Wild, sloppy, out of control punk rock that will make you reflect on life’s complexities (once you stop laughing, that is). No one is safe from the pricks unbridled fury. The Governator gets skewered on “Hummer in My Hummer” and how can you go wrong with lines like this from “Rich Bitch”—“if you can’t at least afford Gucci/you’ll get snubbed more than Susan Lucci.” Other weighty topics include sex, drugs, rich fat cats, and more sex. Sometimes the vocals veer a little too close to Jello Biafra territory. But that seems to be okay since it’s on his label and he even does a guest vocal on “Damn It Feels Good to be a Yuppie.” “New Rolls” will probably sound fairly familiar to you, too. The Yuppie Pricks are passing the champagne over, so drink up.

Three-piece from Ontario, Canada, this record is a re-release from 2004. Taut rhythms, grinding guitar parts, and melodic vocals make this a real treat for my bored ears. Think of Joe Jackson (without the wimpy piano) fronting The Plimsouls and you’ll begin to get the idea. “Barstool” mentions something about flying beer bottles and “Step Up”’s infectious chords will spread through your bloodstream like a viral infection. “Signals” also completely rocks. Aux wraps up with “There Are Things I Think You Should Know,” which is hard to say ten times fast. If you can’t find your Thin Lizzy vinyl at your next late night pops party, this will do the trick. Too bad they left The Flock Of Seagulls cover off this platter. Maybe that and “The Great White North” on the next one.

Never really liked these guys much, and was wholly unimpressed with ’em the one time I saw ’em, and yet I’m kinda diggin’ this. It ain’t the post-Minor Threat, Boston circa ’86 vaguely metal feel of this, ’cause that ain’t so new and inventive, and lord knows I’ve said more than enough times that most metallic hardcore gives me a rash. Mostly I think it’s ’cause, in this post-9/11 world where it seems the entire world acts toward the Big Apple like co-dependent parents coddling victimized progeny, these guys have the huevos to lay down a ditty entitled “Fuck New York.” Gotta love that.

Sometimes records come with a host of expectations: a one-sheet hyping members past bands or possibly a publicist tossing out a handful of comparisons at you. The Skeemin’ NoGoods showed up without much fanfare—just another disc slipped in with a handful of others in a padded manila envelope. And then sometimes, when you slip it in the CD changer and press play, your whole world gets rearranged. And that’s what happened to me with the Skeemin’ NoGoods. Cut one (“I Want Something”) jumps out at you with the fervor of classic speedball punk; think Johnny Thunders filtered through more beer and bands like The Humpers or Riverboat Gamblers. I’m thinking, “This is good shit,” but secretly hoping it doesn’t go down as predictably as a twelve-pack of PBR. By track two (“Politicians”), an Agnostic Front street punk styled run-up about dirty politics, and I’m totally thrown off course for my predictions. Then, the band has the fucking balls to follow up these with “Punch the Clock,” an infectious ‘70s rocker than recalls Cheap Trick and Thin Lizzy respectively. Fuck me. So I Google their ass and find out that they are on the Dallas-based label Idol Records which is home to VH1’s Band On The Run winners Flickerstick and aging Lollapalooza staples from ’95-’96 Sponge. Now I’m even more confused. Add to the fact that the band is from Detroit, features John Speck (formerly of Fags, The Paychecks), and none other than Ron Sakowski of Necros, Laughing Hyenas, Easy Action fame on bass, and drummer Chuck Burns (I apologize for not referencing past acts here, but goddamn, this guy definitely splinters his sticks when he plays) and you’ve got one of the hardest three-piece bands I’ve ever heard. And they do a cover of fucking Skrewdriver’s “I Don’t Like You.” Fuck me again.

I seem to remember their first two LPs being touted as really great, spot-on streetpunk. A few full-lengths and Warped Tours later, what’s coming across is about as threatening or memorable as a rice cake on the countertop. I mean, yeah, the production’s flawless, the musicianship’s terrific, in that slicked-up, über-produced Epitaph kind of way. And admittedly, I’ll bet they’re one of those live bands that can just smoke, just play super-fast, super-tight, and still manage to flail and bop around and be fun to watch. But apart from a very few interesting moments on this disc (Hellcat didn’t include lyrics, so I’m just going off ze sheer rockingness-factor), the whole thing goes in one ear, rattles around in the Batcave for a second, and pops out the other side. I’ve reached the point in my Razorcake reviewing, uh, career where I really don’t like to just blatantly bag on something, but I guess I’m not really capping on this one, either. Internal Salvation, like the previously mentioned rice cake and this review itself, is just kind of there, you know?

Sick death synth from Jay Reatard. Maxed-out fuzz obliteration for fucked up kids. Not so much more disturbing than Destruction Unit, Ryan Wong’s synth project that Jay is often a part of, and not more moody than his other friend, Digital Leather, but where the Unit sounds like a band ripping together in a basement, TV feels like a lonely kid in a trailer park with synthesizer and Radio Shack mic, pulling it together. Where Leather also feels like a solo project of hatelove, TV is more speedy across the board. The whole album goes by quick, but not painless. The whole album falls into death synth territory with itchy minimalism, but the occasional song you could actually fukking play in a club (“Medicated Dreams”) where E boys might tap into it while melting. A Digital Leather cover (“Shattered Reflections”) is in that clubby mode too, and fulfills the incestuous nature between all these guys. While the remake of “Endless Tunnel” (originally on the Lost Sounds’ Demos Vol. 2) is pretty great, how can your favorite not be “Blood Is Sweet but Semen Is Sweeter”?