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Razorcake #84
Tim Version, Ordinary Life LP + bonus 7"
Radon, 28 LP
Zisk #25
Razorcake #83

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Record Reviews

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See You at the Bottom: CD
Wow. Love this. Great, catchy energy and anger that I would expect from the brutal city of Chicago. And this delivers. Finally, punk rock and roll that doesn’t lose sight of the punk. Strong Clash/street punk influence but faster and more upbeat. And yeah, anger. Doesn’t lose energy as it moves along. My only criticism is the lack of variation in the songs. They seem to all have the same beat, and I think they’re capable of more. It’s definitely formulaic, but they do it well. I can tell these guys have been together for a while. A warning: the eighteen minutes of nonstop feedback on the hidden track at the end will have you clawing at your eyes! Turn the CD off immediately at the end to avoid risking loss of sight. A solid, worthwhile release. I’m gonna go listen to it again in my car. –KO! (Full Breach)

Dead End Streets & Devil’s Night: CD
More Swedes by way of the garage. Powerful, adrenaline-soaked, noisy, and distorted. Hellacopters and New Bomb Turks fans be aware. This is primed and ready to fire on all cylinders. A+. –Jessica Thiringer (Sonic Swirl)

Sight That Harms/Gaze That Harms: 7” EP
From Perth, Australia, angular, but groove-locked pop in the vein of Wire with smart songwriting. Adventuresome but not tedious. Arty, but low on pretension. The bright and crisp guitar work reminds me of best of The Church. Actually, all four songs take me to a weird place of early ‘80s indie mope pop—a land choked with ruffly shirts, big hair, and bigger egos (Crowded House, Cure, early INXS)—but the Soviet Valves are on a punk steamroller twenty years hence. In their vision, only the catchiest of riffs and melodies are left standing while all the extraneous and weaker stuff is just flattened. I like it quite a bit. –Todd Taylor (Smartguy)

Rock&Rollercoaster: CD
Man, what did I do to deserve all the great review stuff this issue? Brother Retodd is welcome at the Cultural Ambassador’s dinner table any night of the week! Sons of Cyrus have an undeniable appreciation for Radio Birdman, most noticeably in their vocal stylings, though the Peepshows come to mind, too. The music varies from ‘60s-inspired tunes reminiscent of the Monkees and Woggles (“Switzerland” and “Running Too Slow”) to the aforementioned Birdman (“One of a Kind”) to a song that would please even the most diehard member of the Turbojugend (“Straight to Hell”). Track five, “Begging Me for More,” is the album’s triumph, a perfectly put together barn burner featuring the pitch perfect guest vocals of Alicja Trout. Rock&Rollercoaster makes me want to sprint around to the front of the line and take another ride. –Josh Benke (Big Brothel/ Dead Beat)

Monkey Business: CD
Another Swedish band I’ve been waiting to hear and with no disappointment. Fun, driving rock’n’roll that makes you think they’re in Detroit rather than Stockholm. Mixes covers of the Stones, Little Richard, and The Isley Brothers with solid originals. Wait, maybe they’re a new incarnation of The Sonics? That’s fair. One of those discs you grab when you are getting on the freeway and say, “Look, I don’t want to think about it. I just want to get there and have a good time doing it.” This is all their singles and comp tracks, everything the band has recorded besides their two full-lengths. –Speedway Randy (Dead Beat)

Social Combat:
Mail from Hell: CD
Spanish street punk band that covers Johnny Cash’s “Country Boy” and Rose Tattoo’s “Nice Boys Don’t Play R’n’R”—their hearts are in the right place. By-the-numbers stuff here. No complaints if you dig this genre. –greg (Step-1)

I Can’t Wait b/w Kill Kill Kill, Life Stoopid, I Stoopid: 7"
Word is that these guys are the Milli Vanilla of Tucson punk. They have a great live set, jump all over the place, and go nutty. The only difference between almost every other from-the-garage band you’ve seen is that it’s all synched. They don’t play a single note live. This, I assume, frees band members up to considerably more drinking and time to interact with the audience: two things that make going to a punk show fun. All this would be an interesting side note if the songs weren’t awesome on their own. Think the quirky, yet spot-on anxiety of M.O.T.O. and that balanced from-the-vaults but of the not-to-distant future feel of the Knockout Pills and you’ve hit it on the head. –Todd Taylor ($4, Rubber Vomit)

Protected by the Ejaculation of Serpents: CD
A two-man band on a art rock bender offer up twenty-seven tracks of minimalist skronk that’s better than one would expect. –Jimmy Alvarado (www.4dw.net/jtdoc)

Scared to Dance: CD
Although a bit more obscure to the average contemporary punk/new wave enthusiast, the Skids enjoyed quite a bit of popularity at the dawn of the ‘80s, when their “Into the Valley” single was a hit on the British charts. Listening to this, their debut album, a quarter century later, it occurs to me that their quirky take on punk rock would’ve made barely a ripple if not for the considerable talents of Stuart Adamson, whose distinctive guitar style was a direct influence on U2’s the Edge, and was later put to great use in Adamson’s post-Skids band, Big Country, whose “In a Big Country” single was quite the U.S. hit in the early ‘80s. This is more than just a curio, however, as there are some interesting tunes to be found here, none of which easily fit in the stereotypical “punk” pigeonhole, but then again, that sense of experimentation is what made so much of the early punk output such a fun listen. –Jimmy Alvarado (Captain Oi)

Footprints on Floorboards: CD
Did you know there is a font named Sinaloa? Also, there is a city named Sinaloa in Mexico. All that in one Yahoo search. Musically, this band has that sound of emo meets post punk that makes me want to download the font or find out facts about the city. –Donofthedead (Waking)

You’ll Never Get Us Down Again: 7” EP
Articulate, strong-willed, female-fronted hardcore that effortlessly switches from singing to screaming and brings to mind such heavy hitters as France’s La Fraction. Although it’s not overt, there’s a definite love of 45 Grave overtone, too. When Ashley’s singing, it sounds like an opera in a graveyard that’s getting bombed: all the band members are pissed off, sound indestructible, and are ripping right through the rubble to attack the listener. Great stuff. –Todd Taylor (Prank)

Relieve Yourself: 7” EP
The Scurvy Dogs play workmanlike hardcore punk that goes back to a time when geeks, misfits, socially awkward retards, drunks, and foreigners were on equal footing in the underground (the early ‘80s). They triangulate, roughly, between Vitamin X, Neos, and early DRI, and have reclaimed a nice corner of hardcore from the sports teams playing short hair metal masquerading as hardcore. They also cover a lot of ground in this EP, from French diplomacy, responsible drinking, and the social contract between hooker and pimp. Abrasive and cleansing, the Scurvy Dogs get the job done. –Todd Taylor (Kangaroo)

Professional: CD
In the same way The Pogues and The Dolomites (and even the Real McKenzies, if you want to stretch the analogy a bit) have built off the foundations of Irish and Scottish ballads, the Scotch Greens have done the same with American country. More rooted in bluegrass and country traditions (as opposed to, like, rawk) than bands like The Lazy Cowgirls and the Supersuckers, these guys have a pretty unique thing going on here. It’s generally urgent and up tempo and tight as shit, with galloping drums, banjo, and an occasional organ fighting for dominance over guitars that stay amped up in the double digits nearly the entire record. If you’re familiar with bands like Duck Duck Gray Duck and The Dickel Brothers then you’re in the ballpark; it’s just that the Scotch Greens are like the younger brother of those two groups, a kid who still loves the Misfits a little bit more than Merle Haggard, a kid who just can’t stop stepping on the distortion pedal and steadfastly refuses to acknowledge that people who wear duck’s ass haircuts and roll their cigarette packs into their shirtsleeves look silly. Liked this one a lot more than I thought I would. –Keith Rosson (DRT)

Self-titled: CD
Strong, bluesy swamp punk that stands smack dab in the middle of Poison 13, Billy Childish, and The Gun Club. –Jimmy Alvarado (Delta Pop)

Nothing Is Straight in My House: CD
Yeah, it’s not (I’m) Stranded. Yeah, it’s not Eternally Yours. Yeah, there’s only one original member. But it’s still Chris Bailey, and he still sounds like an eighteen-year-old spending his paycheck on whiskey and cigarettes. The music is fine; it’s not gonna burn your eyebrows off, but it’s pretty good. To me, though, he’s in a league with Joe Strummer and Phil Lynott—his voice is so good that he could sing over pretty much anything and I’d probably like it. I mean, this is the guy who sang “Messin’ with the Kid.” Cut him some slack. –Josh (UFO)

Grin and Bear It: CD
Sure, this, the reissue of a second album/compilation originally intended to serve as a tribute to their singer, who died of an overdose mere months prior to the album’s release, serves as a nice introduction to the band’s singular take on the punk/reggae knife-edge mined also by The Clash. The Ruts were one of the truly great bands to come out of the first three waves of British punk rock, and the fact that this contains solid versions, live and otherwise, of crucial tunes like “Staring at the Rude Boys,” “In a Rut,” “H Eyes” and “Babylon’s Burning,” only makes things sweeter. The REAL reason to go outta your way to pick this up, however, is the inclusion of the last three bonus tracks, “Stepping Bondage,” “Lobotomy,” and “Rich Bitch,” which comprise the very first recordings the band made in 1977, all three of which are grade-A slabs of Brit punk at its snottiest. –Jimmy Alvarado (Captain Oi)

You Only Live Once: CD
One of the nice things about being a punker in Los Angeles is that there has never been a shortage of cool local bands, and any sort of auditory anarchy can be found within the county’s borders. Been that way as long as I can remember and some wicked cool bands have called L.A. home. Take the Romans: a supergroup of sorts, featuring personnel culled from the finest of Pasadena’s art punk bands, including Human Hands, Monitor, Bpeople, and others, who cranked out a nice chunk of punk and psychedelia-tinged surf music during the short window they were active in the early ‘80s. They managed to release a couple of albums and a few comp tracks before the band broke up and some of the members moved on to more celebrated bands like Green on Red and Mazzy Star. The bulk of the stuff here fits nicely in the “surf instrumental” pigeonhole, although there’s enough edge to it that the average punker should find most of the proceedings quite satisfying, especially when they get to the bonus tracks, some of which are straight-up art punk gems, and one of which would easily pass for a Monitor outtake. Although the fact that the band has long been overlooked is criminal, it is indeed wonderful that this sliver of L.A. punk’s history is again available. Some truly great stuff here. –Jimmy Alvarado (Warning Label)

A supergroup record of sorts, albeit a weird one. Comprised of Vic Bondi (Articles Of Faith, Jones Very) on guitar and the majority of the vocals, J. Robbins (Jawbox, Burning Airlines) on bass and backing vocals, and Darren Zentek (Kerosene 454) on drums, the concept itself of Report Suspicious Activity seems pretty dubious. A one-shot record made up of Vic Bondi and two dudes from mediocre-at-best “post punk” bands? And they play fifteen songs that are totally and unabashedly critical of the U.S. Government? Um, suuuure. It might work. But the thing is, I actually think they manage to pull it off pretty decently. About three-quarters of the record is riff-heavy and occasionally repetitive tunes with Bondi behind the mike. The other quarter is made up of what I assume to be Robbins’s influence; mid-tempo rock songs replete with “wocka-wocka” guitar lines and layered vocals, and the occasional piano. Sometimes it really works, sometimes it doesn’t. But what mostly saves this, for me, is Bondi’s awesome and pointed rage in these lyrics. When he bellows, “Don’t wait for the draft to start crying. You ought to be howling. All over the world they are dying for gas at three bucks a gallon. For Tivos in bunkers. Humvees at gun shows. We’ll measure convenience with the bodies of our sons and daughters. I’m not over the hill—you’re under it,” it’s done with such a fucking electrifying delivery that I’m willing to forgive certain things, like Robbins’s castrated and “smoothed-out” production and the occasionally plodding tune here and there. It’s refreshing to hear something like this from Bondi, who’s probably old enough to be my dad and has managed to release an album that’s possibly as cathartic for me to hear (or at least read) as it was for him to write. For every ass-patched and bullet-belted band that has the gumption to put some “skullfaced soldier standing in a field of bodies” illustration or some shittily xeroxed photo from some foreign massacre on their album cover, and then see how may times they can rhyme “war,” “more,” “poor,” and “score” on one 7”, maybe they should take a shot at lending themselves some credibility and try writing lyrics as good as this. –Keith Rosson (Alternative Tentacles)

Electric Guitar: CD
Hey kids, ever wonder what it must’ve felt like to be a punker back there in the adolescent heyday of the early ‘80s, back when snotty little punk rock started to sprout whiskers and grow some angry, lean muscles? Well, now you can go back to those heady days of the Masque and the MabuhayGardens and party like it’s 1982. And, best of all, you don’t need to strap on some hair-dryer/space helmet gizmo with antennas, nor do you have to be some egghead physicist with a neocortex full of math and string theory to do it. Just run on over to your nearest Ma & Pop punk rock record store and pick up all the Regulations recordings you can get your hands on. Electric Guitar might be the best bang for your buck since, along with seven brand new tracks, it includes the songs from their first two seven-inchers. But get whatever Regulations you can and then go home and play it as loud as you can while you throw yourself around the room like Darby Crash on a bender. It’s a far better high than the “space monkey” or whatever you call it and if you get really out there, it might start to seem like you’re actually at an Angry Samoans or Circle Jerks or Reagan Youth show back in the days of yore. You might even start to think that there’s a dimwitted Republican President in office again and that he’s doing righteous battle with some Middle Eastern, America-hating madman. But don’t worry too much about that. You gotta take the good with the bad with this time travel stuff and the Regulations are so amazingly good it makes suffering the idiot parade almost seem worth it. –aphid (Havoc)

Is: Means: CD
Pointed, angular, discordant, and frantic shit here; one pissed merging of bands like I Spy, The Ladderback, Giant Haystacks, and the gutsy qualities of mid ‘90s screamo. Reds are well founded in the “kick ass and name names” school of I Spy in the lyrical department—mercilessly and intelligently critiquing and attacking government, “progress” and even righteous factions of the punk scene. Musically, they’re building and expanding on the sonic backbone of The Ladderback and bands of that ilk, bands who owe just as much to both Moss Icon and Gang Of Four as they do Mohinder. The end result is a smart, angry, and kinetic record that relies less on hooks than it does a feeling, a sense of atmosphere and place; an album that’s simultaneously listenable and worrisome, where I’m both bobbing my head and trying to quell this sense of impending doom. An excellent record. –Keith Rosson (Waking)

I Am Brazil: CD
Unsure of what to think of a band with the name The Redneck Manifesto, I was pleasantly surprised to find out that this Irish group was in reality an instrumental rock act similar to Tortoise or Saxon Shore with an occasional Julie Doiron, Paul Newman, or Kreidler influence here and there. Getting little treats like this make writing reviews worthwhile. The Redneck Manifesto seemingly knows when to punch that extra fancy guitar riff, when to throw in that extra little instrumentation, when to switch it all up, and when to pull it all back and mellow out. The songs never get too busy, nor do they ever seem to get dull. This is by no means what most Razorcake fans are probably into, but for those who fancy themselves fanatics of any of the aforementioned acts, the eleven songs that make up I Am Brazil are worth checking out. –Kurt Morris (Australian Cattle God/Terrible One)

Not Fucked Enough: CD
Sometimes, America just fuckin’ rules. Where else could a sixteen-year-old kid, who hasn’t listened to much music, self-record himself in his bedroom and the result isn’t pathetic, retarded (in the clinical sense), or kitchy, but one of the best things to ever come out of Memphis since the Oblivians? (It’s not just punk, or just garage, or just noise. It’s destruction. It’s desperation music. It’s ripping out fresh stitches. It’s dedicating forearms through speaker mesh. It’s bleeding from head wounds and broken disco balls. It’s whiskeying down sonic pills that keeps the boredom at bay.) Sixteen-year-old Jay beat on his guitar and thwacked plastic bucket drums. 600 pieces of this were originally pressed on vinyl. That was 1997. Jay Reatard then met Alicja Trout and they spawned a seemingly endless stream of many-headed bands, all of them excellent to great (like the Lost Sounds). Jay and Alicja part. End of story? Not quite. Enlightened incompetence is an art form often undervalued. The “it’s so simple, anyone can do it,” reasoning just doesn’t hold, because so few can pull it off. It takes a torn soul. It takes shit-tons of discipline to not “improve” on something so great to begin with, to not become more “professional” and fuck up the original spark. So here you have it. It’s another element of what makes America great, like the Bill of Rights and drive-thru liquor and gun stores, only digitized. Mark it, dude; the Reatards will be a band others will be compared to for quite awhile. –Todd Taylor (Empty)

Nothing to See: CD-R
This is the type of crap that liberal arts college students dig during their junior years, usually because one of their “suitemates” is in the band, which is unfortunate since it’s terrible. Songs crafted in the name of being clever and ironic, managing neither, and winding up sounding like a watered down version of Boston. Foul to the ear, loathsome to the brain, and insulting to the intellect. The chorus of “Wait” goes: “And it feels like a waste of time/’Cause it’s just a waste of time.” Indeed. Reading the liner notes will make you wanna kick the band members in their collective nuts. If anyone wants my copy, check I-80 East about a hundred and fifty yards before the Baxter exit. I believe that’s right about the spot where I flung this piece of dog shit out the car window. –Josh Benke (Rat Blood Soup)

Self-titled: CD
Back in 1981 or so, my younger brother and I started a band called Butt Acne. I ran a screwdriver up and down the neck of an acoustic guitar with a mic wrapped in toilet paper, shoved into the soundhole of the guitar and plugged into a movie projector, which resulted in a sound not unlike two trains colliding. He played a drumset that, quite literally, was made of aluminum and had plastic heads, which he beat in wild abandon with branches he got from the avocado tree out back. When the plastic heads busted, he would pile the aluminum shells in a pile and bash away at that, screaming at the top of his lungs about having sex with dead people, killing assorted elected officials, and anything else our eleven- and thirteen-year-old minds could muster up. It was fun. What does all this have to do with this release, you ask? Well, they sound a few years older than we were, they fall woefully short of the fifty song set list we somehow amassed, and they aren’t as fast as we were. They’ve managed to talk someone to into releasing a CD, while the best we were able to muster was getting our friend Pat to include us on a split tape with Voice Of Authority, which I guess means they have more juice. Other than that, the utter stupidity of both bands could be interchangeable. –Jimmy Alvarado (We Are Going to Eat You)

Vs. the Rest of the World: CD
Double disc set celebrating the band’s twenty-five year career. A feat indeed for any punk band, and especially one like Rancid Vat which revels in degradation, intoxication, and flatulation. Guest appearances by the Wipers’ Greg Sage and Poison Idea’s Pig Champion (both battle it out with their respective guitars on the scorchin’ cover of the Elvis Presley tune “Trouble”). Other covers include Alice Cooper, David Bowie, and the Sonics, which shows you just how far and wide this band’s influences are. Hell, they even thank wrestling kingpin Ric Flair and long schlong porn star John Holmes! –greg (Steel Cage)

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