Classic Compilations: Live at the Rat

Yes, I realize that this is the second consecutive compilation to exclusively feature Boston based groups. Perhaps that points to the immense power that city wrangled for something like fifteen years. That’s not to say there’s nothing going on there as we speak. But few ensembles are ever going to match the sheer abandon that the early(ish) punk(ish) groups and those eighties hardcore bands were able to muster.

Willie 'Loco' Alexander – This gentleman, outside of Boston at least, is probably better known for replacing Lou Reed in the Velvet Underground as the band was going to pot being led by the Yule brothers. So, it might not even count as the Velvets. No one was left, just ringers. Either way, the reason Alexander got a shot at the big time was his time the group anthologized here. At points, it’s not difficult to hear subtle similarities between his voice and Reeds. But not enough to warrant one replacing the other. Beyond that, though, the music the Boom Boom Band works up as backing doesn’t get too far past hard rock ala Aerosmith. And no, it’s no a coincidence that both bands hail from the same joint. Not at all. Either way, Alexander opening Live at the Rat, despite the song being about the venue, doesn’t make for a good start.

The Real Kids – It’s really a toss up as to whether these folks better represent what was turning into a punk scene up there on Boston or DMZ. There’s not a real answer. But the Real Kids were able to work up a more pop oriented racket while still referencing that band Alexander would eventually find himself. The two tracks contributed here are kinda lengthy considering the pop overtones. Of course, repetitive melodies and rhythms were basically what the Velvets trucked in, so it shouldn’t be that great of a surprise. Either way "Better Be Good" ranks up there with the finest moments from the Ramones catalog. That same sneer’s at work. Boss sounds.

DMZ – Yes, this band preceded the Lyres. But it sounds as if both the tracks here were latter included on the Bomp! compilation called Live at the Rat: 1976-1993. Yeah, that might be obvious, but if DMZ winds up being the reason you’re trying to cop this joint, that’s something necessary to know. Whatever, the two contributions here are short and out of control. Punk in it’s fetal-pop stages.

Henry Rollins Gets Weird in a Record Store (Video)

I understand the sentiment Mr. Rollins expresses here. However, if he wasn't known for confrontational antics, probably no one would holler at him. The broad he confronts in the vid was just as likely to shout at someone with a Venom t-shirt. Ahhh, crazy people.

Sonny Vincent an the Testors: A Boring History Lesson

After reading this piece over here, further comment almost seems useless. Here we go, though.

The Testor’s are a name, as is singer Sonny Vincent, that resounds throughout all of punkdom as some sign post of the genre’s spreading from some insular New York thing to the world wide phenomena that we all know today.

Before the onslaught of repressed punk obscurities, the Testors existed in a corner of the punk kingdom that only a few folks had been exposed to. Basically, this entire story can be applied to San Francisco’s CRIME as well. That West Coast band, for the most part, worked up a bunch of middling punk inflected tracks and cemented a legacy that easily surpassed the music’s actual importance. At this late date, copping that CRIME discography has got to be a tremendous bummer.

And so is gettin’ an earful of the Testors’ Complete Recordings. In that aforementioned review, there’s mention of a nation wide tour with Cleveland transplants the Dead Boys. And the connection makes total sense. That band, sporting the always charming Cheetah Chrome on guitar, really released only a handful of tracks that could today exist independent of the band’s legacy and still be afforded too much deference. That’s not to diminish anyone’s historical contributions to the genre, that’s just how time works. What was once shocking is no longer a surprise.

That being said, part of what makes the Testors something of a disappointment to hear thirty some odd years after its founding is that a good deal of the phrasing Vincent uses in his vocals have become excepted models of singing in a punk band – “Crazy Lazy Jane” being as good an example as anything else. The same might be figured in regards to instrumentation and how guitars are voiced here. That same song sports a melodic progression in so many other songs that if it were rendered in solely instrumental terms, it’d be almost impossible to distinguish one from the next.

So, the most base assessment of the Testors and this cash-in style anthology is simply to figure it as working towards uncovering and disseminating the entirety of punk’s history. That’s a worth while cause, to be sure. At the same time, though, there seems to be very little reason to be engaged with each and every dispatch from the punk record stacks.

Either way, though, Vincent’s gone on to a rather prolific solo career. And if nothing else, it’s better that he’s making music than making burgers up the street.

Gonn: Tougher than the Rest of Iowa

Lauding garage bands at this late date is a seemingly empty endeavor. That being said, some acts from the furthest reaches of American civilization remain immensely intriguing. For being so removed from huge cities – New Yawk, Los Angeles, Chi, etc – a group of miscreant, Iowa natives felt it necessary to rave up some of the most twisted, distorted and forward leaning grooves during a two year period.

Between 1966 and 1968, GONN gigged around the middle of nowhere in a hearse, apparently, performed at state fairs and otherwise, cut some sides and all of this in front of a Nazi flag as frequently as possible.

Now, Nazi imagery is really just an attempt at being willfully difficult. The trick still resounded with something akin to controversy during the seventies when the Ramones (which included a few nice, Jewish boys) were known to break out some swastikas. But in 2010 doing so seems like a hoax. There’s gotta be a better way to be an oddball – more creative.

I suppose the same can be said for the current crop of garage acts traversing the countries tiny, dive bars, but that’s another story for another time.

As for GONN, its career didn’t persist for too long. It might be attributed to any number of reasons, but that’s really secondary considering the recorded racket the ensemble left in its wake. Collected on The Loudest Band in Town, GONN’s recorded career doesn’t take more than a quarter of an hour to wade, through. Granted, there are a few dull moments. But relative to what was being released concurrent to this, it’s all just short of shocking.

“You're Lookin' Fine” might rank as the band’s most reserved moment. A few covers included here rank along with it. But accompanying each of these lesser efforts is a modicum of screaming and an occasional spurt of feedeback. Remember, those are the lesser moments.

As for the top tier stuff, the band’s single “Blackout Of Gretely” – which was included on Nuggets – is generally considered its finest moment. But it just sounds like the Standells (GONN goes so far as to cover the Boston bands “Good Guys Don’t Wear White”). And while the Standells rule in its own right, there’s stuff from this Iowa group which sounds as strong forty years on.

There’s really no draw back to snagging Loudest Band in Town. Even the late-disc covers work out well. And there’s always a place for another version of Dylan’s “It Ain't Me Babe” even if Johnny Cash’s version is tops.

The Membranes: Other Musics Will Seem More Palatable

The history of relatively obscure, Brit bands akin to New York’s No Wave has yet to be written. Gang of Four is obviously a well understood commodity. And with the mainstreaming of Simple Minds as well as Scritti Politti, it’s a wonder there hasn’t been more written about this crop of woefully creative weirdoes. That being said, some of the music really comes off as difficult to wade through as the most damaged offerings on the Eno produced No New York. Either way, the music’s rad – the Membranes being particularly nutso.

Formed during the early eighties, assumed weened on punk’s first wave, a clutch of Blackpool guys got together, melding aggression with oddball rhythms and warbly vocals. It’d be difficult to even draw a proper comparison – even the Contortions wouldn’t work in this equation.

Releasing a slew of low rent, hard to find discs hasn’t done well by the group. That being said, the internets, obviously, have made it a bit easier to track the stuff down even if Pulp Beating 1984 and all That was the only long player I was able to come across. But the Membranes’ scarcity again points to the noisome racket the band was engaged with. It’s hard to figure from scant listening – and its nearly impossible to decipher any of the lyrics – whether the band was interested in pissing off its audience.

Even if the Membranes weren’t interested in the aspect of music’s theater, all involved apparently enjoyed literature. “Kafka's Dad” begins with that distorted bass sound and some screaming as the rest of the band churns out a ridiculous, mutant funk tune. There’s mention of screaming in the lyrics, but not too much else is getting sussed out.

“Big Nose and the Howling Wind” might not actually be a reference to Gogol’s The Nose, but I choose to believe it is. The Membranes, on this one, work with some similar game plan, except for the vocals being delivered in a throaty Morrisey-style and some background efforts bolster verses. There’s something obscenely gothic about the track, though – something difficult to expel in prose. “Big Nose” – and this entire disc – are really worth hunting down, if for nothing else making other musics seem more palatable.

Beyond this music being cool and all, what’s impressive is that the band’s bassist, John Rob, has persisted in making music his career, while guitarist Mark Tilton works in film. Ahh, art.

Classic Compilations: This Is Boston, Not L.A.

While each disparate part of the country eventually developed a scene, distinct sound and aesthetic, there was still a pretty easy to hear thread running through a bunch of works. That doesn’t mean whatever eighties’ record was derivative when examined alongside stuff from the previous decade. But it’s funny that this (classic) compilation is called This is Boston, Not L.A. considering there’s a torrential Black Flag influence inherent in some of these bands. What’s the difference, though? There’re some good tunes on here – and the album actually still exhibits a tremendous amount of influence on today’s hardcore acts. So take a gander and wonder what it would have been like to assist in founding one of the most violent hardcore scenes in the country.

Jerry’s Kids – First of all, awesome name. These guys were probably one of the five most recognizable groups from Boston’s hardcore scene. Of course, Gang Green, who we’ll get to in a moment, easily out ranks these dudes. But Jerry’s Kids are able to mine a signifigant amount of DC’s approach to music well the group’s vocalist comes off sounding like a west coast screamer. The music’s as gruff as the vocals, but that’s how it should be. And apart from some questionable drum fills, this stuff is golden.

Gang Green – I saw these guys once during the nineties. Their drummer, without dropping the beat, reached for a beer while continuing on with the song, took a swig, put the can down and went back to work. That’s pretty much all I remember from the show – oddly enough. But these guys rank as one of Boston’s biggest and best exports. This is a stretch, but some of the group’s slower moments – and there are a few even if Gang Green appreciated the faster paced stuff – and sing alongs unquestionably left a mark on those Dropkick dudes.

Proletariat – Honestly, apart from the stuff here, I’ve never seen or heard of this outfit. What listeners can glean from the few tracks contributed here is that Proletariat were one of the few groups (well, groups with a recorded legacy) that were obviously influenced by British groups. Apart from the singer’s ridiculous and forced accent, the music doesn’t quite get into hardcore territory – close, but not quite. It’s actually just closer to some stripped down ’77 styled stuff. Unfortunately, it’s pretty apparent that these guys weren’t as adept at playing instruments as some of the other acts on here. Still some good tunes, though.

Gaybones for Sex Church

I think some consideration needs to be pointed towards selling off Nevada and attempting to annex portions of Canada – the cooler parts, like BC and Toronto. Quebec’s way too far north.

That all stems for me being gaybones over Sex Church. The band isn’t new, nor is there anything just being released from these Beisters (I don’t believe I made that up to refer to folks from British Columbia, but I’m still clever). Nor do I think the band would be interested in having their hometown absorbed into the most northern portion of Washington State. It would probably just end up being referred to as North Seattle or some such nonsense anyway.

The point to all this, though, has nothing to do with the continental United States despite my posturing. Instead, the fact that Sex Church has been able to release relatively little material, all of it a ridiculously high quality, and not receive the same sort of attention as its Stateside brethren needs to be rectified.

Separated by an imaginary boarder, Sex Church still manages to tour the lower 48 relatively frequently. I just haven’t been privy to a live performance. Judging from Six Songs, though, the performance would probably come off sounding like some amalgam of garage awareness and minimal Brit bands dating from the early eighties – nothing too fey, though. That’d be atrocious.

Navigating Six Songs, though, should give listeners some quivers. The guitar solo – as simple as it is – on “I Don’t Wanna Die” reeks of evenings spent pouring over independently released music from the last few decades. Its obvious distortion, though, doesn’t detract from the overall effect. The subsequent acoustic workout following under the name “The Floor,” with an eye to the Velvets’ vacated throne doesn’t do too poorly either.

From just these few songs – and that seven inch floating around somewhere – it’s pretty easy to rack up a laundry list of bands appropriate to name here. It doesn’t really matter, though. This band is likely to go the way of the buffalo. They had those up in Canada, I think. With the weight of countless other acts pressing these dude’s shoulders, there’s not a tremendous likelyhood too many folks will defer to these Canucks instead of Woven Bones or whoever else is out there. It’s a catch twenty-two, seeing as most of these garage cum Spacemen groups don’t come off as dissimilar – either a blessing or a curse.

The Sex Pistols vs. The Jam

There's no good reason for my not recognizing the similarities - or the exact same bloody progression, rather - the makes up both the Pistols "Holiday In The Sun" and the Jam's "In the City."

The Pistols' song is obviously better know, but the Jam formed earlier, record the song earlier issued it as a single and released an album prior to Johnny Lydon getting out a full length. That's batty.

Cheap Time: Take 'em Home With You

When this trio started out, it contained something like two-thirds of Be Your Own Pet, one of the more over-hyped of the over-hyped in the last few years. It’s actually surprising that Cheap Time had Jemina Pearl in its hands, if even only for a minute, and wasn’t able to capitalize on that in some obtuse marketing snafu.

As it is now, the band continues issuing work as concerned with punk’s significance in the underground culture as it is with a garage lineage pulled from a backlog of records. Either way, judging from the cover of the group’s first long player, they rank as the reining heartthrobs over at In the Red Record.

What follows will only tangentially include anything about music…

Understanding that these are some good looking dudes – apart form the one guy who appears to suffer from having all of his facial features crammed into a tiny spot on his face – In the Red or whoever had a hand in the production of that first disc thought it was usefully to plaster the band’s collective mug on the cover. It should have worked. Hell, I’d betray my masculinity and my prior track record to duke one and then be able to claim that I’d reckoned with homosexuality with a pretnedo-famous band dude.

We could go on a pseudo-date before the band’s set to play a local gig. Maybe walk down the street after dinner, concealing an open container in a coat pocket, making our way to some venue that’s just as innocuous and ramshackle as what’s up the next day.

I could cheer from the lip of the stage, mouthing words to songs I took the time to learn hours before just to impress the dude. It’d be fabulous.

All of this, though, makes me more of the eventual and total commoditization of underground musics. Weren’t punks ugly losers who weren’t able to be tolerated in any company apart from some small segment of the reject population. That obviously wasn’t the case during the seventies in New York. But that was New York.

Growing up, most folks at shows had some glaring physical issue – teeth that precluded one’s mouth from closing, some jacked up leg problem (which has now become the pigeon-toed thing everyone forces) or was just plain ugly.

Oh yeah, Cheap Time issued a second full length called Fantastic Explanations (and Similar Situations). It sounds like the Saints at some points - "I'd Rather Be Alone." But only vaguely.

Punishment of Luxury: The Jove of Punk Aesthetics

I wonder how many – and I know it’s not actually an attainable piece of knowledge – bands existed prior to that banner year of 1977 an are still referred to as post punk. Of course all the CLE bands rank in there. But the impetus for my interest an those troublesome genre names are all dictated by a constant search for solidity in some form. Music isn’t this or that, it’s music. It might still be a contradiction, but it’s just another music (maybe in a different kitchen).

Anyway, the horribly named Punishment of Luxury – I wonder who bought their fine gear? – sputtered around for a bit during the last half of the seventies, forming prior to that magical and aforementioned year. They’re still a post-punk group and all that it entails – jiggered rhythms, chopped up guitars high strung singing. It is all it’s cracked up to be, but not too much more.

Before delving in to the group’s history, my guess was that these guys listened to Devo a bit too much. But getting together prior to the release of Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo precludes that thought. And really that sort of explanation would only hint at a surface understanding of what the band’s Laughing Academy actually is.

By the time listeners make it through to “Obsession,” one of the countless tracks pushing beyond the four minute mark, it becomes clear that the synthesizer and PoL’s adherence to fey melodies usurped any sort of tie to the American conception of punk. So, it actually becomes an odd and all encompassing quandary as to why the group depicts itself in the terms it does on the cover of this album.

The pervasive aesthetic punk jived with had to do with the futility of it all and if not total annihilation, then some sort of destruction rendering society as they understood it nil. Bandying ideas that concern censorship and the trough that counts as life on its cover belies the music – if not the lyrics – held within. It’s a common center for a disconnect. Imagery and music are forever tied. There’s a reason everyone can draw Elvis shaking his hips – and a reason why the Clash co-opted the over of one of his albums for their own uses. But there’s more energy spilling out from the image on Laughing Academy than there is power from its music. Whatever. There’s a market for this tripe and we have to all make peace with it.

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