punk education (others being Crass and the entire recorded output of the city of Portland, Oregon).

But enough of my usual screed…

The sound of Desperate Angel, like fellow peach-state poseurs XYZ, represents the new wave or new direction taken by handfuls of mainstream rock groups from 1975 until the end of the decade (when the synths get too heavy for my taste). Following in the boot-steps pioneered by KISS, Cheap Trick, and, yeah, probably Boston and Aerosmith too, groups like Desperate Angel – to quote The Shaw – naively flirt with the power pop style in such casual, shamelessly commercial fashion that – despite utterly stiffing upon release – sound fresh and dynamic today in ways that groups like the Merton Parkas or Modernettes simply cannot; flash-frozen as they are forever in the polka dot/striped shirt freezer-section of a failed hype-market. It should also be recalled that despite the perms and big collars, one of the most common tags initially affixed to groups like Desperate Angel by writers of the time was Punk Rock (and some – like the Babys and KISS – even had the bubblegum trading cards to prove it). Also, just to needlessly muddy the waters further for those un-read-up-on-their-power-pop-read-ups, who checks in at #10 on BOMP!’s All-Time Top Power Pop Records list ahead of Generation X: none other than Scandinavian freakbeat giants, ABBA! But that’s a tale for another time.

So enjoy the shake und shred unt Desperate Angel as I speculate upon whether or not the weight of my digital imprimatur will now cause this single to trade for $250 or up. Here’s hoping!



*If you see a pattern developing here with me and weddings, move ahead three spaces.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

Gettin' Jiggsy


For my last blog post of the year I figured I would cave to mounting pressure and give the people – all three of them who commented – what they wanted: MORE FROM NEW JERSEY’S OWN TERRY HUGHES!

As of this writing, more of the mystery surrounding Mr. Hughes continues to be deciphered and filled-in. At WFMU this year, Justin Collectorscum – in between my marathon of downing beers – clued me into to the fact that Terry was once the guitarist in lo-fi/art/punk/whatever-the-fuck-cause-I-haven’t-heard-it-yet supa-group Jigs & the Pigs. So I guess that’s worth something to someone; maybe even me if someone can hook up some mp3s.

Now how one goes from that – whatever that is – to earnestly worshipping at the altar of Jagger & Johnny one minute to Atlantic City house-rocking the next is anyone’s guess, but Terry does it here with great power pop aplomb backed by The Backyard Party who apparently were all ex Jigs as well as whoever else was in the bar or studio that night; Terry takes great pains to thank everyone who showed up for dollar beer night on the back sleeve including ‘what’s her name,’ ‘that girl from Atlantic City’ and the dog (now likely deceased R.I.P.).

Of the two cuts, ‘Hey Leo’ is unfuckwittable with its power chords and brevity. I also am assuming that that must be Leo that Terry (in the shades, striped shirt and Richard Hell-ish frown) is pointing to on the cover. The b-side is good too, if a bit more vulnerable and endearing and, for whatever reason, that doesn’t work as well for me. …especially given Terry’s third single where he throws love and affection straight out the window in favor of full-on Jabbers-style date-baiting.

If Bruce Springsteen’s Cadillac motors on melted-down Crystals’ records then Terry Hughes’ El Camino runs on jello-shots and your girlfriend’s bar-tab. Have at it T.H. and may I echo your feelings as to the origins of Leo’s haberdashery. HEY LEO WHERE’D YOU GET THE HAT!