45 – Paradise Lost (expanded)
re-issue on Arclight Records
YEEEEAAAAAH! Punk fucking rock! Thrashing hardcore with substance
and a wide speculum – meaning they stretch open this
beast called humanity and expose all the bare nasty stank
of it, pull the grisly pieces out and lay them on the table.
This band will beat up your band. Hard to believe, but this
record is just as bad-ass as their live show that left spacks
of ground humanoid beef on the floor. I mean, put it this
way: this record kicks your pinly ass and your fat friend’s
ass too. The whole thing – it’s like watching
Mad Max and eating three Casino burgers – a big, fat,
fulfilling series of head-on collisions between self-destruction
and annihilation of everybody stupid in general.
Fast, raging, raw, straight from the balls. No contrived poser
horseshit here. Squaggling metallic leads and vicious juvenile
delinquent tantrum yelling – gaaddammit that Brumby
has got a cool voice. He writes kickass lyrics too –
wisely blunt, taut and rhythmic, sardonic observations and
valid complaints from worldly to petty. Stylie details splattered
here and there: raunchy skratching and voice-of-authority
narratives. Favorite tracks: Smoke – a harsh ridicule
of weak, phony people and habits; and Briar Patch –
a tore-up account of trying to leave home... but, wherever
you go, you bring yourself. Or you run into the same shit
you’re running away from?
This is not the same old shit. This is good shit, from the
old school; D45 has aced the test of time. And they beat the
snot outta all these star-search assembly-line nu-metal whine-core
pussy-farts. 20 tracks of ass-beating bliss. What more do
you want? Buy it! And like the sleeve says, play it loud.
Or I’m-a kill ya!
Slaves – Nikki
I hate doing reviews. I always get stuck doing reviews for
bands that are friends of mine. Unfortunately, the CD/show
that I have to review ends up suuuuuuuucking. It’s always
a battle between telling the truth and wording things to ensure
that my tires don’t get slashed. With this in mind,
I shoved Sex Slaves’ debut EP, Nikki, into my stereo.
As always, I prepped for having to diplomatically slag a lemon
of a record while trying to stay on the good side of some
really cool guys. Thankfully, Sex Slaves saved me the hassle.
This record is a rocker. As a glam/punk/rock band that only
NYC can produce, Sex Slaves do their forefathers proud. These
boys are armed with impressive pedigrees. Hailing from bands
like Manscouts of America and Queen V, they have a head start
on becoming a force to be reckoned with. Being a fan of “arena/anthem”
rock, I dug into most of the songs right away. What the mid-tempo
songs lacked in speed, they made up for in nasty lyrical content.
Bry’n (lead guitar) fucks with the normal anthem formula
by spitting out tight, meth-velocity leads. Think of your
run-o-the-mill paper cut. Now pour gasoline on it. Kicks like
that. Where bands often use bass and drums as mere anchors,
Marty (drums), and Del (bass) break out with sucker punches
of their own throughout the record. Crass as hell, Eric (vocals)
epitomizes a psych ward’s version of a crooner. If you’re
looking for an epic, thought-provoking experience, you took
a wrong turn. If you’re looking for a dirty hit-and-run
by skilled rapists, this is for you. Rocket science? No. Rock-N-Roll?
Carrera - the November Session
Perverted Son Records
The question is: had Tia Carrera set the perfect trap to poach
their “live” sound for the studio? It seems that
Friday they hauled the equipment into a studio instead of
Room 710. What succeeds about this trapping is that the studio
takes of the jams are stellar. I recognized most of this disc
from the many times watching the band. On the November Session
Tia treats us to the same foundation on which we rock with
them live but with a studio mood that makes me feel like I’m
witnessing an intimate outtakes session that’ll be locked
in a vault; property of the estates of Jimi, Ginger, and Geezer.
Some “jam” albums have a tendency to just reference
the riff that the band might play (if you catch them live).
Shrunken, the song’s melodies appear, blow their wads
and move on—pass the Kleenex.
This is not the case with Tia Carrera’s release. Tia‘s
disc is nice to just rock your home stereo and take all their
groove spontaneity, at a controllable volume. Plus you can
clean house whilst listening.
The recording is crisp. This of course aids in the sense that
you’re a poor fly who landed on the wrong mic in the
wrong room back in ‘70. The album’s 5 tracks have
various names like “Telepathic Confirmation”,
“Scenic Oversight” and “DOOM”. Most
songs have parts a and b with referential phrases saying things
like “the four open six” or “initial drum
check @ 2:30 p.m.”. All this title play lends to a raw
and voyeuristic mood, as if you’re taking a peek at
the band’s diary.
The players are in peak form. The November Session has yet
to form a memorable pattern; as if the songs change each time
you play the CD like a living, breathing, free willed musical
From the Band of Gypsies to Sleep, Tia cites from an array
of dark, slow, and revolutionary influences without seeming
like three guys who are just good studies.
Sweethearts - L.U.V.
Despite its homogenization, commercialization and hybridization,
punk rock is still alive and kicking - albeit a bit balding
and long in the tooth. However, the kids in the Sweethearts
have taken the old man, given his Doc Marten’s a spit
shine, reapplied the glue and egg yolks to his comb-over,
plied him with whiskey and sent him spinning and cavorting
right back into the mosh pit.
Young and aggressive, the band takes its cues from the X-Ray
Specs, the Descendents, Nirvana and yes, even the punkier
side of No Doubt, churning out eleven songs in under thirty
minutes. Short and sweet, L.U.V. is a litany of broken hearts,
teenage angst, and desperate cries for redemption, forgiveness
and an end to pain. Just as any good punk record should be.
L.U.V. doesn’t have quite the energy and abrasiveness
of the Sweethearts live onslaught, but the production more
than makes up for the lack of kinesis, illustrating the band’s
intelligence when selecting an engineer in the form of Frenchy
Smith. Although constantly on the road wowing European audiences
with Young Heart Attack, Smith has, without a doubt, one of
the best ears in Austin. He has taken a batch of songs that
might have come off as generic or trite in the hands of anyone
else and made damn sure the Sweethearts came off in a manner
befitting their talent.
See them, buy this, and thank me later.