Thursday, January 08, 2009

Punctuated Equilibrium
Southern Lord

Without warning/I explode! asserts Scott “Wino” Weinrich on what is, incredibly, his first solo album. Unsurprisingly, Punctuated Equilibrium feels like a culmination of the singer/songwriter/stringpounder’s work through nearly three decades of groundbreaking power trio heaven in Spirit Caravan, the Hidden Hand and the legendary Obsessed. (Not to mention side trips as singer for Saint Vitus and second guitarist/writer in Place of Skulls for a single album.) That means this record is overflowing with thick, melodic heaviosity, from the acid-drenched sludge of Eyes of the Flesh, the political grunge boogie of Gods, Frauds, Neo-Cons and Demagogues and the jazzy wahgasm of Wild Blue Yonder to the ass-kicking sneer of Smilin’ Road, the spiritual crunge of Secret Realm Devotion and the forthright power rock anger of Silver Lining and the title track. Plus there’s the dreamy e-bow job Water Crane, which is a path I don’t remember Wino ever having taken in the past. Not sharing responsibility (bassist Jon Blank and Clutch drummer Jean Paul Gaster take their orders like men) suits Wino well – the record feels more uncompromised than anything he’s recorded since the Obsessed days. If the man’s ever done bad work, I’ve never heard it, but Punctuated Equilibrium is the most vital and creative music Wino’s spewed in ages.

- Michael Toland
Lightning Beat Man And His No Talent
Wrestling Rock’n’Roll

This, oh holy laggards and lung-bleeds of sleaze legend, is the first ever 4-track freak-out hobble cobbled amidst slum-dank kitchens and derelict conditions from the ineffable beast of bedlam and spiritual Texan berserker Mr Beat Man. Ayussss, yass n’ yessir, the Swiss by birth but medal-bearing steak-shearing tower of blare-bel sniping Texan by nature through issuing such a relentless storm of seizure-scrabbling adventures in vinyl and gut-contracting compact disc, began his campaign of heroic cretiny with this caustic carotid quaffer. As the cognoscenti of calamity can smell a continental turnstile away this is a track record constituting such a hazy bad things diet the Buttholes would be baffled, Hazil Adkins left toilet-bound and Bob Log whimpering in a diaper in some dungeon having sought frantic refuge in a torture garden of revolving gore. This noxious nugget bursts forth with the masochistically ecstatic glee of the curtailment of constipation after a heavy regime of codeine and cider and a few other concoctions inbetween times, or days, perchance, and is the perfect case to hold up in courts of sores and nausea in any country to show what bands in the VR stable have to live up to. That many do in excelsis is another fairytale to keep yer kith n’ kin safe n’ warm with, slithering like slugs and cig butts in your morning cups. As he still does, just slightly more refined, if possible, Beat Man here splurts out cacophonous dins of psychotic glee and unrestrained perversity like I’m Gonna Kill You Tonight and Wrestling With Satan, yet also regales your withered sinews with the lovely scab-picking country lilt-a-leer of Honey Baby Blues and Baby Fuck Off. Oh aye, ok then.
A toxic treat glorying in inelegant ineptitude with Little Richard screeches if he was reincarnated as a confused horny dawg whose dang had ling-longed off a lifetime or two ago and let loose among the canine equivalent of a Girl Guide camp hosting the Hugh Hefner household for an award show. Home-made mong-out of the highest order.
Stu Gibson

Music Reviews from Smutstruttah

Nebular Mystic
Karmageddon Media

Epidemic Black Metal influences of Nebular Mystic are as follows: Immortal, Darkthrone, Dimmu Borgir and Susperia. With origins dating back to the late winter of 1999, Nebular Mystic found their calling through cryptic, dark deep-throat droning. Murder serves as their
momentum as metal becomes their motive. If you enjoy long walks through frigid forests along with long periods of darkness, then Necrotic is right up your ice caverns. On a good day,Necrotic songs will infect plant and animal tissue due to inadequate blood supply, bacterial infection, traumatic injury, and/or hypothermia. As for more recent releases and rot-promoting lyrics, you can check out their 2007 recording courteous of Stange Kommunale Studio.

Superior Massacre

Nothing beats waking up to break of a beautiful dawn with one of Norway's most volatile Death Metal bands bickering full-throttle about breaking cheekbones and enhancing the scar tissue on your beatifully battered face. It provokes me to primp in the mirror with the palest of powder, and apply rouge and eyeliner ever so unsubtly. I can't imagine Superior Massacre, Norway would ever have a high domestic violence rate with Myrkystkog's songs that read, "Detained In Skin", "Trapped In Torment", and "Blood Ejaculation". I could be wrong, or this is a common case of attention deficit disorder and they only strike out with brain-bashing lyrics like these in order to attract the opposite sex of equal, tumultuous behavior. Regardless, heavy isn't the word for this recoding. Most Goregrind I've heard couldn't even touch this with their most horrific hymn. Brutal and inhuman seem more of an appropriate approach to detect their growling, homicidal

The Bexar County Bastards
R.N.R.L.A.M.F. - The Demo

Introducing San Antonio's Most Hated Men (and One Womern)! Now rocking and residing in Austin, TX. It's more rare to find a band that sucks in Austin Rock City than it is finding a virgin in it. Booze and bar brawling babes come one in one when it comes The Bexar County Bastards. This little dirty band from TexASS are not exactly sitting around in their underoos scratching their nads on the front porch, either. While shopping their debut demo around, they intend to take west coast, by storm via rollercoaster. Rocking out loud and staying proud, their one of the more determined bastards, I came across. With Exit signs reflecting in their mirror shades, they've got one thing on their wreckless driving records mind, and thats know that's
highway-bound. These roadhounds are fully equipped with 6-song demo release, just as soon as reps get their dirty little hands on RNRLAMF. Personally, I can find myself moved by their last, but not least sleaziest, greasiest song. If you're looking for something to replace you're old Dangerous Toys and Broken Teeth, then you'll be glad to know previous members of both of these bands currently reside within TBCB.

Trechoma Records

There is a clean, cutting edge exhuming from Powderhog that I can not only feel, but smell using only a my nostrils and an exhaust. This upcoming Danish release is something you should consider keeping your dilated pupils peeled wide open for. If anybody deserves a slot in the
Nordic Challenge for a chance to play in Swedish Rock Festival, it's certainly these nitty gritty, dusty dirt road, Danish lads that make Garage Rock look like Block Rock. An anonymous resource has quoted, "typical Scandinavian Rock" but if Denmark keeps panning out not-so
trendy indie groups like these, were in for solid reason to put on leather boots and Chevy SS belt buckles. I could see them pairing up beside Gluecifier, Peterpan Speedrock, Bad Preachers and El Guapo Stuntteam, giving us all the more reasons to throw our fists up for the rock.

Juke Joint Pimps
Boogie The House Down – Juke Joint Style

From the ever bountiful bowels of the Deutsche delta, Mr Beat-Man once again unceremoniously summonses a sharp-dressed pair of juicily jousting Memphistoleros brandishing filthy funk judderfuck blues dereliction. With a slew of originals sucking pips from the likes of Dust My Broom and Rollin’ And Tumblin’ along with I Can’t Be Satisfied like old Elmore James and mandrake Muddy jumping up and down on the devil playing harp thru his entrails and using his liver as a bass drum beater this devil drunk duo aren’t perhaps quite as eviscerating as other VR releases (see 12 bar bonkers Bruges bruisers Stinky Lou And The Goon Mat With Lord Bernardo) but virulent voodoo muck like Constipated Blues and their dainty reacquainting of howlin’ Harpo’s Hip Shake as Dick Shake easily tears up the sickly buttery brulee in blues magazines and still may make you salivate outta unexpected places and slither into voracious and quite vertigo-inducing appetites. Amen. Slip ‘em some skin. Stu Gibson

Nitro 17
Onto The Other Side

In the world of literally every which but loose having a ‘billy tag on the end, these Berliners, including one time Mad Sin and Chip Hanna cohort Tex Morton on git-tar alongside Nikki Sudden’s one time drummer, should well be applauded for tying a different ribbon round the old sow’s legs. An’ it ain’t yellow, but has a distinct celluloid slick stain about it, petrolly, pissy maybe but kinda pleasing even if it may not quite indulge your fantasies to their various hilts. Though it cracks a fair, or furry, whip and sure could lick a greasy sub-groinal drip. Some’ll shrug and say it’s too diluted but this grinds the dust outta magic carpets above crumbling garages’ parapets with punk-beaten spiralling ska-tterings. Polished, but not in the over pasteurised puerile prancings of preening posturers. Yeah yeah anyway, Jo Fischer actually sorta sings for starters and seconds and they have the no-trifling third course chops to roll The Smiths' Panic over and again into a shimmering star-burnt tango ‘cross hungover dehydrated deserts with tremolo-ing tumbleweeds stumbling by their fairly ample helpings not dissimilar to the Sin or even shhhh The Horrorpops. Which does ‘em no disservices.
Stu Gibson


‘Hope I live before I get old…’ – Jukebox Generation

Though this fourth slaloming slam-sermon sees ringmaster John Robb and his merry marauders all dolled up as jolly jacktars and buccaneers for the event, it ain’t just a jape and a jest suggested by the title track and the woah-along air-fisting grimace fests like Beyond God And Elvis and single Jukebox Generation. Shoring up in the eighties with mirth and malice aplenty to scrape plenty of pieces ‘cross the cheeks of jaw-jutting fuckwits harking back to an entirely different 1983, the rambunctious rolling wave as usual crests the Ramones and The Damned but, being no strangers to plundering the rich seams of swag, bordering on Adicts from musical treasure chests, on this outing they heave ho the anchor splicing Pirates of the Caribbean themes in your FACE and grinding the gristle like Captain Sensible on the gin like Flynn, press-ganging a few Ants and beating a few barrels of crude Oi – to pilfer a page from the GB book of punnery. Detractors may crow and squawk from naysayers nests that the cartoon continueth but as usual, moreso from Rebel Songs, the cavalry-charged choruses, captain to crew call and response verses and juddering riffs nail-gunning the Batman theme to the mast, strive to mask a slew of astutely wired witticisms and idiosyncratic punk-rock parables whether pontificating politically on Do The Neo Con, socially on Everbody’s On Drugs, Kids Of Today or Riot! Riot! to musical history lessons on Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone?
Stu Gibson

Teenage Jesus And The Jerks
Shut Up And Bleed

This aural comedown of freeform musical dismemberment helmed and incited by the tearaway teenage lullaby-eater Lydia Lunch presents a woman adorned in intensive care squalls of catholic (small c please) guilt, angst, disgust and rage with tantrumic mantras from beneath her childhood quilt. Clearly, which she characteristically flagrantly admits herself, in need of heroic exorcism like a speed-dating evening for catatonic and concussed crank-fiends in severe states of psychological paralysis she wails, shrieks, bellows asphyxiated incantations in the sternum-collapsing caterwaul that Kat Bjelland later cultivated in Babes In Toyland, and quite possibly stamps her feet, pulls any hair in reach and sticks her tongue out at her tea like a proper little madam amidst emphysemic saxophone screeches and solar-plexus scraping snatches (snatches? These are whole fucking Fort Knox bank raids with bullion packed onto the soles of your shoes enough to make New Rock acolytes wince in wonderment) of dissonance and staccato scalping. The Beirut Slump sludge is the debatable apotheosis of their admirable lunacy binge where they played house-band for a Bowery bum (with Bad Seed Jim Sclavunos on drums for ye archival addicts). Along with undoubtedly influencing Bauhaus, Sonic youth and many other skronk-shemers and dust-devil dreamers these atonal lacerations may be torture but there remains just one question – whether the merit they can achieve for incarnating the anti-Patti and smithing a whole new saga of street-slut baby doll poesy beats the rage-as-art or let’s jump up and down on Sister Ray in stilettos in the Funhouse on fire. It’s a question as large as the inquisition is intolerant and not readily answered in philosophical Buk-ist screeches like Freud In Flop or religious bitch bilges like Crown Of Thorns but it remains to this day an aural-rape, musical scalping and repository of scorn not for the squeamish.
Stu Gibson

Where’s Captain Kirk? – The Very Best Of…

Despite, to the wider worlds, entering the realms of one-hit wonderland with the classic novelty of indulgent lampoonery this collection is named for, the never stagnant (in name terms at least - the Spizz brand went from Spizzoil to Spizzenergi to Athletico Spizz 80 among others) Spizz was a little more than punk’s first Sultans Of Ping. Alongside further queries for the Star Trek scriptwriters in the shape of Spock’s Missing which sounds for all the worlds and sundry other galaxies like he’s gone on a landscape oddity course lectured by the Swell Maps, there’s the PIL disco machine gunnery of Soldier Soldier, Combat-Clash of Jungle Fever, lovingly dotty covers of Virginia Plain and, moreso, The Model, Numan-esque space gesticulations of Effortless and Mega City 3 and New Order-y house anthem Only You. Something for everyone? Maybe. Or a case of fifty seven old punks now that age weren’t wrong after all.
Stu Gibson

Buffalo Killers
Let It Ride

Second album in and several large strides made from this Ohio trio. The dense, almost upside down goth beardage may give the game away to their unassuming ruminations – personified in opening preamble lurch to Get Together Now Today – that they straddle carcasses of late sixties colossi. Flared, check-shirted riffs, hazy Woodstock wisps amid Daltrey / Plant wails and Moon meteor shower drumming prevail like the rockolithic myths they allude to. No surprises then that The Black Crowes get a name-check and rather this than the over-rated rump-sagging of Kings of Leon. New Albini / Endino on the block Dan Auerbach of the Black Lips chops out a tight line in production duties, guitars up close shaving your chin and scalping the nondescript Neil Young nuances of their previous album. Where much can be measured at a rate of plod, at its best on On The Prowl and closer Black Paper there’s the venerable aroma of Flamin’ Groovies at their most gung-ho and Creedence at their most transcendental (think the last half of Ramble Tamble and ride on. Brothers and sisters).
Stu Gibson

London Cowboys

Centred around UK punk stalwarts Steve Dior and Barry Jones who can claim credit due for their part in helping the fledgling punk scene flap it’s wings by their running of The Roxy (for more see Paul Marko’s book The Roxy London and stint as Sid Riduclous’s backing band, The London Cowboys carried on where The Idols, Jerry Nolans post-Heartbreakers band, left-off. With jetboy Jerry denied lift-off back to the UK these two oiks ironed their own creases into post-punks’ creative puddle and slipped merrily downstream without paddle or podium but a major hit in underground France. Rounded up here is one disc each of both released stuff and tall-standing scruffs from their signed, sealed and sat-on L.A. L.A. period. Thusly featuring a plethora of the dear departed or deadbeat from London’s smack-addled alleyways scratched into every cut here – Jerry, Johnny, Mike Monroe, Pete Farndon, Terry Chimes, Glen Matlock, Syl Sylvain Surprisingly to the outsider no Nikki or Kussy, a double act these two do engender traces of, being from similar streets if not the old boys of the same ragged school though largely lacking their delectable idiosynracies or delicate affectations, however likeable their reeking stench of coke-cracked eighties and scabby glitsch-kissed glam is - ‘I’m not asking for your tea or your sympathy / But at least you could throw me a line’ they, umm, coyly slur on Saigon, saying, aptly, all or nothing. You decide for once, as these scabrous accounts dragged sagging delectably from canyons between paving slabs scale a toxic mix of Hollywood hair metal with English anecdotal appraisals of love languishing alone in shadows more than hob-nobbing posturers in punk’s post glory puerile sewers they’re sometimes stranded in.
Stu Gibson

More new music reviews from the Superboss

Steroid Freak Pussy
Conquer and Divide
Sprocket Science

Clearly, when it comes to band names, these guys win whatever fucked up game we're playing. So they've got that, for sure. Interestingly, their sound matches their loony moniker. It's sleazeball cock-rock, in the same thorny garden as Crystal Pistol, but it's also weird and otherworldly, like an alternate dimension Backyard Babies piped in from the negative zone. Ripsnorting-ist of the lot has gotta be Nitroglycerine, a nasty slice of punked-out biker-sleaze, full of hell's breath guitars, macho-bullshit Zodiac Mindwarp-esque lyrics, and some tasty background vox from the exotically named Anneka Latta. This Six-song EP/LP is obviously operating on the scorched Earth theory, since SFP never lift their lead-feet off the balls-deep pedal, but my theory is that there's some devastating balladry and mid-tempo ass-stomp somewhere in their guts, as well. They've just got that vibe. But for now, they're on pulverizing mode, so prepare yourself for a righteous beating.


Clip: Steroid Freak Pussy - the gripping documentary!

Rock N' Roll Monkey And the Robots
Back to Beatsville
Rock N' Roll Monkey Records

Yeah, I understand that their name makes you want to punch 'em. But we're gonna need you to get beyond that. RNRM&tR is a Detroit garage band with bonus sax-skronk, ala Morphine, and with a heady wash of lightly-buzzing psychedelia, sorta like Brian Jonestown Massacre with actual songs. It's effortlessly groovy stuff with almost supernaturally laidback vox. There's hits galore here, from fairly obvious Mummies-style garage-punk like Zombie Attack to weirdo spaghetti-western post-punk like Real Live Boy. Constantly mutating but always right-on, Back to Beatsville feels like the four coolest kids in town just sauntered in to steal your women/men/souls. And you'll let 'em, man. You'll fuckin' let 'em.


Clip: Rock N' Roll Monkey destroy everything.

Blood of the Black Owl
A Feral Spirit

A one-man exorcism machine from Rurh Hunter's own Chet Scott. Opens with a wispy native American flute and a grunting ode to nature that recalls late 60s' headfuckers Cromagnon, as does the propulsive doomblast that follows. It rolls on like that, a deathly serious buffet of depression and acid-folk freakery. If the Church of the Final Process still had their Satanic-hippy coffee shops, they'd play this all fuckin' day long. An evocative album that uses a host of organic instruments and enough minor chords to form a suicide cult, A Feral Spirit is one of the most consistently surprising and multi-layered doom albums I've heard. It is not, however, an easy listen. You can't rock out to it. You could, however, chug a Nyquil/Ambien cocktail and spend the weekend sweating on the couch, listening to it and hallucinating wildly. What else you got to do?


Listen: Blood of the Black Owl, The Melancholy Article

The Black Zombie Procession
Mess With the Best Die Like the Rest
Kicking Records

Wrapped in an excellent splatter-movie cover/booklet combo from metal-art superman Ed Repka, Mess With the Best is a zombie apocalypse concept record that works rather perfectly with the recent video game juggernaut Left 4 Dead. Try 'em both at once, your head will pop right off. Along the way from here to the grave you get a whole mess of chugging guitars that alternate between bay-area thrash and the Misfits (not the easiest transition) and more melody than you'd expect, given the relentless obsession with murder and mayhem. The vox occasionally dip into teenage-emo territory, but mostly sound like a spooked-out Agnostic Front. So that's cool. If you're up for a metal-punk sojourn into the night of the living dead, then strap in, flyboy, cuz this'll take you there.

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