Saturday, April 18, 2009

The Meteors - Hell Train Rollin
People Like You

'I stay buried in the dark- cos I fuckin scare myself...' - Never Stop The Hate Train

'Satan calls me bastard - Sometimes He calls me Paul...
He never calls me bitch - Sometimes he don't talk to me at all' - Devilbone Fugue

It may be said P Paul Fenech’s psycho stalwarts churn out album after album not on a treadmill as such but a sausage grinder, ankles first, please. But if so, they’re intermittently assaulted with some extra spice that their gruppenfuhrer grasps from some backstreet midnight plunders, as here we see in visceral, signpost-wilting gristly grisly detail this self-mytholigising and gleefully egregious ubermunster excel himself in the viciousness stakes from the clanking chaingang into a death-pit opener of Never Stop The Hate Train (including mandatory snipe at label'mates' Demented Are Go) to cry for the badman vampire-surf of Another Day On Fire, the Ace of Spades pummelling of Down and Dirty and the old school psycho stomp of Devilbone fugue and that’s just the first four rounds, stop crying it ain’t over yet. Elsewhere in these chambers' twists and turns, skewered on the stepladders he cleans the gutters with of a weekend, the abysmally inspired b-movie title of Surfin’ Home On A Dead Girl (rivalling The Cramps Naked Girl Falling Down The Stairs in those stakes) the sort of mariachi instrumental that'd give Chris Isaac dire scrumpy cider shits fior several weeks and awe-gore-westerns often found on Fenech's solo work like the wondrous sun-down sombrero massacre Slice By Slice. Forget the psycho-scene’s comedy backbiting and slice a needle through this and compare it to many, many lesser lights that can often barely muster up a faint flicker and whimper behind doors where this stomps intent on crushing down the walls of the corridor with every deathknell, kneecapping beat. That these songs seemingly drop like pills, or raindrops, or bloodspatters, is some feat. That this album cuts 'em up sweet n' neat and corrals em into one corner is all the better, despite the odd one slipping by like Pure Evil in the frenzy that falls prey to bloodlust away from the cold killer eyes. For all the self-aggrandising chest-beating (Psychobilly Number 1, a joke continued over many albums - though you can bet yer ass he believes it) there’s always humour (the intro exchange to (They Call Me) Creepy), bad taste and yup bad taste humour, a truck load o’ twang and barrel loadsa rumble if you wanna roll. And blood. And you know what they say about that don’t you, kids? And you want walk it like you talk it? Walk right back down here, spring chicken.
Stu Gibson
Jeff Dahl - Back To Monkey City
Steel Cage

'Save us from ourselves Lord - Deliver us from sin
Lead us from temptation - So we can Rock'n'Roll again...' - Salvation, Temptation And Sin

Sand-scorched, whiskey-wired rawkarolla coaster-chompin’ crew with cactus-spikes instead of studs on gnarled leathers and between teeths from Arizona laden with attitude and addled with the right dose of don’t give a fuck devil may care free for all Heartbreaker strafin’ right from the get go, get out, and get on (my bike, not yours) of the opening belt-slackenin’ title track. Dahl snarls and pouts fight songs for any phet-fugged deserted stunner and detested son like the there but for the grace of ‘DC stomp on Salvation, Temptation And Sin, twisting preacher’s po-faced catechisms into a clamouring call to replenish the rock reserves, and with fender-melters like the Mott-hop glory of I Am A Mess (or I Never Miss as it can sound like, for true kamikaze death bastard boogie anthem) and Thunders put-down to a cast-off Rat's Ass, this widens arteries and leaves ‘em desperate for more. Showing such seemingly simple straight ahead no frills rollin’ ruck for the piously perverse and lingering long-gone is by no means a quick, cheap fix and is a skeleton key for any old ignition box. Literally blistering.
Stu Gibson
Sean Walsh Band - timetravellersexmachine

Surprisingly enough and non in galore for anything with such a title is only gonna be rooted in one thing right? Oh yes. For time traveller read slightly spacey blues rock with instantly detectable poses from a line up of overly usual and insipid late 60’s suspects from this Dutch trio (now, where’ve we heard that one before). For slightly spacey blues plod read a fondness for slightly staccato licks with mucho reverb, possibly meant to herald shooting stars but the only nova appearing is more likely to be your scratty weed dealer. T’aint too bad as it goes, I mean, it’s better – often far better, but hey, lest I blunt my knives too much - than The Answer and those other two Irish bands that followed and stodgy sub-Hendrix / Led Zep criminal fakery of Kravitz, Jet and the colostomy-certifiable Wolfmother. Aping Hendrix and attaining a certain level of his inventiveness must be praised though, no natter how much of a cynical old haircut you are. In the large scale of things that isn’t a wholesale price sort of recommendation, I agree. Of that ilk, not galxies apart as you'd hope, but with bigger balls, laudably more soul (and the next line wasn’t ever going to be ‘it doesn’t take much), not least from Walsh's thick Leffe-meets-Guiness roar and lacking the impotent froth that’ll wet the floppy hair at festivals. Personal preference suggests taking the title and running as the country kershuffle of Last Man Standing beats the tongue-in-cheek bluster of much of this, um, pants down.
Stu Gibson
The Deep Eynde - Blackout: The Dark Years
People Like You

Sultry goth-swooping (apologies, death rock) LA-brood piles on the atmospherics but rarely gets past plying the tricks long since ceased, if they ever were, being secrets known only to those in the throes of shamanistic rites, or those who adopted slum Yorkshire towns and stumbled about in quasi-stoned trances. Opener My Darkest Hour murmers it all, riff from Love - minus the heart – mixed with MTV era Psychedelic Furs without the what the fuck am I doing disdain and plummeting to watering holes where Wayne Hussey waits murkily for his next mission (yup, guess he’ll be older than Gandalf by now waiting to hobble to the shops to buy 40 fags and a Mail on Sunday). Elsewhere songs like Red Necklace ape Seventeen Seconds era Cure, forgetting almost admirably to at least copy Primary or A Forest not the other shite on it, and all from Siouxsie to Bauhaus (Road Rash). We getting the picture here? Anyone we missed? Oh, even Depeche Mode crop up on Magic Man. Generic sub-goth that I think even Gene Loves Jezebel would grin about. A case of too much striving without any traces of the insurmountable enticing seductiveness - nor the supposed theatricality they’re noted for - of the bands leader Fate Fatal is obviously so in thrall to. They have a certain pedigree, with Rezurex’ Daniel deLeon appearing on a few songs and real LA creepshow seatstainers 45 Grave drummer Hal Satan a long-term fixture, just throughout this anthology –even the slightly more tantalising corpsebilly shuffle of 13th Floor and fatal-fever The Feast– they remain unconvincing. Though there’s a complimentary DVD of lives and vidclips, if you’re interested.
Stu Gibson
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