Mr. Mojo Rising

I give music far more credit than it sometimes deserves. I've said it can do everything from cause joy to cure cancer. All hyperbole ... until now. I've just run across a release that has inspired me to write one hell of a terrifying story, and it is all thanks to the music of the Bad Mojos.

Few bands ... no ... no band I know of has ever said that it was inspired by GG Allin and Mahatma Gandhi, but it is a claim made by the Bad Mojos. This Switzerland-based trio who play some lo-fi punk rock may or may not be sincere about it, but they say it and that is all that counts. So how did all this inspire terror?

I was traveling 101 South and listening to the band's I Hope You OD. The song, though it doesn't matter because it was the mood the entire CD was setting that caused this, was "I Wanna Be Dead." It's a pretty standard song title, and the band's sound makes it fit right at home on its label, Voodoo Rhythm Records, but there was something in the air that day. Something that made this release trigger an odd thought in my brain that no other CD has done. I started thinking of a scenario so creepy, so Lovecraftian (this should be a real word by now), so terrifying that it started to freak me out.

I'll be giving the band an appearance in the story, that is for sure. Will the story scare you like the idea did me? I don't know, but I think so. All I know is I could go on and talk about the band's punk sound and so on and so forth, but the fact that it inspired this idea for a story is far more important and interesting to me. If you want to perhaps experience the same thing, try driving down a highway along a bay on a cloudy day and watch the birds in the sky as you listen to "I Wanna Be Dead." Your results, of course, may vary.

... And Justice For None

Metallica's fourth album, ... And Justice For All, was its last great release. I don't think I'm being controversial in stating that. It was the last one that meant anything to me. It was the last one before the band changed. After that release, any moments of pure Metallica were abnormalities and were no longer the standard. The band's game changed, and I did not change with it.

To be fair, I had problems with the release when it came out. I placed it as my least favorite of the band's output until then. Maybe I was nostalgic for the raw power that had come before it. Maybe I was bitter about the band's growing popularity, though I found it to be well-deserved in this case. I did not even hate it enough to not see the band on that tour. (Leigh Valley, PA, in case you care, with the embarrassment that was Queensryche.) It just was not as good as, say, Master of Puppets. Again, no controversy there, I think.

I believe if you had to place blame for the band's change it is because ... the band changed. At some point in the process of writing and recording ... And Justice For All, Metallica started to take itself more seriously. The men wanted to mature as musicians. They wanted to delve deeper into their craft. It's because they were artists, and not mere entertainers who were content with releasing the same thing over and over because that is what their audience wanted. Metallica changed because it wanted to. It needed to. To grow as musicians and artists, it had to.

And there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it's good.

It just wasn't for me. Not at all. It's not that I wanted the band to stagnate. That is a prison I would never wish on an artist. For me it was that the place Metallica was going was not a place I wanted to meet them at, and I had no desire to be along for the ride. I did not want to listen to a band I used to love experiment with what it wanted to become. Perhaps I wasn't a true fan. Maybe that is true. A true fan would stick by the band no matter what it did. I believe I was a true fan up until that fourth release, though. With that, I sensed the tide was turning. I knew the ride I had so enjoyed was coming to a fast end, and I bailed.

Do I regret it? Not at all. But I do find myself listening to ... And Justice For All more than ever and wondering, "What if ...?"

Shine On, You Crazy Diamond

The fuzzy goodness of "Psychonaut" had just kicked in. It wasn't loud on the car stereo, but it was noticeable. My fifteen-year-old daughter and I were just about home. The wind had kicked up something ferocious outside the car, and we were at a stoplight underneath a big tree. It was the ideal place to hear the song.

"I never heard music made by aliens before," she said.

That is how she described the sounds of ET Explore Me. We were listening to the debut Voodoo Rhythm Records release, Shine, which was released 17 years after the band's first seven inch came out. Also interesting to note is the fact that Shine is the band's first full length album. Far too many bands are around 17 minutes before they do that sort of thing. 17 years, however, is apparently just enough time to release a near perfect album of psychedelic punk, organ distortion music from the Netherlands. The fact that it came out in February of this year makes it a love letter to music fans, too. That's all kinds of treats going on for your ears.

Of the dozen songs on the release, it's the first, "Let Me In," that gives listeners a taste right from the start of what they are in for. It is just the right way to start an album, and at times sounds like it is a soundtrack to a Sixties horror comedy like The Munsters. I am not kidding one bit, either. If you hear that and don't think that, you can write to me and complain. In fact, I insist you do. Eleven songs later ... and all of them sound just a bit different from the others ... and you realize that for 17 years you had no idea this band was out there making this amazing sound. It's the type of thing that makes you wonder what else is lurking about.

Now you know ... and knowing is half the battle.

Metal Devil Cokes

I have owned MDC's Metal Devil Cokes CD for what seems like an eternity. Well, no more. I'm officially putting it up for sale on eBay within a week or so. Parting is such sweet sorrow. But how did I get to this place?

I've always liked Texas-born MDC. Dave Dictor always seemed like a progressive kind of guy with songs that were pro-gay, pro-animal, anti-capitalism. Not every song was a winner, but I felt that the band's heart was in the right place, and I appreciated it. But for all that praise, the only release I ever owned was the aforementioned one. I had a copy of one of the band's other releases (long since eaten by a car stereo's cassette player), and I have some compilations with the band on it, but still ... I only ever bought this one release.

Before parting with it, I decided to give it one last listen. Partly for nostalgia's sake, but also to see if maybe I was making a mistake. Maybe I'd like it even more now and want to pick up everything the band has done. Sadly, after giving it three listens, I was not changing my mind. My reaction was the same upon first hearing it. It's clever, catchy ... and not much else. Perhaps it's a little too juvenile for my tastes. I remember thinking that very thing when I bought it, too.

I'm putting a lot of my music up for sale. Not because I hate it, but because there is so much of it that I don't listen to anymore and have no desire to do so. Oddly enough, my feelings on the bands haven't changed, but some of these things I've heard so many times that I don't think I need to hear them again. They aren't connected to any particular memory. They don't connect as deeply as some other releases. They just don't move me.

But what if I'm wrong? It's a question anyone who is selling off part of their collection faces. What if you are wrong, and the moment you sell it, you'll want it back? Well, I guess the band will get my money a second time ... and there's nothing wrong with that.

Psychedelic Crimes - Advance Word

I was excited to get the new Jackets release, Queen of the Pill, from Voodoo Rhythm Records. I'm a big fan of this Swiss fuzzed-out psychedelica, and with the addition of Jim Diamond (White Stripes) to the group, I figured good would only get better. And then I popped the CD into my car stereo ...

But wait, you say, I didn't know this was out. Well, it's not yet. It's not out until June 14, 2019, but I got an advance copy, and I couldn't wait to hear it. And then I popped the CD into my car stereo ...

Being in the car is not the best place to listen to music for the first time, at least not for me. My concentration is on the road and avoiding getting smashed into by some dumb Humboldt County driver in an oversized pick-up truck with State of Jefferson stickers on it. I put the Jackets on because I was excited. I meant to start listening to it at home that morning, but things got out of hand as I was working on my latest Sinful Cinema book, and I sort of lost track of time, so the car would have to be the initial listen. And then I popped the CD into my car stereo ...

"Dreamer" started it all. "Be Myself" finished it. In between were eight more songs. I was mesmerized. This was all the guitars and females vocals I expected. This was all the Sixties vibe  bustling with rawness that I wanted. It was, in a word, Heaven. To quote The The, heaven sent and hell bent. It was so captivating and dream-like that I actually kind of lost track of the fact that I was driving. That's bad ... but in a really good way.

When you get your hands on this (and you will want to get your hands on this) there will be some standout tracks. For me it was "Steam Queen," "Don't Leave Me Alone," "Queen of the Pill," "Floating Alice" and "Losers Lullaby." Your list may be different, but if my description alone intrigued you, you will have favorites, though it will be hard to pick. Just recognize the greatness, bask in the aural swirls, and enjoy.

June 14th isn't that far away.

Bad Luck Rising

In what world did this come out in 2011? That’s what you’ll ask yourself when you first hear Delaney Davidson’s Bad Luck Man. It’s an honest question because this music at first sounds … old. Then after you settle into the groove of this one-man band, you understand it isn’t really old, it’s timeless.

Davidson is fromdson is a New Zealander New Zealand, but you wouldn’t know it listening to these fourteen tunes of hard luck, depression, and relationships gone belly-up. He sounds fully American, like he was born and bred in the land of the blues, parishes, and voodoo. You can picture him wandering the swamps, playing dive bars, and keeping it honest. It’s no wonder he used to be part of The Dead Brothers.

Voodoo Rhythm Records put this out. It was the label’s second release of his. It was a good choice. Years from now when civilization is fighting over scraps of irradiated food and looking for shelter from the perpetual inferno/polar vortex cycle the planet has been plunged into, this music will still touch souls. Whether it’s the title track, “I’ve Got the Devil Inside” or “Windy City,” this music will be understood by people everywhere at any time. They will recognize and respect its purity just as easily as they know its shame.

As I write the first draft of this, Naked Massacre is playing on my television. It’s a sleazy little movie, inspired by a real crime. It’s a subject Davidson could sing about and make it relatable if he so desired. He has this ability to turn even the most transgressive of men into a tortured being you yearn to understand. He’s not a bad luck man, or even a bad man. He’s just a man with the ability to perform songs that move souls.

And that will never get old.

Midnight Memories

It’s just noise. That’s the common refrain heard by every child about their music from every parent. You heard it. I heard it … especially when I was listening to Diesel Rhino.

Of course, it goes the other way around, too. The younger generation has a hard time coming to grips with the music of its elders. They don’t understand why their parents and grandparents like what they do as much as they do. I remember taking road trips with my grandparents, and the scariest thing I’d hear was, “Let’s listen to Boxcar Willie one more time.” My soul would scream. I could not understand the appeal of Boxcar Willie. I couldn’t relate to him or his songs. Nor could I relate to my dad’s love of Johnny Mathis, or my mother’s need to play Judy Collins.

On the flip side of that, I’m sure my parents cringed whenever they heard Kiss, Iron Maiden, or later on – Skinny Puppy. How could my parents relate to it? It wasn’t their music, and it wasn’t their memories.

That’s where the power lies. Music moves people for different reasons. It creates different memories in different people. How it connects with you as a child may be different than how it connects with you as an adult, but if that connection was strong enough when it originally was created, it will most likely always stick with you no matter how little you listen to it in your later years. I do not listen to Kiss much these days, but if it comes on Sirius, I’ll crank it up and I’ll have some sort of memory attached to it. The last bit of music I bought was Essence! by Death in June. I do not have early memories attached to that band, but I’m interested in making new ones – a new soundtrack for this point of my life. I don’t just stick with the songs and albums I know. My parents did the same thing. I remember my mother buying the newest Blondie release. I remember my dad getting excited when he got a new Anne Murray eight-track.

The music that sticks, though, is what we’ll never understand between generations. We don’t share the memories and that’s okay. We’ll go on not understanding each other’s music choices and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t diminish either side in either way. We don’t have to understand each other in this sense because it’s so personal that it could never be fully understood anyway. Just remember that the next time you question your grandparent’s love of Boxcar Willie, though I have a hard time coming to grips with that ever being an acceptable music choice.

No One Can Save You

Destination Lonely. If that band name doesn’t scream emo I don’t know what does. Then have a title like No One Can Save Me, and you know what the songs will sound like.

You would be wrong.

Three young men from South France have armed themselves with instruments and have created pure, crisp garage rock with roots firmly in the punk scene and a sound that sometimes evokes the guitar playing of Poison Ivy. Yeah, who would have thought such a thing could exist and sound so raw yet refined?

Not I. Not when I first heard the release three or so years ago. Knowing it was on Voodoo Rhythm Records told me it probably wouldn’t be some emo band, but the label has surprised me before. Not with garbage, mind you, but with something I was something unexpected. The Dead Brothers comes to mind. This was no exception. I was expecting one thing and got something else entirely different, and I was blown the hell away.

A quick read of the lyrics finds plenty of doom and gloom. Suicide, murder, loneliness, and hatred are the common themes. They are not happy ditties that one can sing in the shower. These are songs that play over and over in your head in the dark … after your loved one has walked out the door … or you shot him.

Still, it’s not emo. No, Sir. It’s a grabbing, multi-limbed monster, much like the one that can be found on the cover of issue eight of Marvel Comic’s Fear. It’s reaching through an open window, grabbing you by your shirt sleeve as your wife screams in terror from the stairs. That’s what this is.

The opening number, “Freeze Beat,” is an instrumental piece. If a film of my short story Night Fishing ever happened to be made, I would want this music playing during the opening scene. It sets the mood, but doesn’t really give you a clue as to what is coming, much like my short story’s opening scene. The song lets you know you are in for a ride, but at this point you are not sure if it’s a rollercoaster or a ride through a haunted house. Truth is, it’s a little of both.

Between “Gonna Break” and the title song there are moments of clarity and greatness that aren’t evident at first. In fact, those moments are mostly lyrical, but the music is so appealing that you will overlook the lyrics the first couple of listens. The sound is a sonic whirlwind of broken glass, and it is overwhelming in all the best ways. When you finally decided to take in what Marco Fatal is singing (you may remember him from The Fatals), you will experience this moment of enlightenment where the entire picture becomes clear. It is beautifully terrifying.

No One Can Save Me will probably never be heralded as the must-have, top release of all time, but it doesn’t need to be. It is far too personal for that … and far too fun from a listening level. Yeah, it’s a dark, angry release, but it’s also a work of art. And because of that, far too many people will never quite understand it. For those who do … it’s near perfection.

Rainy Morning, Humboldt with The Jackets

Driving south on the 101. Heading into Eureka, CA. Rainy. Cold. Morning. Sun is just starting to rise behind the clouds, but it won’t be seen for hours. The Jackets’ Shadows of Sound is playing on my car’s stereo.

What one needs to know about the Voodoo Rhythm Records release is simple. It’s a trio from Bern, Switzerland that formed in 2007. It’s singer/guitarist is Jackie Brutsche, a strong a frontwoman as any band could want. It was recorded at Circo Perrotti, which only really matters to musicians, but if you know the name you know why it’s important.

Simple. Just like the day.

I’m going to Eureka. Lately, many people have been fleeing from it. Most have taken flight to Los Angeles or Las Vegas. Two entertainment hubs. Two places where dreams go to flourish or die. Some have opted for points north. They Great White Way, with lots of emphasis on white. Either way, The Jackets, I think, is the perfect soundtrack for the thoughts on the thoughts on the journey.

From the opening track, “Don’t Turn Yourself In,” there is one word that comes to mind. “Fuzz.” It tells you all you need. That fuzz sticks throughout the album. Guitars at their fuzziest. You either dig the sound or you don’t. I dig.

Garage rock, with a hint of the good ol’ fashioned punk spirit, is worn by The Jackets not so much like a badge of honor, but a birthright. Often caricatured, but rarely parodied, garage rock, The Jackets’ forte, is primitive and pure enough that it keeps capitalist jackals at bay as it is hard to co-op. It’s not a sound that works for selling Jeeps. It’s a sound as simple as a Hanna-Barbara cartoon, and if you remember some of those you can recall whenever a garage rock-type was in one of them they were the aforementioned caricatured creations. Hair in the eyes. Simple lines. Creepy. Outcasts. Misfits, but not the Misfits. There was a mystique about them. To the adults they sounded like fools, but to the kids they offered sage wisdom, and welcomed their tiny souls into the unknown. Some of us went willingly. Others ended up bopping to Hanson.

Looking at the eye makeup worn by Brutsche, it brings back the memories of those cartoons with the promise of something new. In many ways, she encapsulates why those people are fleeing Eureka. It is an allure of the savage. The appeal of the primate. Fight and flight. Her eyes can be seen from afar … and they frighten.

After the musical flea circus of the 1990s and 2000s, I can’t help but think that music is devolving as it is evolving. An expanding universe that is also pulling back into itself. A feat of quantum mechanics that exists only in theories and vague ideas mumbled by the scientific elite. From that nexus of garbage music which dominated the airwaves in that 20 years of vapid tunes, music went back to the basics with bands like The Jackets and forward into an aural soundscape both ambient and anxiety ridden, as exemplified by the continuing output from Non. One only has to look at the movie Mandy to see how sound can inspire love and dread.

Mandy, ironically, took place in the Pacific Northwest, that Great White Way. It is a land where fuzzed out guitars are as at home as the tall redwoods loved equally by tree huggers and tree killers. The movie and The Jackets could not exist in the inner city poverty project of a place like Harlem. Primitive rock, which at one time had a home there, no longer belongs on those streets. Eureka, no stranger to garage rock, has evolved, too. It may be losing its artist elite, but others will replace them. This place of certain opposites is bound to create more of them. The Jackets, it should go without saying, would find an audience and a home here. People would go to see the trio without ever having to hear a muddied note. We’re that kind of folks.

When friends and acquaintances first started leaving, it begged the question of why. Why now? Why there? Los Angeles is plastic fantastic. Las Vegas is gaudy gauze. Oregon is gone. The answer, which came to me during track “Watch You Cry,” seems simple now. They are pursuing dreams that stagnated here. Fresh air. Fresh ideas. Fresh pain. Watch you cry is no longer a song, but a promise. Humboldt, it has been said, always welcomes you back, however. And if it’s your first time, we guarantee you won’t forget us.

You can’t escape no matter how hard you try.

Jorge Explosion produced Shadows of Sound. Nothing digital. Nothing unpure. Three musicians and the truth. U2 had it wrong all along. The Jackets formed in 2007, right at the end of the musical death decades. It flourished. It grew. It produced this third album, recorded in Spain without the aid of computers, and became the stuff of legends. 11 tracks. The soundtrack to running away while staying in place. If the Empire is dying, this is the party music that is playing.

Pulling into Eureka it’s no surprise that traffic congests right near the Burger King and McDonald’s. Amongst the pick-ups caked with mud and the Prius doing its best, The Jackets remind me of being younger and realizing you can create your own reality. Those who never knew that world will continue traveling south to L.A. or Lost Wages. Whatever happens in Vegas, stays there, however. Whatever happens here can be inbred or exported, and its creators will never care. The Jackets embody that same attitude. That Prius doing its best? It’s got an old faded Feel the Bern sticker. The Jackets formed in Bern. The irony is not lost on this soul.

But then again, I was never one to run … and the dreams pursue me.

A Special Thanks From Disarray

I have been thanked on film credits, in books, and on various band releases. One of the bands to thank me (well, to thank my 'zine Married Punks, actually) was the TN based metal act Disarray on its 1996 release, Bleed, which I was sent a cassette copy of to review back in the day. It wasn't the first band to thank me, but it was the one of the few bands that wasn't punk, and appearing on its "Thank You" list opened the door to getting a lot of new readers and a lot of metal bands sending material our way.

Bleed was just five songs, but they were five really good songs, and the band went on to do even better things. From what I can see, the band's last release, Edge of My Demise, came out in 2007. The band started in 1995, however, which makes its legacy a lot longer than many of the bands we reviewed in the 'zine. (A song from the band did appear on a 2008 tribute album, too, it should be noted.) What happened to the band? I have no idea. I imagine it's the same thing that happened to many bands. Back in the day, though, this was a metal band I enjoyed listening to, and I was bummed when my cassette copy of Bleed was eaten by my tape player. I could find a new copy on eBay, along with releases from Mr. Big and Van McCoy, but I doubt I will. Not because I don't like the band or didn't appreciate being thanked, but because I doubt it will be as good as I remember it being. My tastes have changed, and while I still enjoy metal of all sorts, I'm more discerning these days.

Still, it was pretty cool to be thanked by the band at the time, which is something Maiden never did for me.

The Soundtrack to Depravity is Classic Rock

Those who have read my novel Black Devil Spine, or even just read the reviews, know it is not a light read meant for the beach or the easily offended. For the years I worked on it I described it as my "sex and violence" manuscript. Those who read it know that is an accurate description.

Throughout the novel there is a constant reference to classic rock. Songs punctuate some scenes. Why? It's the music one of the main characters likes quite a bit. This meant that I had to listen to a lot of it while writing. While I don't hate classic rock, it is not exactly my go-to music ... especially not for writing.

But it worked.

It worked really well, actually. In fact, while editing and listening to  even more classic rock I found that songs were matching scenes ... and I had not written those scenes to the music. The Stones. Eric Clapton. Rush. Bad Company. Those bands had somehow infiltrated the manuscript in places, and editing felt almost magical. Everything just flowed.

Some people have told me that they thought the music to which I wrote the book would be death metal or industrial. That didn't fit the mood. Not at all. It was too on the nose. I was writing about real people doing bad things, and the character of Martin Springer would call that stuff "noise." It would distract him from his art and murder.

I am not recommending you read the book. Like I mentioned, it's not for everyone. If you are easily offended or squeamish, forget it. But if you are mildly curious and have a strong stomach for violence, I would love for you to pick it up and drop me a note. If you're a classic rock fan, all the better, but I may have ruined a song or two for you.

The Power a Secret Holds ...

The title to this blog posting is a play on The Dead Brothers' song "The Power a Secrt Holds," which can be found on the incredible Voodoo Rhythm Records Records to Ruin Any Party Vol. 3. I have had nothing but praise for the label and these compilations, and this one, complete with Juke Joint Pimps, Pussywarmers, Urban Junior, Reverend Beat Man, Possessed by Paul James, Bob Log III, Andy Dale Petty, Roy and the Devil's MC, and many more doesn't disappoint.

But I, like Peter David, digress ...

It's been about two years since I've last had a post here. Why? I've been busy. Very. Busy. Black Devil Spine came out, which meant I was listening to classic rock for months of editing. (Classic rock is a huge part of that story.) I also started the Sinful Cinema series, which is proving to be popular with film fans. So, yeah, blog posts took a backseat to other ventures.

As I was cleaning the house and tossing out stuff, I was listening to this compilation, and when Reverend Beat Man's "Jesus Christ Twist" came on I thought, "I haven't written a blog post in a while!" What better music to inspire a new posting? Voodoo reinvigorated my love of music, and now it's served as a catalyst to getting the blog going again. I can't promise this will be a regular thing, but I'm sure going to try and make it so.

As to be expected, I believe that anyone who appreciates excellent music should march out and find this CD. Sure, it's six years old, but the music is as timeless as sunsets and funeral rites. There's blues trash, swamp rock, psychedelic, and just about everything else to stir the heart. I'm not saying this because I received it free to review, either. This is stuff I'd be recommending regardless of how much I had to pay for it. Trust me, this is worth it, as are the other two volumes in the set.

Maybe next time I'll delve into how music fit into the writing of Black Devil Spine. Maybe not. In the meantime, you've got some trash blues to enjoy ...

Backseat Education - Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction

Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction.  If that name made you grin, you know of the band.  The year was 1988.  Tattooed Beat Messiah was released (some fools would say “dropped” these days), and the world of hard rock would never be quite the same.  I was a fan from the first track, which was the “Wolf Child Speech.”  It was over the top.  Ridiculous.  Not to be taken seriously.  Perfect.  It was what hard rock should be.

It’s no surprise that this band came out of the same era that gave us Sigue Sigue Sputnik (affordable firepower), Adam and the Ants, and Mötley Crüe.    

The music was blistering and the lyrics didn’t take themselves all too seriously … or at least one hoped they didn’t.  Zodiac Mindwarp (Mark Manning) put a lot of swagger in those tales of debauchery, and that’s what made it so great.  Sure, there were other bands out there of this ilk that sang songs of wine and women, but none looked or sounded like this one, and few seemed so real.

Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction never got much of a following here in America.  It made an appearance here and there, and some college stations played its songs, but for the most part it was merely a footnote in musical history, while insipid garbage like Mr. Big (1989 actually marked the band’s debut album, but it was formed in 1988) captured audiences’ ears and hearts  -- easy listening for the easily distracted.  I don’t know why this was the case, but perhaps it was due to the fact that Zodiac Mindwarp and company looked like a bunch of coke-up bikers who may be Nazis while Mr. Big looked like a bunch of Bon Jovi fans from the Midwest who dreamed of playing the Cloverfield County Fair.  Me?  I’ll take biker Nazis over cowboys any day.  The rest of America, sadly, didn’t feel the same way.  Oh, what could’ve been…

Enjoy the video.

Hank Haint's Blackout

Man, when it comes to a label that has a knack for getting great one-man bands, nothing beats Voodoo Rhythm Records.  Case in point?  Hank Haint.  He even covers an old GG Allin song (“Don’t Talk to Me”)!  How could you possibly go wrong with this guy?

On May 25, 2012, Blackout was released on an unsuspecting world.  You, the listener, is first subjected to “Keep on Walking.”  You think, “This can’t possibly be a one-man band.”  You are, of course, wrong.  Just like the times you thought there wasn’t a cop around and that one time you swore she was 18.

There are 12 other songs (including the Allin cover) that will only serve to strengthen your disbelief.  When you think about the fact that he only started working as a solo act five years earlier, you will chastise yourself for wasting the last half decade doing … what?  Not this, that’s for sure. 

Blues trash with a punk attitude is how this music has been described.  That is about as accurate a description as one will get.  It’s too raw for the “hip” crowd., and too obscure for mainstream music lover.  It’s in that void to be enjoyed only by the daring and the lucky. 

Of course, this may not be your thing at all.  You may lean more toward pop or, Heaven forbid, hip hop.  You may be wondering what the fuss is about.  It’s one guy, after all.  How hard can that be?  He goes into the studio, lays a track, switches instruments and lays another track.  Well, he performs live, too.  And not with a backing band.  One man.  Many instruments.  The touch of death!

My only complaint?  I would’ve moved “Pissing in the Sink” to the last track.  It is the perfect way to end an album.  As it stands, “Untitled,” the last song, isn’t a horrible way to end it (and one can easily see why it is the last song), but “Pissing in the Sink” would have been the feather in this mighty cap. If that is the only complaint one can muster, you know it is a solid release.  

Frozen Angel

I haven’t seen the movie that this soundtrack is from, but if Roy and the Devil’s Motorcycle and Voodoo Rhythm Records are behind it, I know it has got to be good.  First, some history, and then we shall delve into Tino– Frozen Angel.

Roy and the Devil’s Motorcycle has been around 20 years.  You’ve most likely never heard of the band.  For the uninitiated, it combines blues, garage, psychedelica and some folk to create a sound unlike most anything else out there.  “Unique” doesn’t do it justice.  Three brothers.  Guitars.  Truth.  It is primitive.  It is otherworldly.  It is necessary listening for those who think outside the box.

Adding another feather to its ornate cap, the band has done the soundtrack to a documentary about Martin “Tino” Schippert, aka Frozen Angel.  Tino was the first Swiss president of the Hell’s Angels.  He started as an activist.  He ended up dead in Bolivia.  Without seeing the film, I must say that the story itself would have me intrigued, but the music only serves to heighten my curiosity.  It is eight songs of primarily instrumental swirl, with snippets of the movie seemingly thrown in.  I can imagine its place in the documentary, and I must say it seems to fit the subject matter, as well.  It is unlike most soundtracks I’ve heard, and that’s a good thing.  If music could be ephemeral…

If you are a film soundtrack collector (I know you are out there – I used to be one), then this is something you must look into.  If you like any of the musical descriptions I gave, this must also be sought out post haste.  Granted, it is not for everyone … or even most people … but that’s because the majority of people have no idea what they are missing and would rather stick with the tried-and-true over the dirty unknown.  This is for the seekers of the unusual, the transgressive, the bizarre … music for music lovers.  Those who look at music as art, and not as entertainment.  Forge onward, brave bastards.  This is the soundtrack to your dreams.

Let's Start a War at the Whitehouse, Said Wattie One Day

The first release I ever bought by the Exploited was the 1986 cassette, Live at the Whitehouse.  I had heard the band a few times on our local college radio station, and I liked what I heard, so I set out to the music store to procure whatever Exploited I could get my hands on (which is how one bought music in the days before downloading).  The store I went to wasn’t well-stocked with anything but pop and heavy metal, and Live at the Whitehouse was the only Exploited to be had.  As it stands, it wasn’t a great listening experience, as those who have heard it can attest to. 

If you are familiar with the Exploited, a live album delivers exactly what you’d expect.  The sound is raw, angry and turns to buzzsaw noise in spots.  The release I bought was a full live show and featured some great songs, including “Let’s Start a War,” “Horror Epics,” “Wankers,” “I Hate You,” “Dogs of War,” “Sex and Violence,” and “Punk’s Not Dead.”  That’s a satisfying line-up of classic Exploited songs despite the dodgy sound.  Couple that with cover art that shows a partially destroyed Capitol Building (not the White House, oddly enough) and you can’t help but capture a young punk’s heart.

The band, which has had roughly 3,859 members through its years of existence, has always had its share of controversy, and violence followed many of its shows.  (I wasn’t there when it played Airport City Music Hall in PA, but I heard that white power skins maced singer Wattie when he took the stage.  For those who remember shows at that venue, skinheads were a constant source of misery, as were the bouncers. The reason for the attack was Wattie’s anti-American beliefs.)  For many, the Exploited has always symbolized the best and worst of what punk rock was and should be.  For me, it was just an energetic, politically angry band that seemed more interested in slogans than real change.  It was entertaining, but nothing I’d formulate a political philosophy around.  (Remember the Barmy Army?)

Live at the Whitehouse may have been my first Exploited purchase, but it was far from my last.  Sometimes those purchases felt shameful, like when I would purchase really creepy porn from seedy shops reeking of bleach and sweat, but others were moments of sheer celebration.  Not every release was worthy of the effort it took to make it, but all of them had moments of sublime chaos.  (My own sublime chaos that was linked to the Exploited came when one of the releases was playing on the car stereo as my friends and I were engaged in a high speed chase with a cop.  We were winning the race, the flashing cop lights not making the best headway, when we flipped the car.  We slid something like 116 feet on the roof until we hit a boulder.  As I spat out windshield glass, the cop on the scene told us to get away from the car I was still inside because gas was flooding out and he thought it would explode. The Exploited continued to play on the stereo.  Surreal.) 

These days the band doesn’t much resemble that which it was in 1986, which is a good thing.  Bands should evolve over time.  I’m not sure that what the Exploited has become is much worth pursuing, but seeing its skull logo on a shirt still brings a smile to my face even if the new music leaves me kind of cold.  I will say, however, that the later stuff is far more cohesive and better produced than the band’s earlier releases.  It’s as if the band took the power of metal and matched it with the anger of punk and came up with something that works for it.  That said, it doesn’t fully work for me.

At least I have the memories…

Back to the Past ... Cartoon Monsters and Humboldt Mist

The Groovie Ghoulies is my favorite band named after a cartoon.  Alas, the band no longer records its version of pop punk tunes, but the memories linger on.

Recently I was driving to work listening to the Freaks on Parade release.  It first came out in 2001 on Stardumb and was later re-released by Surfin’ Ki 13 years later.  If that isn’t a testament to the band’s sound, nothing is.  Listening to it reminded me of how timeless the music sounded.  It was fresh.  Upbeat.  It could’ve been recorded the day before.  All good music (except the blues) should sound that way.  (The blues, it should be noted, should always take place in the past.  It gets its magic from a time period long expired, and while the sound remains strong, it does not and should not sound contemporary.) 

We all have these bands we forget about for a few years, and once we break them out again and give them a listen we wonder why we waited so long in the first place.  Driving through the Humboldt mist was one of those moments, brought on by not one particular song, but all of them.  I thought back to my when I did my ‘zine.  I thought back to different times, different mindsets.  Different everything.

I wasn’t riding a nostalgia trip.  I wasn’t pining for the old days or lamenting how today’s music leaves me cold for the most part.  I was just, not to sound too California stupid, being “in the moment.”  The air was cool on my face.  The wipers did the occasional whisk across the windshield.  I had the stereo cranked, not to assault the pedestrians, but to immerse myself in that mindset albeit briefly.

I’m not the biggest fan of pop punk.  I tend to like my music with more of an edge, but this was a band I could get behind.  I tolerate a lot of pop punk bands, but this one was always different.  That misty morning reminded me why.  Say what you want about it, but it is still one of the best things to come out of Sacramento.