The Dogs: A French (Punker) Confusion

There’re about fifty bands named something like the Dogs – an LA band, the British Slaughter and the Dogs. The list goes on. It’s an obvious name, but there’s a French group using the animal as its name that hasn’t even achieved Killed By Death status. And there’s not really any good reason for that.

As early as 1973, the Dogs were aping a revved up rock and roll stance easily matching any of the Stateside proto punk caterwauling we’ve all grown to love. Admittedly, the Dogs don’t include too much of an adventurous attitude in its music. Toronto’s Teenage Head might be a good aural equivalent. But that’s a bit unfair even if the Frenchies’ “My Life” sounds like those Canucks while they were covering the Boys.

Regardless of who sounds like what, the Dogs were a functioning ensemble for almost thirty years. In 2002, Dominique Laboubée, the band’s singer and only constant member, succumb to cancer. It’s hard enough to track down work from the band’s early period – or any sort of English language commentary. But tracking down relatively recent albums just isn’t going to happen. As per usual, though, it’d be easy to guess that there wasn’t the same sort of punk fervor at work so late in the game.

Either way, floating around the internet was both Bite Back, a compilation soldering together early singles, as well as a twelve inch entitled Go Where You Want To Go dating to 1978. The prior, while not a proper album, sports a pretty consistent tone. Well, that twelve inch does as well.

“Teenage Fever,” like most of the Dogs’ other work, sounds like a revved up version of the Jam, eschewing the silly, pop and soul influenced choruses that bogged down the British trio. Singing in English makes the entire affair even more palatable, although, the Dogs would surely still be worth getting an earful of if lyrics were snotted out in French.

Even if most of these tracks are all the same pace, “Terminal State” switches the proceedings up enough by replacing the hi-hat with a floor tom. Punks never claimed to be the best musicians in the world. The aforementioned twelve inch, actually, slots somewhere in the middle of Bite Back – I think. Either way, with a nasty, live rendition of the Who’s “Boris the Spider,” there’s nothing here to disappoint. And over the course of twenty songs, that’s pretty bloody impressive.

The Glaxo Babies Killed Bruce Lee

Coming along at about the same time the first wave of punk hit England, Bristol’s Glaxo Babies were already working on their amalgam of funk and mutant disco while the Sex Pistols were encouraging spitting by their fans. It might be a statement on band member’s intelligence – even if John Lydon still ranks as one of the most important musical figures in the last half of the twentieth century. But the fact that Glaxo Babies ostenensibly figured out Public Image Limited’s formal three years early points to some weird stirrings out there in the UK.

Granted at about the same time Gang of Four and New York’s No Wave scene were issuing music roughly the same as Glaxo Babies. For some reason, though, this group wasn’t ever able to capitalize on their recombinant DNA. Of course, I couldn’t have been bothered to take a listen until after reading An Irregular Head, penned by a one time singer for the group named Rob Chapman.

It was during the ensemble’s initial formation that Chapman worked with Glaxo Babies. But even before the group was able to issue its first full length, it seems they ditched vocals. The entirety of Nine Months to the Disco, released surprisingly late in 1980 considering the band’s formation so much earlier, was a mélange of funk, slinky guitar parts and spurts of free improvisation. Vocals were of no concern.

The album’s title track, which features an odd, backwards loop of funky rhythm, not totally dissimilar to the first Public Image Limited song on its first recording, stakes out the terrain Glaxo Babies would be mining for the next few years. There’s a snatch of guitar dumped into the composition every once in a while. But for the most part “Nine Months to the Disco” is a completely avant/savant effort pushing the group past its peers. Maybe Cabert Voltaire would be able to sympathize, but that’s about it.

Too weird for punkers and not weird enough for the true avant garde, Glaxo Babies were only able to wrench one more long player from the group that recorded the first disc. “Who Killed Bruce Lee?” from the following Put Me On the Guest List is basically a reggae song with some ridiculous echo on the guitar parts. Somehow it works – again aping a similar stance to PIL. While the song can’t be figured as defining of the band or even this album, it’s surprising it never caught on even during a time when similar ensembles are being lionized. No explanations.

Dead Ghosts: A Different Garage in a Separate Kitchen

Pinning a sound on a specific place is difficult to do. It works on occasion, but trying to associate the more garagey side of the independent rock world with Canada, even if it’s Vancouver, gets kinda difficult to do. Down south, here in the States, our perception of those northerners is one of tremendous calm. It’s clean up there. Pots a bit more tolerable and there’s free stuff from the government, easily accessible and not at the center of a decades old political debate. Maybe all of that actually goes into Dead Ghosts’ echoey and sometimes slowly paced, but in a good way, debut album.

After a handful of singles and cassettes the band turned in its first long player, self titled that is, through Florida’s Dying. Despite the large distance between the band’s home and its label’s, the pairing’s an apt fit. For whatever reason, most of the garage groups springing from Florida don’t traffic in the most revved up derivations of the genre. There’s a lilting quality to the whole thing, Dead Ghosts included, making works seem older and perhaps more dusty.

Yeah, Dead Ghosts have an album named Dead Ghosts and a song on that album called “Dead Ghosts.” Again, though, it’s fitting. The song’s aural qualities go a long way towards summoning spirits. It’s all lopped blues shuffle, plunking toy piano and almost passable slide guitar. If you heard this stuff coming out of your neighbor’s house, you’d think it was haunted. And that’s, obviously, the point. But it works almost effortlessly. Of course, fading the song out and bursting into the country cum Nuggets “Getting Older” is nothing short of a jolt. And while the combination of various country stylings with Dead Ghosts’ sixities’ rock stance isn’t necessarily original, Francis Harold and the Holograms are pretty adept at that pose, it’s turned in with impeccable skill. Or, at least, as much skill as necessary for an effort like this.

Distinguishing Dead Ghosts from the spate of other garage styled groups trekking overland, down freeways in vans and playing gigs every other evening isn’t too easy to do. At the same time, though, there is a level of engagement beyond the tried and true influences making these Canadians a bit more interesting than its peers. Whether or not that’s going to make a huge difference in the band’s career is up in the air. But they were able get a Vivian Girl to compose the cover art for this album. That’s kind of impressive.

John Lydon as Public Image Ltd.

Oh, John Lydon. He’s impacted music twice and remained an obnoxious geezer the entire time. It’s worth wondering how much of that’s actually an act and how much it’s just personality. Regardless of the answer, though, the guy’s issued some thoroughly entertaining, if not torrentially twisted music.

After the Sex Pistols basically did all it was capable of over the course of a full length album – well, there was that soundtrack, but it didn’t seem to be a concerted studio affair – scattered band members picked up other groups or did too much smack and potentially killed their girlfriend. Lyond wasn’t a murderer, so he picked up Jah Wobble and Keith Levene in order to sort out Public Image Ltd’s first line up.

Immediately, the band served to push to the Lydon’s ridiculous tendencies out towards the furthest reaches listeners could handle. Just a year after Never Mind the Bullocks was released, PiL went and issued First Issue. While that disc’s still considered a classic, and rightly so, it was Metal Box, the following album, which remains a hallmark by which other weirdo, funk cum punk recordings are measured.

Lydon’s vocals wind up being a bit skewed towards the gothy side of things when he isn’t hollering on the band’s best known track, “Poptones.” It’s the instrumentals, though, that make Metal Box a recording worth a revisiting every few years. “Socialst,” obviously meant to be bothersome to straight laced listeners, sports a startling afrobeat style drum beat with Jah Wobble’s heavy bass weighting everything down. Instead of leaving the song’s melodic figure up to guitar, Levene instead snags a synthesizer and goes to town blurping and gurgling his way through three minutes of space aged funk. A few tracks earlier, the band turned in “Graveyard,” which sounds a bit more punk related, but not enough to endear it to anyone wearing an Exploited t-shirt.

Further detaching himself from a codified version of punk he helped solidify, Lydon moved towards a bleak minimalism on Flowers Of Romance, released in 1981. As a result of constant line-up shifts, only the frontman and Levene remained from PiL’s original cast. The strained relationship between the two, however, led to the guitarist being relegated to playing a supporting role in the music as opposed to figuring key melodic concepts. Maybe too stark even for fans of sad-sack post punk, it’s an interest addition to a band’s legacy who today might count as more important than it did a decade back.

Killdozer: Let the Midwest Get Some...

With a name snatch either from a 1940’s sci-fi novel or its attendant 1970s’ remake, Wisconsin’s Killdozer were clearly a weird band. But before getting into the ensemble’s first album, it’s worth noting that the eighties were a time when towns outside major media markets began to spring bands who’d eventually receive national attention. What the reason for this sort of democratization was can only be guessed at, but it probably had at least a little to do with Black Flag and Sonic Youth records becoming more readily available. Of course, available’s only relative.

Anyway, with the proliferation of independent labels, it didn’t take too long for Killdozer to attract a bit of attention from the Chicago based Touch and Go imprint. And by 1984 Intellectuals are the Shoeshine Boys of the Ruling Elite was released. Now, that title alone bears a bit of discussion. It’s almost indisputable that college bound folks wind up being debtors after incurring outlandish interest rates stemming from school loans. And yes, it necessitates quick and nimble job finding. So at some point, unless you land a job right quick, you’re screwed. Beyond just that, the fact that ample minds are busied with school work in lieu of exacting change allows for the ruling classes to continue exploiting just about anyone they want. So, it’s pretty bloody amusing that Killdozer points that out. But in the bands attempt to be smug and amusing, at some point they themselves run the risk of getting tagged as intellectuals.

Hearing the hardcore inflected portions of “Farmer Johnson” might disabuse just about anyone from connecting the Madison band to concepts related to books. But in the ensemble’s ability to move in and out of tempos, switching rather seamlessly, there’s a bit of savant musical talent here. Of course, Killdozer would most likely demur from categorization connected to musical acumen. But it’s there.

Surely, anything written about the band’s bound to mention grunge. So there it was. And while the similarities to that site specific genre are endless, Michael Gerald winds up sounding like Darby Crash. Even if the Germs’ sported a guitarist who’d eventually wind up playing with Nirvana, LA’s suicidal punk doesn’t have too much to do with Sub Pop. Killdozer, then, in some ways, works as a connective thread working from seventies punk, eighties-dumb-rock and grunge through to the Am Rep sound geeks with horn rimmed glasses and tight pants dream about.

Subhumans: It's All Gone Dead

There was a brief moment in time – in England, at least – between the first wave bands falling away and a newer crop of even less musically adroit individuals taking over that a few ensembles had a genuine political point of view to dispense. And they dispensed it with a vigor since unmatched even by the likes of American hardcore groups, which more frequently than not just said Reagan and the political system sucked. That was it.

The Subhumans, not the Canadian band, though, were only around for a few years and their legacy is predicated, really, on only a single long playing album. There were a few other release. And we’ll get to them. Just wait.

Issued in 1983, seemingly too late to mater, The Day the Country Died sounds like little else being released at the time. Crass is, obviously, a touchstone. And while this group retained a political bent over its career, the music never became subservient to the message. On this first full length, the Subhumans talk in about the way people relate to information they’ve been given, how not being listened to is a tremendous bummer and how the bomb stinks. What’s drastically different about these folks and Crass, or Zounds, or whoever else, is the fact that singer, Dick Lucas, talks about losing his mother to cancer. The story, true or not, wasn’t dashed with a load of tears. Instead, the Subhumans use the idea to refute religion. ‘Cause really, what God would let a kids mom die from cancer before he was ten. Whatever the answer is – if it’s not that he doesn’t exist – it probably has something to do with being horrible.

With that first album being such a solid slab of cerebral song writing and genuine emotion, the release of EP LP, collecting the band’s earlier singles, was a sensible move. And again, there’s not really a sour patch in the lot, perhaps a bit less consistent in terms of aurally quality, but it was cobbled together from various recordings.

The bummer is that the group’s final album from its first phase – they broke up during ’85 – kinda stinks. From the Cradle to the Grave isn’t a complete departure from what came before it, but on songs like “Waste of Breath” there’s an bit of over production and a feeling that hard rock was insinuating itself into the group’s sound. Whatever the case, everything that came before it is not just worth exploring, but owning. For serious.

Sisters: From Olympia with (Vague) Hardcore

There’s no such thing as a perfect merger between two different genres. Some attempts work better than others. But to truly adapt an older work is to create something new. I guess. That’s a bunch of circular, art speak levied on music, undeservedly or not. Various punk related strains, though, comprise a huge amount of what passes for entertainment today. That’s a bit of good and a bit of bad…

It’d be difficult to locate more than a few words connected to Olympia based Sisters that aren’t laudatory. But for the most part, the commentary works to connect the group to nineties’ styled noise mongers and alternatives to the alternative nation. That’s not specious logic. At the same time, though, with everyone in love with Mudhoney and the Jesus Lizard (which I won’t ever fully understand), it seems that everyone’s forgotten that hardcore, in its American guise, not the shitty Japanese version, exerts as much if not more influence on current sounds than just about anything else.

No, there aren’t forty second, anti-drug screeds cropping up here and there. But even with noise bands, the sheer abrasive tendencies surfacing there are enough to connect back to Greg Ginn and Keith Morris. Sisters don’t generally play that sort of music, but there’re brief snatches shinning through making the connection pretty easy.

“Rotten Fucks,” which clocks in at forty two seconds, begins with a drum pattern applicable to just about any SoCal or Boston band from 1979. Of course, lyrics concerning distaste for someone owning a Mercedes jigsaw seamlessly with that decade’s old aesthetic. Either way, it’s just a good song.

A bit further along on the band’s Everybody, released back in 2008, “Blue” begins in tossed off HxCx fashion before shuffling off into Sonic Youth territory. But even in that influence being laid bare, the New York group’s ability to adapt punk’s pacings with more artful arrangements comes to fruition here – well, that is, if it didn’t on any of SY’s albums over the last thirty years.

After that extended workout, Sisters head back to short screeds of would-be hardcore, serving only to make Everybody’s second portion more enticing than its opening half. It’s all gravy, though. There’s not a missed opportunity here to thrown in some screaming criticism while guitars churn and drums thump at breakdown tempo before jumping back to that one-two thud. Everybody isn’t a magical construction, it’s just good pissed off rock music.

Volcano Suns: The Homestead Years

The rate at which eighties’ underground bands wound up releasing music was a pretty astonishing achievement. Just think about how much material sported the Black Flag name between 1978 and 1985. Making that all the more impressive is the sort of development over that frame of time. Granted, not everyone issuing work worked up the sort of visionary catalog as Greg Ginn and company. But there were a huge number of groups working with independent labels all pushing for some sort of creative epiphany. If that was achieved is up for debate – even if the debate usually goes from the Sex Pistols being visionaries in 1977 to Nirvana being prophets in 1991.

Whatever constituted punk’s first wave, the group’s following maintained a sort of bleary eyed naiveté while eventually desiring some sort of widespread acclaim. Peter Prescott, formerly  Mission of Burma’s drummer, founded Volcano Suns as much as a drummer can found anything.  It’s true the band bore some aural similarity to Prescott’s old band. But honestly, shorn of the useless experimental bent, this troupe seems to be more consistent even if it was ever able to reach the accomplishments of “Ballad of Johnny Burma.”

The Bright Orange Years (Homestead, 1985): The group’s first disc unquestionably comes off like a Burma sound-a-like. It’d be difficult to deny that. “I’m Gonna Make You Mine” even winds up taking some of the older group’s rhythmic sputtering and puts it to good use – that should have been expected, though. “It’s Stewtime” gets all dirgey, then putting forth the band’s other mode of music making.

All-Night Lotus Party (Homestead, 1986): “Engines” is punk. No question. And while the band’s second long player continues on in roughly the same terms as its first Homestead recording, already, it seems that there’s not too much other territory to cover. Of course, if you’ve never heard Burma, that might be less of a problem. Even as Lotus Party revels in the simplicity of eighties styled independent rock, there’s already nowhere to go.

Bumper Crop (Homestead, 1987): Even with a relative lack of new ideas – and no, new songs don’t always count as new ideas – Volcano Suns turn in their last effort for Homestead. It’s surprising that three discs into the band’s career, the music being issued would catch the collective ear of SST, making this disc the bands last on its initial imprint. Following this disc up with Farced and Things of Beauty only prolonged a career that could have easily been summed up in about ten songs. This might have been a bit too negative for no good reason – the band’s good. Just not original or ridiculously engaging.

Marc Riley and the Creepers: Out of the Band...

It’s unfortunate that Marc Riley may well be best known for his stint in the Fall and the eventual contentious relationship he had with Mark E. Smith. Though disputed, Smith says he kicked Riley, his bassist, out of the band on his wedding day. Riley denies that, but it’s still a pretty amazing idea to even have thought up, even if it didn’t occur.

Riley, after finding himself without a band, set about putting together what would eventually be the Creepers. In need of income, since the Fall obviously wasn’t taking the guy on tour, Riley wound up as half of a radio duo for a good amount of time. But it’s the guy’s first few albums with the aforementioned Creepers that make him worthy of note – well that and playing on Live at the Witch Trials.

Fancy Meeting God (1984): The first year Riley was working with the Creepers, he issued two long playing releases. This one and it’s ridiculous title, sport a few early album highlights, but then sort of peters out. “Breakneck 1” has pretty clear ties to the Fall. But it’s the Riley’s jack-booted bass rumbling through the tinny guitar line making the song something to listen to on repeat. Unfortunately, by the time “Poop Scoop” comes around, despite its title, the disc’s gotten to the point where listeners might want to have the remote handy.

Gross Out (1984): The vulgarity which opens “Make Joe” is pretty undeniably hilarious. That being said, of there wasn’t any humor present, the effort might not register – the disc either. What happened to a bunch of post-punk groups, and yeah, it’s unfair to pick on these guys, was that the song-writing eventually overtook focus on crafting music that sounded as revolutionary as first wave punk bands and their dancey post-punk followers. Joe shitting himself is still funny, but the music is accidentally as well.

Rock ‘n Roll Liquorice Flavor (1988): A full four years later, it seems that Riley and company hadn’t shed too much of its original fervor. And picking up the Mekons’ Jon Langford to produce and play a bit of guitar seemed to have injected a bit of balls back into the band. Including a bit of sax on “Fillet Face” adds an air of willful weirdness not found elsewhere in the Creepers’ catalog. Unfortunately, nothing this late in the game gets anywhere near what “Breakneck 1” was able to do.

Vice's New Garage Explosion (Video)

It's about time someone got around to doing an extended non-fiction film on garage related musics from the last twenty years. And even as I feel the need to generally decry just about anything Vice-related, New Garage Explosion is pretty entertaining even if it skips over a few things and includes some punk stuff that seemed unnecessary.

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