TWOFER: the Riverboat Gambles x the Knotwells

The Knotwells

Blood River Melodies

(Self Released, 2005)

When I went to Record Revolution in Cleveland Heights to trade this cd in and in turn get Cannonball Adderly’s Mercy, Mercy, Mercy, I described The Knotwells to the gentleman behind the counter as musically superior to The Dropkick Murphys or Flogging Molly axis of punk, but not as good at writing songs. And that’s pretty fair. Even as the Knotwells champions its country roots over the Irish ones, the later is more readily apparent musically. Now, I’ve been accused of being a snob and I can’t say that that claim is unwarranted, but I do like my fair share of dumb punk. This however, is just not all that imaginative. Each track begins with a more than promising hillbilly style musical intro. Unfortunately, the singer eventually takes over and its kinda downhill after that. There’re no instrumentals on this album, but the band would benefit from a few, if that’s any indication of their front man’s ability to croon. The song writing, much like the singing, seems like a little something is lacking. A chorus gives us the proof in the couplet, “I wrote you a little song/and this is how it goes.”  Really, there aren’t any total losers, but each track sounds pretty much like the last and the singer managers to slip in a “hep” or a “hey” during every song. If these guys stuck to country music, muzzled the singer and toured wearing matching cowboy hats, you might hear from ‘em again.  Otherwise, don’t count on it. Really.

 

Riverboat Gamblers

To the Confusion of Our Enemies

(Volcom Entertainment, 2006)

Before I ever saw Napoleon Dynamite, I heard too many glowing endorsements for the film to bear any sort of resemblance to the rants I had been witness too. It wasn’t a complete bummer, but it wasn’t quite magnificent. In pretty much similar fashion, I’ve become familiar with the Riverboat Gamblers. Upon receiving this fine disc in the mail, I dreamt of stacking it next to The Reatards and Rocket From the Tombs in my alphabetical secret stash of slabs. But, this compact disc will not ever make its way into such esteemed company. Now, I will not diminish the accomplishments of this band, although I could. Either way, they have toured the nation, released numerous records, established their name and have been paid copious amounts of money by Volcom. Shocking. The result of that is an entire record, comprising 14 songs, of almost radio ready punk. There is of course nothing to be ashamed of if in-fact your punk band trucks in that kinda music. But I simply wasn’t ready for this strain of punk. The band surely sounds tough, but with a pop sensibility tossed in that occasionally calls to mind Weezer, if they weren’t hopeless dorks, but talented ones nonetheless. That being said, this album, without question exceeds the expectations of anything that could make it to radio, or at-least title music for MTV2. It probably deserves a pass, but I’m not feeling to generous.

 

The Functional Blackouts – The Very Best of the Monkees/The Severed Tongue Speaks for Everyone (Dead Beat, 2007)

Over about a five year period of recorded activity, The Functional Blackouts were able to create a trebly mixture of punk and noise that knowingly could only have culminated in a break up. There could be no other summation to this racket. And well, that’s what happened, but if some other avenue would have been explored, listeners may not have been privy to The Very Best of the Monkees. Not necessarily a “Best of…” compilation, but pretty close, this collection aims at bringing unreleased versions of album and singles tracks to a full length format. It’s an interesting way to end a career – although players from the Blackouts continue to haunt Chicago dives, scaring casual show goers to no end.

The bands’ entire first single is represented here, which reveals the groups initial leanings towards a more traditional, garage inflected sound. However, since we are talking about The Functional Blackouts, the overwhelming surge of disheveled punk overshadows the proceedings. This isn’t some sort of throw back outfit attempting to revel in the sounds of the Count Five. Somewhere between Bedroom Disasters by the Reatards and Erotic Grit Movies by the Piranhas, the FBs relate a uniquely Midwestern sound. Thrown in is a well placed Cabaret Voltaire cover as well as a song titled “Frustration”, which may be considered lackadaisical based upon the fact that the one hit (that term being applied liberally) from SF’s Crime holds the same title. Either way…

Similarly, “Stab Your Back” from The Severed Tongue shares its’ name with the first British punk single by the Damned – the first independently issued one of course. Regardless of that, this, the second Functional Blackouts full length, originally released on Chicago based Criminal IQ in 2006 and repressed by Dead Beat, continues in roughly the same direction. The production quality, while still remaining in proximity to the basement improves on Monkees efforts a bit. Musically this disc incorporates more explorations of noise and non-musical elements. “Heavy Breather,” getting two treatments, clocks in at more than half of the forty-five minute slab and offers at best a difficult listening journey through an experimental combination of straight rock stuffs and noise. The Functional Blackouts being label as an experimental punk band though, or whatever genre name may be applicable, seems to be a misnomer if compared to Pere Ubu, Devo or any other early punkers with penchants for a shambolic rock work out. What The Functional Blackouts do best, though, is to play primitive punk for the modern loser. Stripped down guitar lines, horrific if not occasionally ridiculous lyrics and painfully screamed vocals enrobe this noisome disc.

Understandably, playing straight punk can at time become tedious, but listening to faux sonic avant-punk can be just as trying. The songs offered up amidst their last album are as rewarding as any other punk release circa ’06. Unfortunately, listeners can only hope that the Daily Void improves to the point where there isn’t a distinction between their recorded past and that bands’ future.

The Godfather of Punk Dies

Malcolm McLaren died  Thursday, April 8, 2010. He is being remembered for his contributions to punk. He was called the godfather of punk. He is also being remembered  for his contribution to world hip hop. Malcolm McLaren was the former manager of the Sex Pistols and a musical impresario of whom critics say had, "virtually no musical talent whatsoever." He was considered  "a marketing genius,"   who " influenced and exploited the worldwide expansion of two inner-city explosions of creativity: punk rock and hip hop." (Chicago Tribune)

Malcolm McLaren  "was instrumental to bringing Hip Hop music and culture to the United Kingdom. He "was a notable bridge (along with Afrika Bambaataa) to the shared Downtown New York scene between Hop Hop and Punk in the early '80s ... The album which 'Buffalo Gals' appears on, 1983's Duck Rock, featured McLaren's most notably Hip Hop experimentation, as well as keyboard playing from '80s star Thomas Dolby." (HipHop Dx)

 He was 64 years old.. The cause of death-- cancer. RIP, Malcolm McLaren

Source: Chicago Tribune, HipHop Dx

The Tell Tale Hearts Reach Back...

Maintaining an ability to work with music over the duration of one’s life is a rare thing at best. Some folks figure out how to do, but it usually proves relatively difficult. That being said, the man behind Ugly Things has had his hands in garage stuffs for over twenty years. Who knows if Ugly Things even makes a dollar now, but the fact that Mike Stax has kept a dedication to the genre is admirable if nothing else. And in fact, there’s a lot more…

The early eighties, much like the early aughties saw a resurgence in garage styled rock outfits. Whether or not that happens every twenty years or not’s gonna be a mystery for another decade, but we’ll see. Regardless of that, alongside acts like the Cynics and the Chesterfield Kings, San Diego gifted the world with the Tell Tale Hearts. It’s a cool Edgar Allen Poe reference, one that has very little to do with the music, but interesting none the less.

Stax, who played bass in addition to handling vocal duties and his cohort in the Hearts - Ray Brandes on guitar, Eric Bacher on guitar and David Klowden on drums – weren’t an original act. Neither were the groups that the Hearts were attempting to mimic, though, so it’s moot. The band issued a number of singles and a twelve inch during its brief three year existence spanning from 1983 to ’86. Amongst all those sides was a lone, self titled album that sought to distill all things ‘60s style.

With those appropriations the Hearts’ it might all seem as if this were some throw away covers band. It’s not, although, the band worked out a few covers on that aforementioned twelve inch. The Hearts’ long player was auspiciously void of other band’s material. That’s not necessarily a novelty amongst the ‘80s crop of garage bands, but a recognizable creative impulse. Often times, bands of this nature tend to rest on classics even if they’re only lesser known gems.

Anyway, most garage groups seek to focus on the most revved up strain of the genre. And while that tendency is represented in spades over the course of the Voxx Records released album, there are a few slower numbers spiked with a soul vibe that not too many garage acts would be able to muster.

“She's Not What Love Is For” finds the band moving around a slower temple and it seems that Stax is actually singing as opposed to growling out those couplets. The organ is a bit bothersome and unimaginative during most of the song, but the indecipherably fuzzy guitar solo makes up for any perceived transgressions. Both “Forever Alone” and “Keep on Trying” make use of similar tempos, although, it would seem that “She’s Not…” seeks to utilize open space more so then these other efforts.

Along with those slower offerings are the de rigueur blues rave ups. There’s nothing surprising here at all, but for the most part, the Hearts were able to accomplish what it set out to do.

Stains: SST Stuperstars

After the initial wave of punk washed over major cities in the states, supplemental and more cloistered scenes began cropping up. Occasionally it was all divided up by place and what part of town you lived in. But sometimes scenes cropped up around cultural groups. And in Los Angeles, despite there being a scene in the city and then in the out laying suburbs, East LA developed its own groups.

Along with bands like the Plugz, there was a clutch of other groups there would only be able to record a few times. Most notably out of that cohort, after the better known Plugz, of course, were a few teenagers led by vocalist Rudy Navarro and guitarist Robert Becerra. The band, Stains, wasn’t detached from the more serious art punk stuff that was happening as early as ’77, but being from a different place and hold up in East LA served the group well. Instead of developing along the same lines as the bigger names in LA, the group wound up working with an elixir of early hardcore and nascent metal tropes. There isn’t too much in common with Metallica or other trash bands, but what the Stains were set do was clearly not just punk.

Perhaps because of the quicker tempos and the subject matter discussed over the course of the band’s one LP, Stains come off as nihilistic as Darby Crash from the Germs. No one killed themselves here (that I’m aware of), but hearing the deconstruction of every rock solo that came before it on “Violent Children” pointed towards Stains being something unique.

Because of this, Greg Ginn, SST label honcho and Black Flag guitarist, thought Stains fit to record a long player. The self titled effort was recorded in 1981, with de-facto SST producer Spot behind the boards, but for some reason, the disc wasn’t issued until 1983 when Stains were no longer a factor in the scene. Odd business practices, though, are what did SST in eventually anyway. Of course, Black Flag taking up so much of Ginn’s time might be blamed, but the guitarist clearly heard something he found value in. It’s just a damnable shame that the disc wasn’t widely available upon its initial release and certainly not now.

The Stains’ one full length moves around a bit in the hardcore genre and even as those guitar solos crop up a bit too frequently for anyone’s good, the pace here is unrelenting. No one will ever mistake Stains for a polished pop outfit. And as a part of that some of the songs run together, but “Young Nazis” really does sound like a lost Black Flag track from the Chavo era. Even Ginn’s guitar tones are reflected here – we’ll just ignore the blatant over use of the whammy bar.

Unless you happen to be the most voracious collector of SST release, Stains might not be essential. That being said, though, the band was able to craft some decent hardcore that sits somewhere between the subgenre’s first and second waves. Boss indeed.

The Mekons - Never Been In A Riot

Very few times in recorded music's history have guitars sounded this good. And what's more, the fact that the Mekons sought to lampoon one of the biggest punk acts in the UK should endear these guys to just about everybody.

U.S. Bombs: Old as Young

Through the infinite wisdom of bootleggers, in dingy punk record stores throughout the nation, a DVD entitled U.S. Bombs/Stitches Live at the Mesa Club ’94 has been making the rounds. And even though there is no footage of the U.S. Bombs actually performing, there is an elucidating, self-taped interview by Duane Peters, the Bombs’ singer. As his segment ensues it becomes amusingly apparent that Peters is unquestionably wasted. The viewer is privy to watching a dog lead Peters down the street as he rides his skateboard. It’s a clear video snapshot of the man, his priorities in full view.

Peters first came to the attention of skateboarders in Southern California as one of the early, noteworthy pool enthusiasts during the 1970s. He then went on to play in a number of bands throughout the ‘80s, and later with the Exploding Fuck Dolls. In the mid-‘90s he formed the U.S. Bombs.

A year or so after Live at the Mesa Club, the band released Garabaldi Guard, and was soon offered a spot as the house band on Comedy Central’s Premium Blend. The cultural shock that the quintet delivered with its music, as well as its habit of occasionally making noise and bumping into things during the performance, only served to solidify the fact that they shouldn’t really be there.

Growing up, it seemed, was the furthest thing from the band’s collective mind. But it was during these heady days of lucrative, yet ridiculous televised exposure, that Peters met the colossal former Nashville Pussy bassist, Corey Parks and, in addition to forming another band, the Hunns, with her on bass, became a father of Clash Peters. If partnerhood and parenthood changed Peters, the expansive catalogue he created during this time, from roughly ’00 to ’06, didn’t reveal it. The musician that created the U.S. Bombs remained committed to playing junky punk, or, as the band calls it, “war music.” Peters’ approach to music had become codified. Since and even prior to this, his music had been criticized for playing on teenage fantasies of ‘70s punks and never moving beyond that—perhaps a fair viewpoint, but you have to respect the guy for maintaining a musical pallet.

Punkers do grow up. Some get jobs, some get messed up and some figure out the formula to remain vibrant enough to clasp music as a lifelong endeavor. Social Distortion’s Mike Ness has achieved that. So too has Rancid’s Tim Armstrong. But Ness seems to have cooled out and while Armstrong doesn’t necessarily seem to have aged, his priorities are now split with running a label that continues to prove a financial success. Peters really has no such luxuries, and, in that sense, the forty-something might be in possession of one of the last true voices of SoCal’s punk movement. To hear that voice, moaning along to the fuzzy tones of a band that could have easily fathered most of the audience is to experience the visceral and emotional content of punk as a philosophy, a movement and a music.

The Cravats: In Toytown

Weirdoes seem more pervasive in secluded areas. Yeah, bums you’ll encounter in major cities, roving in crews and drinking in your favorite park are gonna be way more nutty than bucolic people. But the seclusion that out of the way places offer up works as a sort of crock pot, simmering the craziness until it reaches a perfect balance of outsidery goodness and insular intellect. There’re probably hundreds of bands that never got to put down tracks for a record – and there might be a ‘punk’ band  of the snotty, not the garagey variety, that predates anything that ‘scholars’ have been able to hunt down.

The Cravats are the lost link to anything, but they were certainly working with some source material that wasn’t as widely spread as it should have been. The Redditch, UK based group isn’t the Contortions or Pere Ubu, but elements of both those groups are pretty prevalent. Of course, the fact that Redditch is apparently a rather outta the way place might make those American bands all but useless to mention. The likelihood of the Cravats getting an ear full of that stuff isn’t too likely, but possible, of course.

Either way, when the band began in 1977 the Sex Pistols were basically what Brit punk was based upon. Certainly there were other, more skewed ensembles out there, but again, being removed from a major media center probably made it difficult for the Cravats to be exposed to a great deal of the second tier scene. By 1979, the group had secured a deal with Small Wonder Records. That, though, was only after sending a single to Rough Trade found the band holding said recording, smashed up in its hands, alongside a rejection letter from the better known imprint. Classy stuff all the way.

The reticence to offer up support from what passed for the underground label cognoscenti didn’t detour the band at all. And when its debut album, In Toytown, was released all involved were aware of the caliber of the recording. Even today, the disc possesses a bit of futuristic charm. It’s not a perfect effort – part of that owing to the fact that vocalist Robin Dallaway grunts in a fashion befitting Oi! bands on occasion. Despite that lone transgression, though, the combination of bleating horns and an esoteric electric keyboard being plyed by a chap with an interesting take on the instrument rendered the disc something of an outlying success.

Being removed from the center of punkish activities didn’t bode well for the group. Even with songs as strong and thoughtful as “Pressure Sellers,” the Cravats didn’t wind up hitting the big time. That song, though, sports a pretty knotty horn line along a few sparse, ringing guitar chords. It’s not the most artful thing in the world, but could probably pass for a Mekons track from the era.

The Cravats would go on to issue another long player during the mid ‘80s, but it all kinda petered out after that. The principals remain close, so it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility to find the group reforming at some point. Who knows?

The Sillies: Outta the Motor City

Detroit, much like Cleveland and the rest of that Midwest cohort, has seen the ups and downs of America’s economy wreck and ravage a once vital landscape. Of course, working in factories probably wouldn’t have sat well with the first wave of weirdoes outta either of those towns. But regardless of that fact, the lack of viable opportunities spurred on a creative caste that not too many other places sported.

It should be pointed out, though, that Detroit’s musical blossoming occurred almost a decade prior to that of Cleveland’s. The psych cum punk of what would eventually be termed proto-punk would play out for a few years as the next wave of almost punk acts cropped up. Cleveland gave the world the Rocket from the Tombs and its associated acts. Admittedly, that clutch of acts was beholden to the Stooges as much as anyone. So it’s odd that the Michigan bands that followed acts from the ‘60s weren’t up to snuff. It might have to do with the fact that watching a group on a regular basis and simply dreaming about them must have affected each cohort differently.

Whatever the reason, though, as the ‘70s found Cleveland awash in the Dead Boys, the Pagans, Pere Ubu and Devo, Detroit wasn’t able to contribute any major players to the movement. And no, Destroy All Monsters doesn’t count despite the band being a natural progression from an earlier era. There just wasn’t a vibrant new blood out there. The Sillies, though, began kicking around as early as 1975.

As an outsider to the Detroit scene, it might be a bit difficult to place the Sillies within a proper context. The band certainly wasn’t bad, but then again, Detroit also supported second tier psych bands like SRC. So, there might be a touch of home town nepotism going on if someone lets you know about the Sillies being a great band. The band might be as much of a place holder as anything else.

Cobbled together on the cleverly titled America's Most Wanton is the Sillies total output. Surely, the band’s been reconstituted of late to take advantage of the newest spate of reunion tours, but hopefully it hasn’t continued a recorded legacy.

Alright, that’s too harsh. But even some of the Sillies’ better known tunes, like “No Big Deal” are just hard rock offerings with some distorted guitar sounds tossed in for good measure alongside that blaring horn section. At its best, the track comes off as an out take from the Saints first album. At its worst, it’s a bar band with one musicologist amongst its ranks.

What the band actually suffers from is being that place holder. The Sillies are all scatter shot ‘60s stuff – “Real Love Live” – and pseudo punk – “Apparition.” Of course, the lyrical content puts the band in skewed punk territory with songs like “Lesbo Love” presenting then current parents with a fiasco on its hands. Whatever the historical significance of the group, though, the Sillies aren’t really worth the time to investigate – unless it‘s your uncle on bass or something.

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