Another hour excursion into the music stacks here at Smashin' Transistors. This time around we have solid gold from the Swell Maps, Laughing Hyenas and Jessie Mae Hemphill. We've also got future hits from Phylums. C.C.T.V., Swiftumz and Royal Headache. A bunch of swell sounds in between too!
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Friday, August 28, 2015
On their Facebook page it says these guys hometown is Hamburg/Dublin. Whether they are really from both is yet to be determined but the sound they make is a cross the former, circa the hopped up on prellies Brit beat bands that played the Reeperbahn in the early 60s, with dabs of the latter's early punk rock with hooks vibe a la Radiators From Space.
Taking into consideration that the band's chosen name was also one that an early incarnation of the Mersybeats used, the former comes into play overall in the high geared R-n-B delivery of the four songs here but instead of, say where a band like the Kaisers did it way too purist and made me think I was listening to a rock-n-roll version of Civil War reenactors, the Pacifics seem to not worry if they get their clothes dirty and stained.
The a-side's sprightly, floor filling pop detonation "Say You Love Me" and the garage punk stompin' "Little Girls" would sound just as in place, if not more, on the Spaceshits first album or some drunken' Real Kids live bootleg, as they would in some roots of the British Invasion documentary.
On the flip, "Girl, Girls Girls" wrings every bit of sweat from harmonica slathered Animals and Them songs and make something a bit more trashy than your usual juvenile delinquent 60s white kid blues in the process. They wrap up the party by trying to see if they can cause an avalanche in the Alps with the Freak Beatly/Surfish intro/screamer "Bavaria Bop."
Thursday, August 27, 2015
The one faction dreams of playing the Warped Tour or some other big brand sponsored "fest" where getting showered in free sneakers, glow in the dark condoms and beard care products is a crucial part of their pay. The other gets kicked out of such events for carrying flammable materials and boxes of strike anywhere matches.
The one side spends countless hours in the studio, crafting parts that sound like they are part of a math formula and then pile on a bunch of post production wizardry to convey some bullshit "we're so fucking heavy" sound. The other simply has someone set up some mics so they blasts through a few chords and full out rage all the through.
One straight faced declares themselves post hardcore when asked what kind of music they play (probably because saying Algebra Metal with a whiny guy whining and a grunting guy grunting is too much of a mouthful) while the other probably just says they're punk rock.
Oakland, California's Violence Creeps is in the latter group.
The clanging chords and cardboard box drums that come immediately crashing out on the "Sex Menace" sound like nine year olds learning how to downstroke chords while obsessing over Sonic Youth's Bad Moon Rising. Then it's collapses into nervy, clunking basslines and scratchy guitars which give a sparse but harsh backdrop for singer Amber Feigel's hoarse bark to shove razor wire through the listeners ear and pull it out the other. As it heats up things start to splatter for a crescendo of striking cobras and electrical shocks. "Drop Out" then drops in for minute or so of blurry speed.
A stuttery and stunted martial beat and a riff that resembles throwing a copy of Black Flag's In My Head on the floor so a lard slathered Ted Falconi can roll around on it. Then a ghost of someone who died of a lung infection trying to master Steve MacKay's sax lines on the Stooges Funhouse shows up with some some acid that is guaranteed a bad trip. It ends up sounding like the b-side's "On My Turf."
Saturday, August 15, 2015
My solution? Doing pretend ones for the internet only! Dig the first of what may become many Smashin' Radio Transistors Digest.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Gurgling over with psychosis and sticky glops of camp, the bashin' about on some punk rock blues in tracks like "Be Home Before Dark" with it's hissing back up vocals seeming more like catty taunts, the spun way too tight boogie that's "Too Cute" and the reverberated head stomp that "Popping Bubbles" puts down resemble the Oblivians after spending a week hanging out with Japanese noise rock bands.
At other times, such as squeeze box flourished chewy bop bouncer "What's Inside Your Lunchbox", the way the guitar on "Toy Gun" swirls like a thrash riff swimming in a birthday cake flavored vodka stupor and the B52s if they dug proto-metal more than surf music vibe on "Life's A Drag Queen", it's something like they're an AmRep band sustaining on a diet of cotton candy.
Probably knowing all too well what goes on at the sideshow after the carnival closes for the evening, Mr. Clit & the Pink Cigarettes make a filth coated cacophony that has rats thinking twice before they go sniffing around the sewer these sounds spill into.
Wet-Willy is going to spend at least a good few months in my "GET DRUNK AND PLAY LOUD" pile.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Many centuries ago when punk rock arrived in my neighborhood (more than a few years after even the rest of the rust belt had an idea of what it was) those of us who got into it figured we needed to break away from the other things we had be listening up til that point.
Being that we intermediate school kids at the time with a flair of drama we just didn't stash them away in the back of a closet or throw then in the trash. Nope, we had to make a big deal of it. We all gathered down at the river as a group, made a little speech and then winged them into a tributary that leads into Lake Huron.
"Off with you" we yelled as sent KISS and other lunkheaded discs sailing into the muddy river. We didn't care about any environmental concerns that they may cause. That Eco-concious stuff was hippie shit.
Some years later, I did wonder where those albums may have ended up. Perhaps, they reached the ocean eventually washed ashore somewhere. And perhaps this bunch of punk rock insurrectionists outta Orlando, Florida escaped town for a day or two on an Atlantic beach coast where it just so happened the waves pushed those records right to their feet. They picked them up and threw them in the back of their car because, well, they were free records. Once they got home and put them on the record player the covered in silt and fish guts and chewed and crusty from the salt water surfaces gave power chords blasts and dunderhead yowling gave off a tore up and bent sensation they couldn't resist.
Beer soaked and stinking of the fast food sweat indigenous of the city that's the world's largest tourist trap, the Golden Pelicans punk does shy from throwing around glops hard rock mush in their world of feculence but they also manage not moving into RAWK's trailer park while doing so. There ain't no foot on the monitor to check out a stuffed crotch or hair waggin' antics going on here. Just straight up crankin'.
Rooted in a Dictators blast of junk culture where they would live for cars and girls if they didn't have bad luck with both and who's idea of flash is shooting bottle rockets at anyone with a frown and their arms crossed at their shows, the Golden Pelicans kick off this latest slab with "Knuckle Dragger." It's primate beat stomps up dust and those knuckles aren't scraping across the dirt too long because they're now fists pumpin' in the air to accentuate their singing along to their new cretin anthem.
Actually all the songs, especially "Maggots" belly-smacker dive into a cesspool splash, the parched howls over super rock oozing with pus riffage on "Hog Tied Down" and "Low Falutin'', "The Last Street Fighter" setting a scene where the Lazy Cowgirls get into a rumble with Twisted Sister and the "Having a horrible time, wish I was drunk" postcard sentiments of the title track set the mood for any keg party where a picnic table gets set on fire.http://floridasdying.com
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
My lady, on the other hand, is a fan. Whenever she picks some up at the store she always offers me some but for the most part I pass.
One of the many things her and I do have in common though is being fans of Grand Haven, Michigan brewery Odd Side Ales. When they announced that bottles of their wheat beer brewed with watermelon would be hitting the store shelves for the warmer months this year she would give me the occasional reminder to keep an eye of for it.
Eventually I did spot some around. I hemmed and hawed a little bit about picking some but knew, even with me not being in the water melon fan club, bringing some home would make for a happy lady.
Pouring hazy orange with a reddish tint in color it looks like summer. The head was very minimal and faded fast but there was a little ringleft that stuck around for the most part through the entire glass. Not much as far as lacing was concerned.
The smell was sweet and summery. Not really blatant as far as the watermelon was concerned but generally fruity. The aromas of fresh baked bread and a hint of banana that is usually typical in a wheat beer was there.
Though the watermelon wasn't pronounced much in the scent it does make it's presence known on the first sip. The thing is though it didn't have me making the "Meh!" face the way watermelon usually does. It wasn't over the top and bursting with that musky weirdness but it did serve its job of being more than just an flavor accent it. It, along with notes of lemon and seasonal fruits like strawberries, gave the beer a fresh summer salad type of tartness without taking over and overshadowing the wheat beer base. It finishes clean.
If you're seeking out some big fruit and booze bomb of a beer like a Short's Soft Parade, the subtleness of the flavors and a 4% abv of this is not going to make that list. For something crisp and refreshing to slip while hanging out in the sun (now that summer seems to have finally arrived here in Michigan) this fits the bill just fine.
Friday, July 17, 2015
|Black Time photo by Dale Merrill|
If the latter was the case they got handed a line of bullshit. Instead of being given the opportunity to run a galaxy they were put in clerical jobs at Grand Omega Minus, assigning those that pass through to places to cause discord, dissension and division. They decide to document the daily experiences and speculate what is going on inside the minds of the people they're dealing with. Eventually, toiling in such an environment, causes their nerves to scramble and become just like those they're sending off to encourage havoc.
Originally recorded in 2009 but left to fester and ferment in some dark room with just a strobe light and a couple dog eared copies of Psychotronic magazine to keep it company, what all that happened can now be told.
Right from the get go with the record's title track thing bursts into flames like a rattled spaceship co-manned by Gary Burger and Kevin Shields re-entering the earth's atmosphere. Walls of searing feedback fill the air with toxic chemical laden orange hues of color and smell. Echo drenched vocals bray above while below guitars clang and clamor like church bells hitting the ground from crumbling steeples. Later down in the album "Aeriel Dub" reassembles that rubble into a slower and more abstract structure.
Devoted to caustic fuzz that can tear asunder ear drums and stereo speakers in moments is a calling card for a lot of bands. While some that ply such sound chose to wade through a lunkhead gutter while wearing a t-shirt that says slumming it, Black Time's acid tongued and well read without coming off too hoity-toity about it take aims to sizzle the brain first and THEN oscillates its way down to the hips. A song like primordial beat heavy "More Kicks That Pricks" and "The Winged Serpent" or the sea-sick sing-song swaying of shift work drones that goes on with "Industrial Anxiety" can make a backbone slip but also possesses petulant qualities encourages someone to find out what really happens when they take a gasoline soaked baseball bat to a wasps nest.
While raucous clamor is abounds, the splatter does take on different settings than just painting the garage wall red with blood. "Tarzan Vs IBM" (the original working title of Godard's Alphaville) is titled apropos in a simple person getting ground to bits by artificial intelligence blips and bloops. Things can also take an acoustic turn too with the soaring free and away from a dirty swamp and, dare I say it, rejoiceful feeling of "Flakes" and channel some alternate universe where bands like Mordecai and Honey Radar rub shoulders with pop stars on "Cave Paintings."
Since this is to be said the last record that will bear the Black Time the band closes it out with "Tolling Of The Bells" which is their final answer of what would it sound like if they REALLY wanted to do an unabashed mash up of the Fall and Can.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Sure, dark and thick guitar riffs that bounce between buzzing like a forest full of cicadas on the hottest of summer days or roll in like front a cold drizzle and slow but battering wind rattling a loose tin roof. A nasally and haunted voice that resembles an imp working on croons and the rhythm section punctuates it all with a leaded dark sludge all over the place. With that said though seems to be a naiveté in their gloom. One that makes their sound less pompous and more tenable in the moods they are setting.
On tracks like the albums opener, the writhing and twitchy shadows casting "Interlocutor", the awakening of a grumpy giant vibe on "Golden Hearth"and the feeling of hot lava rolling down from a volcano to plow the village below that's "My Body", it's not like the band is trying to make the listener believe they are warlocks standing on a mountain peaks of purple and hairy buds where they keep fire breathing, huge horned argali as pets and have a stock pile of thunder stored in caves. What is believable though would be that after drinking the Robitussin they were using as bong water while toking down in a damp basement, they took a walk through a muddy woods at midnight and stumbled across something really spooky and disturbing.
While gut rumbling fuzz is something that these guys deal with in bulk, they seem to know that even hemlock need UV rays to grow. A little bit of sunlight are let in through the dark clouds on "Mind" (which resembles Ty Segal not winking as much on one of his death trip rides.) There's also the acoustic creepy crawling "Dance Down" where one wonders if Vincent Price was still alive would he show up to drop a couple lines in the middle song.
Crosss do manage to keep the songs economical. They average around 3 minutes each and don't waste a whole lot of time on way too long Nuge on Quaaludes solos. This stays true to til the end. That's when the 18 minute "Enthroning the 4 Acts" closes out things. Even then though, the band seems to be channeling noise bands after being asked to compose a new soundtrack for Nosferatu instead of trying to make people think Earth's Sub Pop albums.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Arranged by early Funk Brothers members Herbie Williams and Joe Hunter, this Joshie Armastead &Valerie Simpson penned number was the 2nd release for the Sport Record label.
Both songs on this record were recorded by Big Maybelle and released as a single on the Port label in 1965. In 1967, Williams and Hunter gave the song a Detroit makeover turning it into a solid dance floor rumbler packed with much more grit than what became their most well known employer’s stock and trade. Their arrangement provides a heap of funk for the husky and authoritative wail of the very little known about Joan Dovalle.
Copies of the Big Maybelle version are fairly common on 45 and can be found for around $20. The Joan Dovalle single is a lot more rare and prices for it have hit the $400 mark in the past.