SHEMPS, THE:
Spazz Out: CD
With the demise of the New Bomb Turks, The Stupor Stars, and the Devil Dogs, America—okay, I—has been patiently waiting for a party garage rock to flick the switch to expose all that lame trust fund hipster rock for what it is: tomorrow’s single-ply toilet paper, the type where your finger pokes through, right to anus. What better band than the Shemps? This shit’s supposed to be fun, dirty, and barely competent. But with a beat you can dance to. It’s supposed to, you know, hit you in the ding ding or the vage really hard and make your feet skitter around. This music’s about slipping in puke, dirty taps, and faulty amps. It’s about being poor and fucked and being a perpetually second class citizen. Then providing the party-time escape for twenty or thirty minutes so you can forget that stuff for a bit. It’s reclamation time. Do it for James Brown. Do it for Chuck Berry. Do it for the Dirtbombs. It’s time to heave dirty underwear into the faces of the perpetually pouty designer rockers and say, “This injustice just won’t stand! You are from penthouses, not the gutter! Slum somewhere else, charlatan! Real garage is not a mere diversion for the effete!” Or just take my word for it. This is a great record. It’d behoove you to buy this instead of some manufactured, over-produced poo rock that’s going to be out of fashion quicker than ponchos. –Todd Taylor (Reservation)