X-Ray Spex: Pissed at Something

No, there still aren’t a wealth of female fronted rock groups. X remains atop that pile. But another group with the twenty third letter in the alphabet in its name, a Brit ensemble, no less, ranked up there for a brief while. And even while there were splinter groups subsequent to X-Ray Spex break up, some bloody good ones, nothing every really again matched the majesty of the bands first single, “Bondage.” At this late date, hearing such sentiments is likely a good deal less outrageous. Thirty some odd years back, though, hearing about whips and chains wasn’t en vogue. Of course, it wasn’t when the Velvets were working in equally sinister, if not more literary terms.

What made X-Ray Spex such a memorable act, in addition to having memorable songs, was the inclusion of a sax player, Lora Logic, who aimed to mirror the band’s singer, Poly Styrene, in her shrieks and vocal acrobatics. Never referencing free jazz, songs like “Obsessed with You” effortlessly merged punk, danceable music and a weird sort of tension absent from contemporaries apart from the Buzzcocks.

The warbling vocal introduction on tracks like “Genetic Engineering” seemed to connect the band with geeky new wave. But angling at some sort of commercial vibe wasn’t really in the cards here. The music was too aggressive, and Styrene’s vocals, while more than adept at bounding between rhythms wouldn’t likely be considered mellifluous by too many folks. All that’s probably a tremendous reason as to why the group was so short lived. But it seemed like all bands of the vintage were.

Bolt Thrower: The Difference Between War and Battle

Bolt Thrower seems to be important for the time it was formed as opposed to the spate of releases it issued over the band’s decade and change of existence. Metal and its even more dour exponent wrapped in the adjective black, as if that was needed, don’t general center on the UK as source of the music, apart from Black Sabbath. That group, though, dates back to the late sixties and a town called Birmingham. Maybe Coventry, Bolt Thrower’s home town, and its proximity to Sabbath’s initial base has something to do with this all.

Maybe not.

For the most part, Bolt Thrower gets lumped into a lot of mid to late eighties’ acts trucking in the same source material. Pretty frequently, though, the band’s lauded for its use of multiple tempos, although, no one ever goes so far as to tap the band as sludge progenitors – that might be an American thing. Well, a Southern thing. Anyway, the pair of early long players coming out of Bolt Thrower’s camp, auspiciously sans Viking, made the ensemble templates for the genre. But only for a bit. The UK band’s still a revered thing, but kinda like B.B. King and blues. The guy did his part, but hasn’t been vital or too useful in a few decades.

1988 saw the release of Bolt Thrower’s In Battle There Is No Law. And the rough hewn grunting that accompanies the whole thing should make listeners figure what was going on in the studio has its place among military skirmishes. The music sounds like it too. “Psychological Warfare” might sport a recognizable melody to those who’re paying close attention, but during the song’s climax, the whirring sound of everything at once devolves into aural squalor, a treat for sure. The most objectionable aspect of metal, to most, and if not most, then just to me, are the ridiculous vocals. Shorn of that caveman cauterwail, the music’s just a wankery hardcore appropriation. And that’s why “Psychological Warfare” works for the most part. No one’s singing during two-thirds of the song. Success.

The band’s following War Master, as issued in ’91, usually finds itself referenced as the group’s high point, if not the genre as a whole. “Profane Creation” might be cause for folks lauding Bolt Thrower’s rhythmic and pacing changes. It’s a wrenchingly slow grind even when the drums kicking into high tempo. If you’re not too familiar with the genre, differentiating one disc from the next is almost impossible. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen.

Revolutionary Problems: The Baader Meinhof Complex

It feels like there were two films, within just a few years of each other, that dealt with the Baader-Meinhoff Gang and its political quandary. For those not tremendously familiar with the group, listen to the Clash for long enough and you’ll figure it out. The band’s off handed reference to the terrorist group won’t assuage sell-out shouters, but still, a radical thing to mention for an ensemble on CBS Records.

Either way, the fictionalized story related in the Baader-Meinhof Komplex was strong enough to warrant a spate of awards nominations during 2008. The film didn’t take home hardware, which might account for the relatively low profile it still deals with. Well, that and all the anti-government stuff.

Going back to the late sixties and early seventies, the film’s plot extends from American involvement in foreign wars and the country’s insistence on engaging with questionable political allies to suite national interests. Kinda messed up that we’re still dealing with that, huh? At the time, though, Western Europe took a more revolutionary approach to protesting. France hosted some upheavals and while May ’69 wasn’t a complete game changer, the riots did serve to impassion a new generation of politically minded folks.

Germany, around the same time the States had pulled out of ‘Nam, but still had a hand in the Middle East, hosted the Shah of Iran and his wife. The Baader-Meinhof Komplex ostensibly uses that visit to bound into radicalism. Ulrike Meinhof, one of the Red Army Faction’s founders, wrote a series of potentially explosive missives taking public figures and the Shah’s wife, specifically, to task. In hindsight, the initial scribblings don’t seem revelatory. But considering he drastically different media landscape, it was. However strongly worded those writings were, though, Meinhof and the rest of the RAF eventually launched into a string of well planned and executed bank robberies, political killings and kidnappings.

A few folks, Meinhof included, landed in jail and were amidst trial when jailed RAF members started kicking off. The prisoner’s conditions became a subject of contention, with daily court wranglings becoming more and more difficult to control. Eventually, someone connected to the trial was kidnapped by RAF folks who demanded freedom for their comrades. A plane got hijacked and you can imagine what happens next.

For those of you – myself included – not overly familiar with RAF and German politics from the time, reading up a bit before watching this wouldn’t hurt. And since the ending doesn’t go anywhere, reading might actually be a requirement. Entertaining film, though.

Tutu & the Pirates: Booze and Speed

Good timing, considering the whole Ben Weasel as woman hater thing, huh?

Apart from Screeching Weasel, Chicago really doesn’t boast a wealth of intriguing punk acts. The city didn’t spawn a sub-genre and it’s middle of the road hardcore really wasn’t ever breathtaking. Da!, for whatever reason, makes Windy City citizens cream themselves. It shouldn’t. And while Tutu and the Pirates are a bit better, if not removed from that other group’s aural proclivities, the band isn’t too much more than a crop of Midwesterners appropriating music from other locales. That isn’t good bad or indifferent, just so.

While a far sight more entertaining than Hounds, Tutu (who was the band’s drummer) and company were significantly less adept at their instruments, but may have accidentally set up the template for Weasel and company to follow. There’s a wealth of Ramones cops here, as in a great number of bands from the ’77 era. But it’s in those moments listeners can hear the Pirates functioning as conduit for the Weasels’ latter triumphs.

“Burn Down The Discotheque” isn’t musically forward thinking, or even much more than a surprisingly catchy anthem from a bygone era. But in the band’s dumb thump and ridiculous solos, there’s a pretty sizable antecedent for Weasel songs aping an almost hardcore approach to its punk – listen to the opening guitar part on “My Right” for instance, or even “Dingbat.”

Losers like “Anarchy, Man” probably seemed like a good idea at the time. And whether or not the joke was a good one back in the day, the song’s accompanying hard rock stuff doesn’t work out too well. At least, this one doesn’t fail by dint of its dodging musicality. With all the bummers in the pack – so far, everything referenced was worked up as a demo as the group didn’t issue a proper studio album – it’s a surprise that the band counts so many auld tyme adherents.

Easily the strongest track, and unfortunately recorded live and rather poorly, “Rot Gut Wine” easily surpasses everything else in pace. While aping the Ramones, though, the Pirates wind up sounding like a vintage Boston band somewhere between the Real Kids and DMZ’ punkest moments. There’s nothing extraordinary about the track – or the rest of what’s here – it’s just that this one song is able to distill the entire era sonically and topically. Booze and speed. It sounds like an easy formula. Just not one these guys excelled at.

Gears: I Smoke Dope

The Controllers will always rank as one of those bands that should have been. For whatever reason, they just never hit. It might have had to do with the group’s ridiculous lyrical content – how many successful acts count songs about duking a corpse? The Pagans. Nah.

Anyway, with the Controllers ostensibly goin’ nowhere and major labels ignoring California punk bands, the ensemble’s guitarist Kidd Spike (presumably a smack reference) quit its ranks and went on to found the Gears. Most likely, if you’re familiar with this latter band at all, there’s simply an image of that black and yellow album floating around in your head. Whether or not hearing it was a part of your life might still be up in the air. After all, there were a huge number of discs detailing lesser bands from the era. And it becomes difficult to separate one from the other.

With Spike in charge of the melodic portion of this group, one would expect quick-fast caterwauling chords with an occasional solo tossed in for nothing other than an ear splitting second. But the Gears were a world away from the Controllers. X might be a more apt comparison. Well, X if they were less musically adept and incapable of turning country into punk and its opposite. Still, the Gears’ one album Rockin' at Ground Zero counts a few memorable moments. It’s just that the slower ones, like “Darlin’ Baby,” with its opening fifties revelry, is just kind of a bore. And even when the song kicks into punky territory, it’s only for a few moments.

What the band and its only album is remembered for, though, is the tandem “Trudie, Trudie” and “Baby Run Around,” each sitting more closely to the Controllers camp than anything else comprising the album. That first track’s just a love song, but it sports a pretty unique name for the time. And whether or not the fifties rock stuff is bothersome to most folks, the back-up vocals and vaguely rockabilly riff works perfectly. “Baby Run Around,” probably counting as the band’s magnum opus, sports a pretty memorably melody while Gears’ vocalist actually turns in a convincing rock star stance as he chastises some slut.

“I Smoke Dope” should be better considering its title. But the two minutes spent hearing the band revel in its own filth is worth examination. Is it great? Nah, but it’s probably better than most of the other nonsense masquerading as punk during 1980.

Reading Pile: 3/22/11

Venom #1- As far as new Venom series’ go, this one actually has a strong start and is pretty well handled as a first issue considering I don’t think a lot of Venom fans might be caught up with all the Flash Thompson shenanigans in the current Spider-Man continuity. I’m fairly curious as to how long Tony Moore will stick with the title as regular artist, but his style complements the tone of the book and helped to make this a pretty solid read. Something new for a fairly stale character, so hey that never hurts. B+


Warlord of Mars #5- I’m warming up to Lui Antonio’s art style, partly because he is a solid story teller and also partly because I like the way he depicts the Green Martians. Story is still fun, but that’s to be expected from Nelson. B+


Brightest Day #22- I just now realized that this Scott Clark is not a new Scott Clark but is actually the Scott Clark of the ‘90's who worked on Image/Wildstorm titles. Huh. That’s weird. But it totally works, he kind of rocks Black Lanterns and Firestorm. Also, Firestorm facing off against the Anti-Monitor solo? That actually is pretty awesome. Kinda weird seeing the Anti-Monitor without his helmet though. Was that weird for anyone else? It wasn’t anti-climatic for me because it was still better looking than say the marshmallow head I think we all assumed he had due to his mouth, but still.....kinda made me think of the Great Darkness Saga a little. A-


Axe Cop Bad Guy Earth #1- YES. That is all I have to say. YES. A++


Fear Itself Prologue: Book of the Skull- A solid and interesting background piece to the main story coming up. The plot for Fear Itself is so damn vague, I’m a little standoffish with it simply because if it is kind of a mix of WWII/Norse Mythology than I’m a little worried about it because Hickman already sort of touched on that idea with Ultimate Thor. Still, hopefully it will just be fun and if we are lucky we won’t be drowned in a sea of mini-series and crossovers.........hurm. B+

Assück: One Long Stream of Debilitating Noise

There’re a couple reasons why Assück’s pretty funny – not funny, haha, but funny, holy shit, funny. Firstly, and most importantly, they band’s from Florida, a state known mainly for it’s increasing octogenarian population. Assück’s music, though, isn’t all sunshine and smiles. It’s pretty much the opposite and firmly rooted in scum.

Founded during the late eighties, the band wasn’t the first to get tagged grindcore. But that’s not important. Assück’s all too short, minute long songs are what counts. And the fact that the band, over its decade long existence, figured out how to immediately be in the middle of an oppressive music once a song starts is just short of utterly shocking.

The band’s final full length, 1997’s Miserey Index (the album’s title, not to mention that band’s name, is the other really funny thing to me), doesn’t seem like a tremendous step in evolutionary hardcore or metal. It’s more of what came before: ridiculously gruff vocals, downer bass parts and noisome guitar lines. There’s nothing separating the idea of misery, so openly referenced in the disc’s title, and the awful, aural scrawl here.

Any of Miserey Index’ fifteen songs are more than interchagaable. Yeah, there’re slight derivations on a theme. “Dataclast” actually has a surprisingly unique rhythm and vocal cadence, but still, to the unitiated, there can’t be any difference between that song and anything else here. But that’s also this music’s charm. Fifteen songs in sixteen minutes might sound like a lot of individual composing. But it really comes off as one long stream of debilitating noise. That’s not meant to demean that band’s talent, since there really aren’t too many acts capable of pulling this off. Still, the whole thing’s pretty nuts.

“A Monument To Failure,” the band’s second to last song on record, seems an appropriate handful of lyrics to get out there. Of course, there’s almost no way to understand what’s going on here, but it’s probably inspired by hate and depression – and I eagerly endorse that. Who knows if the band was aware it was on the way out. Closing the album with a track called “In Absence,” though, seems like a premeditated move. And a good one. With 1997 being the year that killed this band, in its wake, a spate of newer, sometimes more hardcore influenced, grind acts made inroads into the cool underground. Assück still remains a pillar of awful filth in that community.

Myelin Sheaths: More of the Same Garage

You know what’s a bummer? If I was eighteen years old and heard Myelin Sheaths for the first time, I’d probably drop a turd in my pants at how scuffy the band’s garage stuff sounds. I’m not, though. And I’m jaded. And I don’t really believe in anything. So getting an earful of the Sheaths’ Get On Your Nerves doesn’t move me emotionally one bit.

That’s not to say there aren’t good performances on here, but thanks to Southpaw, and earlier HoZac the Sheaths are regaling unwitting listeners with music that’s been made and remade for something like fifty years.

What’s even more disappointing is after that first track – “Gloves / Mutations” – it’s all downhill. The opener, though, takes the thrasiest rock drums possible, marries it to a pretty simple, but steady bassline allowing for the main guitar figure to grind its way through the fuzz pedal and into your ear holes. It’s really actually quite a magical two minute composition and should make listeners eager to hear more. The ‘more,’ though, is just wrote, revved up garage stuff, the same as anything coming out of the Bay, which is beyond boring and repetitive at this point.

It’s surprising that the band wasn’t able to apply the same formula working on that opening track to other works here. The vocals seem perfectly buried, but even on the following track, everything’s in focus and more crisp. There’s a bit of harmonizing on “Everything is Contagious,” hardly on par with Grass Widow and the like. It’s not a bummer, just kinda boring and feels reeled in compared to that opening half instrumental track.

By Get On Your Nerves’ third track, “Half-Wit,” all bets are off and really, the record should be as well. Sure, that trebly guitar solo works out pretty well, but the rest of the song’s something akin to a high school rock band getting some back up singers – let’s not get into that really loud flubbed note either. Yeah, it’s indie-garage, but still…

Anyway, the rest of the disc moves in and out of passable fidelity, purposefully of course. And while the more obscure each vocal gets, the better. But what the Sheaths would most benefit from would be pulling back on the detailed lyric stuff  - it’s gotta be hard to fit lyrics from “Large Haddron Collider” into a sensible lyrical line. Whatever, it’s not awful, just a bit more of the same.

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