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Self-titled: CD
Funny what a decade can change. This sounds a lot like Bleach to Nevermind-era Nirvana (especially the voice), and it sounds good. Perhaps it has to do with it being a two-piece from Israel. Perhaps it has to do with grunge, over-saturating the airwaves, exploding like a Zeppelin filled with mustard gas, and becoming such a dirty word in a relatively short amount of time that most bands still won’t attempt it because it still has a touch of the plague. So, it feels like they’re doing it for the right reasons. Making good music. Mother’s Anger also has bits of the more roaming Mudhoney, the less experimental Kent 3, and a bunch of “you’re older, grow out of punk” music that I’d don’t know too much about but recognize from my more genteel friends who play it when I’m at their houses. For something I’m not predisposed to liking, this isn’t bad at all. It’s a good middle ground between punk and indie. 
–Todd Taylor (Dionysus)

Gacy's Place: CD
Late night L.A. radio show, some Saturday circa 1982. Through the mist comes this completely insane individual screaming “Don’t leave me here to DIE!/Don’t leave me here to DIIIEE!” over what sounds like some other nutjob bashing cardboard boxes to the rhythm of some sort of static pattern. Naturally, I’m intrigued, and thankfully, I’m recording the whole thing. Over the course of the next two weeks, I play this track over and over again, eventually coming to the conclusion that a) the boxes were drums, b) what I thought was static was actually the guitar, c) these guys are outta their fucking minds, d) these guys are the best thing I’ve ever heard in my short life. Of course, I summarily lose the tape and forget the band’s name before I can find anything on vinyl. That song, however, managed to permanently etch itself into my brain. Fast forward six years, wherein I randomly pick out some compilation called Killed By Death at some record store because it has the Cheifs’ “Blues” on it and I love that song. The song that follows it, “Gacy’s Place,” comes on and I find myself jumping up and down in absolute glee as the aforementioned completely insane individual is again bellowing at me, warning me that “they’re fucking your kids!” Not having any kids, I take his concern for my progeny with a grain of salt, yet remain stoked that I finally have something by this elusive band to call my own. Fast forward another sixteen years, and I find myself with a copy of a new CD with twenty—count ‘em—twenty tracks from one of the greatest, most deranged, PUNKEST goddamn bands I’ve ever heard in my now not-as-short-as-it-used-to-be life. In some Mansonesque twist of fate, I see the parallels between the band and my own life—a) they: a tune called “Doggie Sex,” me: writer of a song called “A Boy and His Dog;” which roughly covered the same subject matter, b) they: a song called “Tumor Boy,” me: my last band was the Tumors; c) they: a song called “Dry Heave,” me: anyone who knows of my former love of malt beverages can spell out the correlation on this one—and realize that they have been trying to send me a message for quite some time, but due to some cruel twist of fate, I haven’t been able to receive it. I plop it on the stereo, not coincidentally in the middle of the night on some Saturday circa 2004, fast forward it to track number five, “Padded Cell,” and the insane individual is screaming, “Don’t leave me here to DIE!/Don’t leave me here to DIIIEE!” at me again, just like he did twenty-two years ago. I kneel down, pick up one of the speakers blaring away on the floor, caress it and softly tell him no, I won’t ever leave him again. –Jimmy Alvarado (Alternative Tentacles)

On the Outside: CD
Some people find God! Some people find Communism! Other people find the Marked Men! This album is so good that it makes you fall to your knees and BELIEVE IN THE HEALING POWER OF ROCK AND ROLL! I cannot possibly sound cheezy enough! I fucking love this album! If another band wrote even ONE of these songs, they could retire, happy, to a life of reality-TV-watching and Cheetos consumption. When I saw them live in Minneapolis a few weeks ago, I was overcome! Overjoyed! Dancing like a fool and singing along at the top of my lungs! How does it feel to be a genius? Ask the Marked Men. The best band in the world right now! One of the best albums in the history of albums, including all genres of music, from cavemen banging on drums to Woody Guthrie to the Ramones! I almost never say this, but I think this might be BETTER THAN LUCKY CHARMS! There is no cereal good enough to describe this! Ahhhh!!!!!!!  –Maddy (Dirtnap)

Self-titled: CD
The Manhandlers have one song, which I’m fine with. And it lasts for twelve songs on this LP. It just depends on how much screeching I can take. As a 7”, I’d probably play the shit out of this. As a full-length, I’m not as stoked because it blends all together into a big tumor-y lump. They’re all ladies. Ramones buzzsaw guitars. Watery bass reminiscent of the Dead Kennedy’s Klaus Fluoride. Sometimes sexy, sometimes irritating vocals. Songs about revenge, pharmaceuticals, and relationships. Come to think of it, last issue I was bummed at listening to Joan Jett. Joan was sounding dirty but her all-pro backup band sounded way too clean, like they were selling soap. The Manhandlers would be perfect in that latter role. They’ve definitely got the intensity, the grit, the barbs sticking out, and lipstick smears in private places, but a little variance in the songs wouldn’t hurt ‘em one bit. –Todd Taylor (Criminal I.Q.)

Single File: CD

Oh, the magical salve of Masters Of The Obvious. At its essence, M.O.T.O. has two basic modes. Ultra catchy, low-fi power pop and ultra catchy children’s songs for adults. Hooks as sneaky and barbed as the Jam’s. Stealth bomb melodies that rival the Beatles. I can’t say if Single File is as essential as the Buzzcocks’ Singles Going Steady, but it’s real fuckin’ close. Think of bubble gum left on a hot sidewalk and your ear as the bottom of a shoe. It’s almost impossible for these songs not to stick, no matter how hard to you try to rub them off. This collection is the ultimate comp tape of M.O.T.O.’s widely scattered bests from tapes, 7”s, imports, and out-of-print gems over the past twenty years. Even if haven’t heard one of these songs before popping this CD in, you’ll be singing “Crystallize My Penis” in the grocery store, or “I’m Infected” when you’re holding up a bank, in no time. It’s not an anorexic collection, either, and totals a beefy twenty-eight tracks. Essential listening.

–Todd Taylor (Criminal I.Q.)

Viking: CD

If the promise displayed by Lars Frederiksen’s first album was a surprise, then this sophomore release is more shocking for all the wrong reasons. The first record, much like Rancid’s best work, demonstrated an acute understanding of the stresses that working second or third shift carry and making do as a struggling punk. And then this hit. I barely know what to say. We can begin with the liner notes, because the censored pictures of semi-attractive women are the best part of this release. It’s true that a picture says a thousand words and the generic images of women affecting lustful expressions pretty much say it all. This is half-assed punk by numbers with few melodies, few hooks and little insight. It’s all about posturing—Lars doesn’t go anywhere without his switchblade. He’s a tough streetwise punk. He’s had threesomes in… well, pretty much every city he can seem to think of. He’s had sex with hookers. So what? What, in the end, does all this boasting and bragging signify? How does this relate in any way to anything which provides any sort of insight into the human condition, the loneliness and sorrow that most punks are all too intimately familiar with and which Frederiksen captured on his debut? The short answer is that it doesn’t relate at all, that it signifies fuck all and that this has more in common with a bling-bling era hip hop record than it does with punk… except that most rappers talking about their money, bitches, and Cristal can find a hook to save their lives.

–Puckett (Hellcat)

1 + 1= Ate: CD
The first time I heard the Knockout Pills—an unreleased pre-mastered version—I was kinda doubtful. See, I love, love, loved the Weird Lovemakers and when they split up, the lead singer and one of the main song writers went to different corners (a bookstore and SF, to be exact.) Jason “Part of the Problem” Willis, the guitarist, and Gerrard (otherwise known as “Wallaby, Wallaby Dingo”) of the Weird Lovemakers joined up with Travis “the Archie Bunker of Punk Rock” Spillers of Los Federales, and Matt (“the secret brain” of the Resonars). The demo was so-so. I craved the type of musical punishment and reward that the Weird Lovemakers heaped high on my plate. Melodic mania. Rough knuckled, oddly voiced dork rock that kicked ass over throwback, cutout punk. Then out came the first Knockout Pills self-titled record. Through some magic of mastering or re-recording, songs like “Reject Button” leg swept me. I’d stare at the ceiling and sing along in praise that the magical sand and grit of Tucson punk rock was once again on the ascension. With each successive spin of that record, it became apparent that I wasn’t dealing with a band with just a chop or two or a band with a couple of good songs in a cat box of turds. The whole record was chops layered on top of one another, rhythms hidden in the cupboard, melodies in the gutter, choruses flying from the heavens like Lawn Darts to right between my eyes. I’d just have to sit and listen to that album, and it never failed to drop another veil. “Oh, la, la, what a voluptuous motherfucker of sound,” I said. Then 1+1=Ate comes out. Take all of the “you’ve got to listen for ‘em” stealth chops and, somehow, polish ‘em so they’re right there—luminescent gems on first listen, yet deep and dazzling enough to warrant compulsive playing—like you’re listening to something that makes you feel musically richer. They added more power. They added more confidence, and what you’ve got is one of the unabashedly best records to come out of 2004 that won’t be toppled from my top ten list. I don’t even want compare them to other bands. I’ll just say if you like what Razorcake covers as a whole, trust me on this.  –Todd Taylor (Estrus)

New York New York: CD
One of the more talented apostles of the Church of Johnny Thunders gets his very own “best of” collection. If you like your punk heavy on the NY rock circa 1974 side of the fence, you can’t go wrong with this guy.  –Jimmy Alvarado (www.13th-Street.com)

Addiction: CD
Another collection of post-Thunders New York junkie rock from Kevin K and his cohorts. A little more obsessed with the “old days” in sound and lyric than I’m comfortable with, but I can’t deny that he’s good at what he does. –Jimmy Alvarado (Lollipop)

Sadistic War Glory: CD
Another Discharge clone band, this one carbon copying their idols’ first few EPs. Great, loud hardcore with zero originality.  –Jimmy Alvarado (Hardcore Holocaust)

Vision of Insane Hope: CD
Cookie monster metal with some pretty good lyrics and a surprisingly effective gloomy moodiness. More impressed with ‘em than I thought I would be, which I imagine is tantamount to a grudging recommendation.  –Jimmy Alvarado (Hater Of God)

Yes-Wave: CD
It’s music like this that makes me wish everyone received an inner-city education. That way no one would be able to attend college and develop embarrassing levels of pretentiousness and they’d all be full of angst ‘n’ shit and their songs would have balls instead of whining along in arty abandon.  –Jimmy Alvarado (www.juliasets.com)

An Alternative to Extinction: CDEP
It looks like a CDEP until you look at the running time—then it seems more like an album (two songs go on for 37 minutes and 14 seconds). Drawing from influences like Red House Painters (fitting, since Mark Kozelek was a Midwesterner before he lived in the Bay Area) and shoegazers like Slowdive as well as hints of mid-’80s college rock, these five songs are actually quite a pleasant surprise. Instead of being the useless emo shit that I typically get to review, this is an unexpected and well-done throwback to a more innocent time when indie bands merely hoped to get their single played on the local college station and didn’t look much beyond that.  –Puckett (Julia Sets Present)

36 Cents b/w New City & I Don’t Think So: 7"
Fair-to-middlin’ early effort by a Montreal band that might wax, wane, mutate or destruct utterly prior to emitting a full-length. The toolbox of the Dropkick Murphys and/or Rancid is, apparently, open and available to them—which is fine—however, in numerous spots on this 45, it seemed to me as if the band were manufacturing their would-be bombastic street anthems out of more or less nothing but non-load-bearing structural elements. Like, you know, where’s the fucking BEEF, jack? Everything can be rocking along mightily one second, and, the next, one gets the distinct impression that nothing dwells beneath the surface of these songs—like a well-crafted piñata that somehow didn’t get packed with anywhere near as many SweeTarts™ as would be right and just. I mean, they have the outer form of the music they wish to play down cold (dig those air-raid-siren Clash guitars on “36 Cents”), but, in other spots, the singer howls “IIIIII DAUUUUNNNNN’T THAAAANNNNNKK SOOOOOOO!!!” in his dorky fake British accent (which, BTW, i have no problem with) like sixty-four (or something) times in a row, like he REALLY thinks he just invented either a.) a cure for cancer, or b.) the best Rock Hook since “NOooooo FUUUUU-CHAH! NOoooo FUUUU-CHAH! NOooooo FUUU-CHAH FO’ YOUUUUUU!!!” ... it’s like, dude, get over yourself—”I Don’t Think So” is NOT a rock masterpiece—so plan your assaults on Planet Earth with this in mind. At this early stage in their career, i am reserving judgment on Jerk Appeal—the one X-Factor on their side being that this band contains an ex-member of the Radicts. The Radicts were one of those bands that even i, as a guy who maybe kinda might occasionally slide into Music-Snob-ism, could appreciate—i mean, you’d hear like the first ten seconds of a song and be like “oh, fuck, i listened to this music when i was sixteen, who needs it?”—but then you’d keep listening and be like, “fuck, these guys know their shit, totally!” The Radicts were probably the best American band, ever (unless we’re counting like Rancid and the Dropkick Murphys), to be able to handle those sort of English street punk clichés and use ‘em and spit ‘em back out as damn fine tunes—i mean, it was just something they could do, perhaps without even thinking about it. I hereby “suggest” that the guy from the Radicts take over the band, and everybody else listen to what the fuck he says. Unless there is some manner of French-English language barrier, in which case let the best Esperanton win! BEST SONG: “36 Cents” BEST SONG TITLE: “I Don’t Think So,” which is not that great of a song title FANTASTIC AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: I already said it: That one guy was in the Radicts. That’s all ya get!  –Rev. Norb (Sonik’s Chicken Shrimp; <Jerkappeal@hotmail.com>)

Self-titled: CD
If your mind can’t separate one song from another and all you listen to is classic rock stations, then this is what it might sound like. The first track, “Guns of Navarone,” has a strong David Bowie “Space Oddity” feel to it and is the only track I thought was listenable. From there it goes through the obligatory southern rock track, Jesus Christ Superstar, and Kansas. I felt like I was getting thrown all over the place. Me no like. –Megan Pants (RealOmind)

Self-titled: CD
A veritable cornucopia of ‘70s rock stylings, and I mean that in the best possible way. You get glam smooshed with swaggering, post-Stones/Zep blues, Cheap Trick pop snuggled up next to pseudo-reggae, with just a dash of Motown pop sprinkled here and there. If there is any justice (sweet or otherwise), “Guns of Navarone” will be a HUGE hit. –Jimmy Alvarado (realOmind)

Live at the Covered Wagon: CD
Bad sound quality, super lo-fi, but then again it’s Supercharger, so you expect it. You know you want it. –Megan Pants (Rip Off)

Kangnave: CD
Sweden’s all-star punk band has a release in the states. From what I have heard, this band consists of former members of Svart Sno, Wolfbrigade, and possibly Anti Cimex. Being seasoned veterans, these guys crank out fierce Swedish d-beat with some authority. Thundering bass lines over bottles-broken-against-the-wall drumming. The ever-so-distorted guitar thrashing adds to the crunch. Vocals yelled in the traditional way: aggressive and piercing. What attracts me to international acts is the full-force rage. These guys play with conviction and play songs that we could never comprehend the anger of since we are not from Sweden. If you missed out on their tour here in the states, you really missed out. As incredible as this release is, their live set is just as good or better. –Donofthedead (Prank)

All Lies and Lullaby Death Jams: CDEPs
Thought these guys were gonna be all noisy and overblown with a fair amount of detachment, and it is, but in all the wrong ways. Kinda disappointed, actually. Be careful of what you ask for, I guess. –Jimmy Alvarado (www.myspace.com/japandroids)

Self-titled: 7"
While listening to the b-side of this record, I found myself doing a really bizarre dance that started with me shrugging my shoulders to the beat and sort of stepping from side to side. Then I kind of marched in place, continuing to shrug my shoulders while swaying slightly from side to side. It’s the sort of one of a kind song that, in a perfect world, would be played on AM radio every day at exactly 3:17 in the morning. Everyone would climb out of bed and play it really loud while dancing weird in the street. –MP Johnson (Rob’s House)

“Drinking Women’s Milk” b/w “15 Beers”: 7"
What I suspect would be the perfect soundtrack to a Jim Jarmusch film (say Stranger than Paradise or Down by Law), both songs are eerie-funny, naked, stripped down to drum and guitar, and charmingly rambling-along. The standout is “Drinkin’ Women’s Milk,” which goes deep into many different scenarios one may have to face while drinking women’s milk—chocolate milk, stale milk, getting babies out of the way, etc.—it’s a much more involved topic than I thought it could be. There’s something effortless about Jack Oblivian—much like Bob Log III. Even though I don’t celebrate every song of his extensive catalog on a daily basis, I don’t ever mind getting into his car and going along for the ride, to hear what’s been rattling around in his brain lately. (Apparently, this was recorded in 2003. And only seventy-eight were made? (Maybe that’s the color or vinyl?) Don’t quite know.) –Todd Taylor (Ghost Highway Recordings, myspace.com/ghosthiwayrecordings)

Demo Tape ’08: Cassette
Wow, great find. From the name and the cover art I was expecting something totally different. But Iron Chic covers ground musically from fantastically played Methadones style pop punk to urgent Archers of Loaf style anthems, both major favorites of mine. A nice start here by Iron Chic. I’m definitely looking forward to more output from these guys. –Jeff (Dead Broke)

Mitt Svar På Ingenting: EP
I must admit, this took a few listens before I started to dig it. It’s definitely a style of music I think is the bee’s knees: raw European hardcore punk that sounds straight from the late seventies, early eighties. Perhaps it’s the lack of any strong hooks that normally grab on the first listen. So after a few listens it began to reveal itself. The playing is as raw as the recording. The guitar sounds like it’s being played with a tin can lid—jagged and unclean. The distortion is perfect. “Vansinne” had a cool guitar line that’s more unique compared to the other five songs. “Instang” has a riff that is eerily similar to Agent Orange’s “Blood Stains.” –Matt Average (Sorry State)

“The Real Kid” b/w “The World Hates Me”: 7”
A new 45 from this now postal-service-land-band (I’m taking credit for that). The first A side is more upbeat garage rock’n’roll that will likely get you boogieing down to some extent. The other “A” side (which threw me for a quick loop and cracked me up) sounds more like a mid-tempo Buzzcocks song, or, I’m really tempted to say, a less melancholy Arrivals song. Do I even mean that? I just think this is the best thing I’ve heard of theirs so far. –Joe Evans III (Deranged)

Self-titled: 12"EP
Twitchy post punk that reminds me of the early Midwest and U.K. bands of the same genre. The rhythms are bouncy, yet manic, and there is a “something is not quite right” about it all. And I mean that in a good way. Its poppy, yet dark currents move underneath. “New Face of France” is given to bursts of distortion teetering on white noise with confessions that don’t seem quite accepted. “Rosa Luxemburg” shows traces of sixties psych in the guitar, and the overall drone can be hypnotic. “Mirror Panics,” which opens this up, is danceable and a good way to get pulled into the record as a whole. However, “Economics Is Everything” is the primo song here. A little jangley, with a punchy beat. –Matt Average (Daggerman)

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