Trash Dog: A Hard Day's Night People

The lo fi thing has hit its stride. And the limited release deal that goes along with it seems to have become almost as lucrative an endeavor as a fake job might be. But even with these (minimal) cultural events occurring everyday and legions of other closeted dorks figuring out how to screen print some nonsensical design on a sleeve for a seven inch or other esoteric way by which to disseminate music, the tunes that result aren’t always of the highest degree of accomplishment. That’s strictly opinion – and while I can’t explain my own personal contributions to recorded music, any more releases (physical or otherwise) by the likes of Emeralds or that entire cohort probably just doesn’t need to happen.

Those aforementioned cottage labels, though, don’t agree. And for that very reason, the new dredges of musicality present themselves in a continually new set of douchey ‘sound collages’ and abhorrent pop trips all unbefitting of even a sixteen year old’s pity party. None of this is directly pointed at Night People, but attempting to investigate one of their affiliated acts led me to all of this. And while the DIY ethic and practice that propels this meager capitalistic venture should be appreciated, its spoils won’t necessarily be to everyone’s liking.

A quick look through the catalog that Night People has amassed might only find a few acts being more than just some weird combination of words - Raccoo-oo-oon, which features the various label honchos, and Meth Teeth perhaps being the most well known. Just those two acts, though, could lend ample fodder needed to describe the sounds that the label traffics in. But since, this began as a piece on Trash Dog, we’ll go that way.

There’s nothing dreamy or delicate about Trash Dog. And its ultimate release, its last, entitled Namaste (which in itself is problematic) finds a group focused on utter annihilation. That sounds trite – it is. But the disregard for anything coming close to musicality is almost enervating to hear from these Dogs. Granted, the folks in the group, more likely than not, would be given over to distilling this as experimental. But it’s not and even if I felt like granting it more than simply the tag of noise, it would be difficult for some reader, somewhere to tolerate.

By way of yesterday’s discussion of AFCGT, I came to some sort of conclusion that as long as some group traffics in out-and-out sonic effrontery, it needs to at least include a bit of rhythm or a finite sliver of melody for which a listener can hang on for dear life. Trash Dog, thankfully, gives listeners just enough of both to make Namaste more than thirteen minutes of aural abuse. The tape’s lead off track might just be a piece of thrash misplaced while the titled track recalls more than a few early exponents of continental, political hardcore. But even with these momentary peeks into ‘song,’ Trash Dog remains too far beyond what most folks would be capable of listening to – even it Namaste is less than a quarter hour long.

The Morlocks: The Ghost of Gerry Roslie

When your band releases more live sets than actual studio work, you know that there was and or is still a problem. What that problem is might not be obvious, but it’s there guaranteed. As an extension of the arm of the Paisley Underground, a group of San Diego natives called Gravedigger V came to the attention of Bomp! head honcho Greg Shaw. They got a little deal just like the rest of the garage retreads from that first resurgent era of garage. But out of that ensemble came a few of the principals that would make up the Morlocks. Comprised of at least two members at any given time from that other group, the Morlocks recorded just over a full length’s worth of material during its initial life span. Of course, they’ve been reconstituted and are currently touring in Europe, but you know…

After singer Leighton Koizumi enticed guitarist Ted Friedman to defect from Gravedigger V, the two solidified the first line up of the Morlocks with guitarist Tom Clark, bassist Jeffrey Luck Lucas and drummer Mark Mullen. Getting off to a quick start, the quintet recorded a 1985 single after gigging around Southern California for a few months. And even if the band had to borrow some gear from another garage act, the Tell Tale Harts, the resultant Emerge, released on Midnight Records, has as much punk abandon as garage stomp and ‘60s psych.

More than a few of these songs offered here could be mistaken for some authentic ‘60s nugget, but they’re not. The short burst of eight grimy tracks move between an all out thrashing garage with indecipherable guitar noodling and some more staid pop meanderings. “It Don’t Take Much” is probably the closest approximation of the ‘60s pop side of garage, even if Koizumi gets in a few of those raspy screams. He comes off as some dastardly cross between Darby Crash and the Sonics’ Gerry Roslie. Considering the time and place from which this all springs, that makes sense. But the shambolic crash and thud of that rhythm section when placed behind some of the more aggressive guitar playing from this era in garage probably served to alienate some of the Morlocks’ potential fan base. I suppose it kinda didn’t matter too much, though.

Subsequent to this long single – it’s almost twenty minutes in duration – the band recorded a live set released for the then fledgling Epitaph Records. The set, recorded in Berkeley during 1986, was released with a good deal of added studio trickery, prompting some fans to decry it an unfit live rendering of the group’s performances. Regardless of that, one’s ability to hunt that disc down at this point is probably pretty limited, but give it a shot.

Even if Submerged Alive is sitting around in your local record store’s used bin, it’s probably got a hefty tagged affixed to it. And considering that Emerge was re-released last year by the Italians behind Circolo Area Pirata, this shorter offering is probably easier to find – and maybe even better.

The Templars in Alternative Pressings

Beginning in the early ‘90s, perhaps due then to the mounting shift in media and how it was dispersed, a more unified and recognizable uptick in skinhead rock and roll began. Even before the Dropkick Murphys were able to inject enough palatable punk into their formula, there were bands moving about in the traditional skinner presentation of punk. With it’s odd amalgam of soccer style hooliganism – which in the States seems out off place – punk, reggae and mod stuffs, the early ‘90s gave the US some bands  the surpassed the musicality that Iron Cross and some earlier Boston bands recorded with. Of course, some of the skinners involved in all of this probably should’ve taken a guitar lesson, but not all of ‘em. And a New York group, with an ever shifting line-up, the Templars, seemed to expound the philosophical (or lack of it) tenets in addition to that illusive musicality that Oi always needed, but only occasionally got.

Being named after a shifty bunch of murders wasn’t really a necessity when constructing a persona to go along with the group. But Carl Templar’s devotion to historicity served as a frame in which the band was able to place perspectives on anything from group infighting to the ridiculous nature of politics. Sometimes a trio, sometimes a quartet, the band began recording during the first half of the ‘90s and since that time has put out some untold number of singles in addition to more than just a few long players. But because of all the singles and compact discs that collect them, it’s pretty easy to have a few different versions of a song. Each might sound different, but not too much. And even if the Templars are unquestionably one of the more musically inclined skinner bands since the ‘70s, the retreads are a bit unnecessary.

It seems that of late, the group has been on a virtual hiatus, only sporadically playing a few shows in the Northeast and a random festival out on the continent. So when I stumbled upon Pure Brickwall Recordings it seemed like an irrefutable snag. Even from the title, one should guess that this isn’t a proper full length. Instead it seems that the assortment of outtakes and alternate takes is what makes up the vast majority of the disc. Fortunately, the songs that listeners are gonna be familiar with here are some of the group’s better work. “Something’s Wrong,” “Police Informer” and “Young Warrior” don’t sound too different from the album cuts, but it’s interesting to hear the way in which the band considered releasing the songs. That first track mentioned gets a more melodic workout and a bit more of the harmonizing that comes off so well.

The fact that these recordings were toss offs, though, easily exhibits the fact that the Templars had themselves together. And while there isn’t a big enough skinhead constituency to make any band that shaves their collective heads, wears jean jackets and boots millionaires, if there was, these guys would be the first resultant stars.

Raving a Frustration with Tyvek

It’s hard to keep track of the release that Tyvek have been shilling out over the better part of the aughties. Each single seems to be dispensed from some disparate, tiny imprint and only in sparse numbers. And oddly enough, last year’s Fast Metabolism, which I understood to be a full length, is only considered an extended single, by the band. Either way, that disc clocks in at about twenty five minutes where Tyvek’s first proper (?) full length, a self titled affair on Siltbreeze, is just ten minutes longer. It doesn’t matter since both are pretty decent even if ten years on it’s a distinct possibility that no one will recall any of this.

What is worth pointing out – if it wasn’t difficult enough to form some sort of mental discography – is the fact that more than few songs from this self titled album have been culled from previous releases. So when front man Kevin Boyer says, “I just wanted to do an album that was different from the singles and didn't sound like a bunch of singles strung together. I wanted it to be an LP that sounded like a real LP,” I feel confused. Regardless of that, though, one of the most enjoyable tracks from Fast Metabolism gets reworked for inclusion here. The re-recorded track, “Frustration Rock,” doesn’t have the same kind of aggressive sheen to it that its forbearer did. A good song is a good song, though.

But perhaps, part of what Boyer is referring to when he said he wanted something that sounded like a real album is the fact that there are no less than five instrumental tracks here. Unfortunately, four of them are the same song, placed sporadically through out the album in some weirdo maneuvering to create something akin to Phases and Stages from Willie Nelson (admittedly, this was probably not Tyvek’s perception, but I really like Willie’s guitar playing). Unlike those truncated repeats, “CVS Card,” which clocks in at over two minutes, uses one of the sloppiest drum beats in recorded history to push forward a few guitars that sound as if they’re fighting to the death. The eventual winner is, of course, the listener. And while this track comes pretty close to the conclusion of the album, by the time a listener gets this far, it’s clear that Tyvek has in fact come up with a real album.

By proper music industry standards, this is a hap dash, abrasive mix of punk, garage, retreads and blaring noise. But in a time when it seems more and more difficult to make a dollar off of a recording, Tyvek and Siltbreeze will assuredly sell off every copy of this disc to collector nerds. It could easily be coupled with that aforementioned Fast Metabolism to form some primordial statement of what this band was doing at (hopefully) the beginning of its career. And on the strength of this Self Titled disc, it can be safely assumed that these folks – no matter if there’re three, four or five members touring – are gonna keep cranking out these trebley, punk rave ups.

The Dictators: A New, New York

I was recently chastised by an editor who figured that I should insert my opinion more obviously into my writing. Well, chastise is probably too strong a word – requested, told…something. Anyway, with that in mind, I gotta say that I find the Dictators to be average at best. They New Yorkers are obviously important and brought together the early and latter part of the ‘70s hard rock and punk scenes. But that doesn’t mean they had great songs. And although members acknowledged the fact that their purposefully dumbed down lyrics were laughable, it didn’t make ‘em any better. And I guess that’s my biggest problem with them. I enjoy a joke – and I enjoy dumb songs – but when the guys making ‘em are actually dumb, it becomes problematic for me.

Apart from the fact that Handsome Dick Manitoba (Richard Blum) sued a Canadian producer who went by the name of Manitoba, he had a ridiculous run in with Wayne/Jayne County. I have no idea what prompted the feud and I’m assuming Manitoba wiped the floor with the boy/girl, but to then go on and write a track called “Smash that Faggot’s Head,” is beyond tasteless and dumb. It just reflects on one’s mental acumen. That being said he served me a beer in his bar once. So, that’s cool.

The band is most noted for their first and third albums with 1977’s Manifest Destiny falling flat. Their first effort, though, Go Girl Crazy! is probably most entertaining for the band’s singer dressed up like a wrestler – singlet and all – wearing an enormous wig. But before those tracks were fully formed and set down to tape, the band gigged around New York and recorded some demos. Compiled on Demos and Rare Trakcs (’73-‘76) are some offerings that didn’t make it to a proper album as well as a few well done covers – “Search and Destroy,” “Interstellar Overdrive” and “California Sun,” which can be presumed to be the template that the Ramones would use in a few years.

But in addition to these oddities, the disc displays the Dictators in primal form working in between the New York Dolls and the Dead Boys. And that’s a pretty good summation of the group’s career. “Fireman’s Friend” not only sounds like a Dolls’ chord progression, but features Ross Friedman’s solo that sits pretty close to Johnny Thunders territory. It’d be interesting to hear what David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain hafta say about the similarities. Regrouping those folks would make for a good reunion bill as long as the Dolls didn’t work with their new stuff too much.

Anyway, Demos and Rare Trakcs (’73-‘76) is obviously only for fanatics, although, the fidelity here is good pretty much throughout save for the song about Wayne/Jayne County towards the end. I can’t say that listening to it changed my mind completely about the Dictators, but I will confess that I do appreciate the musical ability of the group a bit more. It even worked when they added the keyboard later in the ‘70s. And now I know.

Flat Duo Jets: A Flat Duo on Occasion

Dexter Romweber has remained a featured name in independent music for about twenty years at this point. By beginning to rework country, folk, rockabilly and unconstrained rock and roll during the early ‘80s made him a lynchpin in the record collections of folks that would go on to reinvigorate garage during the ‘90s – Jack White likes dropping his name. And while Romweber hasn’t – and probably won’t ever – reach the level of renown his progeny has, it doesn’t matter. The guitarist and growlin’ singer sees no reason to augment his take on a darkly gothic Americana.

Gothic might be misleading. This isn’t Danzig related. Instead, lyrically, the Flat Duo Jets, Romweber’s group before heading out on his own, revitalized the sleazy elements that made the Sun Records crew so dazzling in the first place. And even with the fact that the resultant music wasn’t new – or intentioned as such – didn’t stop the band from accruing a pretty big following. Probably, part of that was as a result of getting a few minutes of face time in the Athens, Ga documentary Inside Out which included everyone from REM to the B-52s. If that appearance hadn’t occurred, though, the nine long players that the group recorded between ’84 and ’98 would have been ample promotion.

Despite having recorded for such a litany of labels and with as many different producers, the Flat Duo Jets sound was pretty consistent. There would be slight variations – the ‘Duo’ would actually record as a trio for their self titled disc that was set to tape during the ‘80s, but didn’t see the light of day until grunge was about to burst. This musical shift in focus of the Americans, though, didn’t deter the band. Instead the Flat Duo Jets, arguably, entered is classic period working with Norton Records, an imprint known for many things, but specifically, its devotion to rootsy, dirty noise.

The three discs that the Duo recorded with Norton, though, was preceded by a single disc on the Sky imprint. White Trees wasn’t radically different than anything that came before or after it. The disc was comprised of a spate of tunes that sought to tie lovelorn American music from the past to a modern execution all with a sneer accompanying every track. At times, Romweber’s growl seems a bit too obvious, as on the poorly titled, but adroitly performed “Cool Boys.” What saves the track is the chorus amidst that seemingly forced gravel being emitted from the singer’s throat.

A number of high points do rescue this disc from middle of the road nostalgia. The fifty second interlude, with its banjo and bucolic touch separate it from everything else here and leave listeners wanting a bit more of the same. It might have been a studio throw away, but it worked.  “Where Are You Now,” penned by Crow, the band’s drummer, inserts more than a bit of punk into the song and lends the album it’s most aggressive moment. This might not be the pinnacle of the group’s career, or the lead up to the impending garage explosion, but ample it is.

Talking 'Bout the Milkshakes

I’m gonna go ahead and guess that Billy Childish – in addition to poems and stories or whatever else he writes – has probably penned around a thousand songs, if not more. And even if all of those songs stunk, it would still be a pretty remarkable accomplishment. The thing is, most of ‘em are good enough to inspire even the most sedate housewife to throw down her vacuum and cut that rug in lieu of sweeping it. Childish might not get the acclaim in the States that he deserves, but he is without question a jewel in the crown of that majestic England.

After the Pop Rivets, his first group, ceased working together, Childish quickly joined the ranks of one of his roadies and reconstituted the Milkshakes, who had been playing with a different front man for a while. And while the group only continued on for roughly 4 years, there are more discs with the name Milkshakes adorning the cover than most bands that last for a decade. That’s obviously not an endorsement, but if you like what you hear, there’s more where it came from at least.

The sounds that the Milkshakes take their groove from are really what the rest of Childish’s career would be based upon. It’s all wide eyed, pissed off ‘60s styled bangers with nary a let up able to be found. That, of course, means that there might not be a need to pick any of this group’s recordings if you already have your Billy Childish fix, but I kinda feel like there can’t ever be too much. And after Childish figured out how to work in this vein, he just kept reeling off classics. While there might be some over lap between this and later discs – comps and the like – hearing Talking ‘Bout in its initial form is pretty awe inspiring. It’s also gotta be recalled that in ’81 there were still bands trying to figure out how punk should figure into popular music. This here, though, moved backwards.

The point that Ned Ragget makes in his write up of the album is that since the Milkshakes attempted to recreate beat combos – which were arguably made up of some pretty average players – the band’s first album hits its mark. So where as the original beat combos were working to try and rave up some electric blues in a more aggressive fashion, the musical capability of those folks necessitated cutting some corners. But knocking off the knock offs presents significantly less trouble. Regardless of that point, what the Milkshakes are able to do on just their first disc is not just palatable and listenable, but gripping

Within the 14 tracks on Talking ‘Bout, one’d be hard pressed to locate a bummer. And although, this could be perceived as a string of hits, the standouts involves a sax player by the name of Martin Waller. He might be as inconsequential at this point as the guy on Funhouse, but for a brief moment he was as much a part of the music as Childish or Iggy.

Dunwich Records: 30 Primitive Punkers

While Dunwich Records might not be on the radar of most American rock enthusiasts, the legacy of sprightly singles from the mid to late ‘60s that the label released, when compiled, can be viewed as a sort of lesser Chicago Nuggets disc. Taking its name from The Dunwich Horror, an H.P. Lovecraft tale and later a ‘70s camp horror film, the label sounded British – to my ears at least. And since the States were amidst the throngs of the Brit Invasion, it probably wasn’t a fluke. The fact that a lot of the groups represented here also have more than a slight sonic tie to the Stones, the Animals and the like didn’t hurt too much either.

While focused on the Chicago scene, a few acts made national waves. The Shadows of Knight, who were represented on the actual Nuggets compilation, were the main exponents of the Dunwich sound. The band’s recording of Them’s “Gloria” got the group in the charts, although, distribution of the label’s albums proved problematic. As a result of a poorly planned rolling release the single appreciated success in certain parts of the country, while getting scant attention in others, probably working towards the eventual disintegration of the group. Regardless of that, there are two collections of singles covering the Dunwich legacy released by Sundazed during the early ‘90s. Volume one, Oh Yeah!, is titled as a result of the Knight’s cover of the Bo Diddley track. And even if the reworking is pretty sedate, a few other offerings from the band that find themselves compiled here work up a sweat at least.

Even if most of the Knight’s work is pretty derivative – as with most of the stuff represented here – “Light Bulb Blues” is a decent Chicago blues rave up replete with a bit of feed back. And considering that this recording, as well as much of what constitutes this first portion of the label retrospective, was recorded before ’68, the guitar that crops up in a few places is kinda surprising.

Another group, the Del-Vetts, who were originally a surf combo, contribute “Last Time Around” in addition to a few other tracks. This first effort, though, more so than anything from the Knights or any other act on the disc, utilizes a huge slab of distortion on its guitar figure. The rolling bass isn’t really supported melodically by the guitar, which mostly drones out enormous single notes. But the quick step drumming provides ample backing. And as that guitar moves into it’s solo, the band launches into double time before falling back to a its original pace. Even if the track had been recorded sometime during the early ‘70s, it be remarkable for it’s take on rock.

Unfortunately, these two bands contribute the most interesting portions of the album. And with roughly another twenty some odd tracks, at times the compilation becomes a bit wearisome. It isn’t a throw away, but there’s a reason that only the devoted are gonna be aware of the work here. That Del-Vetts track, though, makes hunting the comp down a worthwhile endeavor, though.

Pages