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Below are some recently posted reviews.

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No More Shall We Part: CD
I need to go buy some more Clairol black dye in the green box with the Asian lady on it because it's the cheapest, and the color gives my face that great ashen look. I'm thinking maybe some blue streaks this time, red perhaps but I've done it so many times. Oh I know! Blue and red makes purple, then purple streaks it is! So, I scored this great velvet pant suit I'm going to sport at the NickCave show. He's not playing with the Bad Seeds yet. He's just trying out the new material. Yeah he's coming to town and I'm sooo excited. We will be reunited again, me and my mister. Oh Nick, if only you would look into my eyes while standing in front of 12,000 glazed and passionate eyes. Then you will know that we were meant to be. Your songs speak only to me, in a deep secret place in my heart that no one will ever touch, especially that stupid MC5-loving guy who works at the record store who rolls his eyes every time I come in for my special shipment of your Australian import flexi-disc of a B-side not available in the States. I'm gonna wear a tie and smoke cigarettes and wear tons of black eyeliner just like him. Oh, I think I'll run off into my room and write some more poetry while sipping some hot tea and feeling very glamorous about angst. Sigh! No mother, I won't turn down the stereo! – Is this you or do you know someone like this? You need to get this person some help. I should know, I'm one of them. Why are people fanatical about NickCave? Well, I won't go as far as saying he's the greatest because he's not, but he does possess what's missing in most artists of his caliber; it's that soul of the soulless quality which brings one to self validate deep depression as an overflowing artesian source of inspiration. He's a haunting reminder that art school is never out of style for some people. Unfortunately "Deanna" has long passed. "Straight to You" is a memory of a love affair that once was. "The Mercy Seat" is now being occupied by a film school freshman trying to become the next Fasbinder, Wender or Jarmusch. Nobody goes "Where the Wild Roses Grow.” So Mr. Cave now sits quietly under an antique stained glass ceiling in front of a piano with a glowing cigarette pluming a ghostly veil in the middle the dark stage. He tries to sing with a voice that took him all these years to muster up. They are love songs for the love lorn, of course, but his maturity shines through. The lyrical content of "No More Shall We Part" has less of the absurd thrill kill death scenarios he's so famous for painting and more reasonable woes like relationships. Mr. Cave finally grows into that suit and tie image and places himself and his music along the level of Leonard Cohen and Serge Gainsbourg. I'm coining a new music genre "Diet Death" or "Death Lite.” Enjoy. –nam (Nick CAve and the Bad Seeds)

Go Away: CD
If I can say one thing about this CD, I'd definitely have to say that their cover of Blondie's "Dreamin'" is cool. I wish more bands like these guys would sing more songs like that. It put a smile on my face. –Guest Contributor (TKO Records)

Can’t Stop Casper Adams: CDEP
More dissonant noise rock from these guys, who still sound like a death rock-less Mighty Sphincter. When you think it’s all over, they offer up a bonus track with all the previous songs played backwards. They ain’t fast, but they is pretty danged heavy. –jimmy (Status)

Oh Shit: CD
Minimalist rock’n’roll, sorta like a poor man’s Donnas. I got bored pretty quick. –jimmy (Slutfish)

The Punk Girl Next Door: CD
My So-Called Band have come a long way, baby, since the nefariously negative review I belligerently bestowed upon them in the March/April 1998 issue of Flipside. Three years and a blazin' bucketful of audial attitude has made all the difference in the world: the sound is thicker, chunkier, meaner, meatier, and more raucously combustive (oh what the hell, I'll even delve into the record reviewer's musty old bag of over-used cliches and go so far as to say that this amped-out effort is fuller, richer, and more cacophonously cohesive than their first!). It's as if Cheap Trick were bein' mercilessly trampled to death by the New York Dolls, Nirvana, The Toadies, and Saint Vitus or SWA (or one of them there other guitar-grinding bands from SST's "Blasting Concept, Volume II" album), but with lighter, breathier vocalizations... yep, pure punky power-rock pummelings of pleasurable noise-makin' merriment! The guitar strafings are crunchy and frenetically cutting with a spine-snappin' sense of unstoppable urgency; the bass furiously rumbles like a napalm-laden supersonic jet whooshin' through the fiery skies of an impending apocalypse; the drums spastically stomp along like a rugby match between two opposing teams of viciously enraged dinosaurs; the vocals are high-spirited, fever-pitched, and jovially snotty. Man, I'm so gloriously damn glad that we receptively open-minded critics possess such tolerant all-encompassing ears that seem to never hold a grudge... otherwise, I might not have given My So-Called Band a second chance. This is too much of an aurally enticing jewel to routinely ignore, so I give it two thumbs up, a full-fledged erection shootin' straight to the moon, and a rowdy round of roguish Rog recommendations! –Guest Contributor (Yesha Inc.)

Five Upstart Americans: CD
Ninety-nine out of a hundred times when I hear some musician say in an interview that some set of demos is better than the album, I tend to believe it, as much as anything because of the lure of the untouchable: I can’t get this, therefore it must be better than what I can get.  I think there’s something seriously wrong with me.  But anyway, that’s not your problem (unless of course it is), and this is a record review, and the Monks’ demos album, “Five Upstart Americans,” rivals their only pukka release, “Black Monk Time,” for prepunk insanity and harsh ‘60s pop-rock that’s fairly indescribable, but imagine a cross between the Troggs and the Stooges and the Kingsmen and, um, the early Clash, I guess.  Now think funnier.  I already knew I’d like this since it’s the Monks and “Black Monk Time” kills, but the pleasing surprise was that the versions of the songs are actually significantly different than the originally released versions, ‘cause often when you actually hear the “demos that were supposedly better than the album,” they just sound like lower-fi, unfinished weaker versions.  Not the case here: this album actually presents an earlier, alternate version of the Monks, effectively an unreleased first chapter to “Black Monk Time,” which tells their musical journey from the middle (the original BMT album) to the end (the compromised, half-Monkmusik/half-pop post-LP singles).  Here you have the beginning in the Five Torquays’ pre-Monks single and the demos that comprise the bulk of the album, recorded (as most demos are) in an attempt to get a contract.  I suppose the reunion live album which I have yet to purchase is the postscript, to stretch this tortured analogy to the limit.  I’m pleased this disc won’t just be a collectors’ curiosity on the shelf for research and completism purposes, but is as likely to get stuck in the player as the “properly-released” album.  And oh yeah, I paid for this album too, which proves I’m not just a spoiled music critic, right?  No, it does nothing of the kind, and it’s patently obvious that musically I’m as spoiled as they come without actually making any money.  Anyway, you should buy this album too.  –Guest Contributor (Omplatten)

ctrl+alt+del: CD
I know straight edge is still alive and kicking, although I’m sure it’s changed some in the past decade. These guys sound straight edge although they don’t seem to sing anti-drugs and booze type lyrics. They are more of a positive message kind of band. Talented, tight musicians lead by a front man who very strongly reminds me of Kurt from DRI... yep that’s it... DRI in their late teens/ early twenties, gone straight edge with a little more added melody to the music. –julia (Sessions Records)

Nevergirlboy: 7"EP
Riff Randals: Strong, catchy female-fronted hardcore with a snotty edge. Millhouse: Not as catchy, but there’s also an edginess here that made them at least engaging. –jimmy (Drool City)

Starts Fires in Your Pants: CD
This reminds me of what Gravity Records used to put out, but Midiron Blast Shaft have a bit more rock in their sound, not to mention that DC stuff creeping in. While there are some cool parts to the music, they tend to get too weighed down in complexities. In the end it’s just not that interesting. If they were to shave the fat off they could stand to gain more energy and impact. –Matt Average (Reptilian Records)

Starts Fires in Your Pants: CD
Imagine if Minor Threat met Tool in a music-mangling head-on collision of cacophonous deconstruction... this is the ear-shredding equivalent of such a sonically catastrophic event! It's a larger-than-life maelstrom of ever shifting sound that's heavy, threatening, and ferociously full of passionate rage. Upon my first listen to MBS, I fearfully cowered in a cobweb-ridden corner of my room, sucked my thumb like a lil' baby girl, and then thoroughly soaked my pants with a waterfall's rush of weewee. It's that much of an aggressively harrowing experience, folks! No matter; I still fervently recommend this dynamically intense CD just for its sheer versatile velocity and its indefatigable ability to robustly stir the senses... –Guest Contributor (Reptilian)

Lost Boys: CD
I’ve been sitting here for two days trying to convey what a great thing Alternative Tentacles has done by making the tracks on this release available once again. MIA was simply one of the best punk/hardcore bands that ever graced a stage, period. They were a perfect hybrid of the hardcore that was coming out of DC in the early ‘80s and OC/HB’s “beach punk” sound of the same time period, or, to put it more succinctly, they sounded like the bastard offspring of Minor Threat and the Adolescents. Yet, rather than be mere shadows of their influences, they took those sounds and forged a sound entirely their own, one that was hard and fast yet instantly hummable. As if good music wasn’t enough, they also took time to make their lyrics both substantive and well written, something that was often as rare then as it is now. Submitted for your aural pleasure are the “Murder in a Foreign Place” EP, their side of the “Last Rites” split LP, tracks from various compilations, live material, early and late-period demos and other goodies. My suggestion to you, loyal reader, is to buy three copies of this (in case two get worn out) and crank “Boredom is the Reason,” “Murder in a Foreign Place” and “Fucking Zones” as loud as your stereo will allow. Make sure that you have a cassette copy for the police to blast on the way to the station when they take you in for disturbing the peace, too. Believe me, they’ll thank you for it later. God (or pick your deity of choice) bless Alternative Tentacles for this disc and God bless MIA for leaving us some timeless, kick-ass tuneage. –jimmy (Alternative Tentacles)

If I Could Only Fly: CD
The man is a musical maverick, an enigmatic well-traveled larger-than-life legend, a stern and stoic leathery-faced old outlaw who's sturdily rode the hellbent-on-fury buckin' bronco of life into many a dust-stirred silhouetted sunset. His music is country, pure and simple and no-holds-barred. Yep, on this here smorgasbord spread of delectably tasty ditties, old-time country'n'western is heartily served by the musically mercurial master himself, Mr. Merle: whiskey-sippin' country twang that smoothly quenches the debilitative thirst of the forlorn, lost, and forgotten transient nomads aimlessly wandering the vast sprawling expanses of America's endlessly open rural desolation; chugga-chugga cowhide country that colorfully conjures a smalltown backwoods honkytonk setting of sawdust-covered floors, sweet and sticky BBQ beef thickly piled heaven-high on platters of beans, potato salad, and home-baked bread, and nostalgically cradlin' a longneck while swayin' in a boot-shufflin' cheek-to-cheek waltz with your true-love high school sweetheart; cryin'-in-your-beer shitkickin' country that appropriately provides a spirit-stirring soundtrack of robustly brawlin' manliness. The most intimately inspirational moments contained herein: the jaunty and jazzy New Orleans rowdiness of "Honky Tonk Mama" (it'd do ol' Hank Sr. proud... he must surely be smilin' big and prideful-like in the wild blue yonder!), the downhome flavorful strains of an achingly poignant swirling steel-guitar in "Turn to Me," the quavering cowpoke harmonica-blaring solitude of "If I Could Only Fly," the Bob Wills-inspired country-swing swagger of "Bareback," and the ruggedly jubilant giddy-up-and-go folksiness of "Proud to Be Your Old Man." Yeeehaw and yippy-tie-yie-yay! Merle Haggard, the man and his music... endearing, inspiring, and always intriguing... timeless, yet aged to perfection. –Guest Contributor (Anti)

Kiss Ass, Godhead: CD
So far as I’m able to tell, this is a re-release of an album that came out 12 years ago. This is one of those bands I’d always heard of but never actually took the time to listen to, primarily ’cause I always thought they were one o’ them Crass-type bands and I hated Crass back then. Well, I’m kicking myself in the ass pretty hard right about now, ’cause this disc let me know exactly what I missed out on. This was produced by Albini back in his Big Black daze and the overall sound is reminiscent of that period. I guess this stuff would be called “post-punk,” and it has all the trappings: razorwire-sounding guitar, rumbly bass, lotsa “space” in the sound and all, but the songs are well realized and are catchy in a weird way. I guess I’ve got a new band whose back catalog I must search out. –jimmy (Overground)

Colossus of Destiny: CD
Okay, I’m 10 minutes and 34 seconds into the one 60 minute track on this and, so far, it sounds like outtakes from the soundtrack to “Forbidden Planet.” The cover says this is a live recording, so I’ll stick it out and see if there are any actual songs on this. At 12 ½ minutes it still sounds pretty much the same. Twenty-five minutes in and still no change. Is this some sort of tribute to Bastard Noise? Forty-nine minutes: Oh, neat…drums! At 54 minutes it almost sounds like a song, but at this point, I no longer give a fuck. –jimmy (Ipecac)

Shannon: 7"
MF and the GG’s always give me time to reflect on my musical upbringing, since they cover old shit and make it listenable. My parents never listened to a lot of music beyond The Kingston Trio (Who the Dropkick Murphys cover and modify, by the way, with “Skinhead on the MTA”) and The Limelighters, so I don’t have many musical scars to excise. That covered, I don’t even pretend to know dick about Del Shannon. I’ve heard “Runaway” when standing in line to get gas, but the Gimmes grow it some nuts, get it faster, scuff it up and I like it quite a bit. It may be the way that Spike sings, but the way the Gimme’s present a song, I actually listen to the words and like it more than I could possibly enjoy the original. “Hats off to Larry” is a big, ol’ fuck you to a chick. The narrator’s happy that a girl got dumped by Larry because the girl previously fucked him over. Me First and the Gimme Gimmes are single-handedly overthrowing AM radio by making those moldy oldies, polishing them up with punk spit (and a drum track), and makin’ ‘em golden. –todd (BYO)

Blow in the Wind: CD
Me First and the Gimme Gimmes are almost like a forbidden pleasure for me. First off, I hate cover songs anymore, primarily because it often seems the people who usually do them fail to put their own personal stamp on the song, or, if they do, the stamp is more akin to, “Look at us! We’re so cool/funny! We really have no business covering this song because we suck worse than the song/aren’t even in the same league as the band we’re covering.” I hate that. Next off, I pretty much hate pop punk these days. Granted, there was a time when my whole life revolved around when the next Descendents or Husker Du album was coming out, but those days are long gone, thanks in no small part to every two-bit Blink 182/NOFX/Queers/Screeching Weasel clone group that has ever dragged itself up from the pits of Hades. So why do I like a band that relishes in performing songs that gave me nightmares as a child in a style that normally makes me want to climb into a bell tower and smoke a few people? Hell if I know, but DAMN are they good at it. This, their third album, is just as funny, catchy and downright smokin’ as their last effort. Their focus of attack this time out is on the ‘60s and they put their own indelible stamp on some of the worst songs from that decade, and even render the Stone Pony’s “Different Drum” listenable, the original of which probably makes even Linda Ronstadt and the Eagles cringe every time it comes over a nearby radio speaker. MFGGs certainly won’t change my life or anything, but they did learn me that there are exceptions to even the most rigid of rules. Besides, how many punk albums do you own that your mother knows all the lyrics to before you even put the damn thing on? –jimmy (Fat)

The Pity List: CD
Pleasant but familiar-sounding four-guys-two-guitars-bass-drums-loads-of-harmonies pop-rock, basically a lot like recent Teenage Fanclub.  Sugary but this shtick is just too old to be very interesting without a few twists.  This thread of music has gotten far too watered down after getting passed through the Beatles, Byrds, Badfinger, Big Star, dBs (whose Chris Stamey produced, all the better for the Mayflies to lay claim to the crown) et. al., ad nauseum.  Maybe you’d dig ‘em if they were nearby but amongst the pack they disappear without unique features - like the last couple of Teenage Fanclub albums.  I sure liked that band better when they rocked a bit in the Crazy Horse vein.  Now they just follow the formula every time out.  Guess that spirit left the band without original drummer Brendan what’s-‘is-face.  Ah well. –Guest Contributor (Yep Rock Records)

Seduction: CD
After the ‘80s came and went in a drug-addled haze, I thought I’d never think of Scandal, Patty Smythe or even Pat Benatar again. Sadly, I was wrong. –jimmy (Break Up)

Self-titled: 7"
Egads, this sucked. –jimmy (The Man)

Stand Your Ground: CD
Not half bad. I thought I was going to hate it. Sing-a-long, ‘77-styled street punk that is melodic. The lyrics aren’t what I would write home about, but should improve as the band progresses. –don (Side One Dummy)

Self-titled: CD
Your friends Lyle Sheraton and The Daylight Lovers from Canada present a brand new way to do the old fashioned. It's not exactly gregariously suave as Carl Perkins nor as bad boy cool as Gene Vincent, but the Daylight Lovers take their elementary cues and run clear across the 50-yard-line of your average modern day cruisin’, bruisin’, screwin' garage slop. This is outlandishly horrid with enough bravado to make you want to cheer for even "more abuse." The Lovers' version of cult punk favorites The Pack's "Nobody Can Tell Us" is chock full of that good ol' brazen spirit that transforms the idiot in all of us into sophisticated boom-boomers. Lyle's instinctive guitar work through the album is a case study in a new guitar movement I would like to coin as, "The Awful," and adoringly so since every faux pas lends some malevolent charm, a la The Mummies of yore. It's a little bit of country, a Gino Washington cover (is it mandatory for every friggin' band that records at Jim Diamond's Ghetto Recorders to cover a Gino Washington song?! What's up with the Detroit Power bullshit?), a little bit of school yard garage punkin' as well as a dash of the dirty boy blues. What more could you want? This album has been produced by the only man closer to God than God himself, Jack Oblivian, who can turn my knobs anytime. –nam (Sympathy for the Record Industry)

Babysitters on Acid: CD
I vaguely remember seeing this in the record bins back in the ‘80s. I could be wrong. Not having been a fan or actively seeking out their product, I think this is a re-release of an early recording. I could be wrong. Maybe their first album. I could be wrong. The songs are raw and the recording is very garage-y. I could be wrong. The songs are rocking and have a very club/live feel. I could be wrong. I know there are more people out there that can describe this all-women rock machine. I could be wrong. –don (Go Kart)

Self-titled: 7"EP
You say Empty, I say trashy, noisy rock’n’roll. That said, side one of this is a sludgy death rock-sounding ditty. Side two, track one is a noisy, gloomy affair and the last track is an uptempo rocker. Not quite what I expected from this label, but still not that bad, considering. –jimmy (Empty)

Greased: CD
Repress of their cover of songs off the classic music soundtrack of “Grease.” I remember being in elementary school going to see the original movie and consequently me purchasing the soundtrack. I still have that record. Bubblegum and cheesy the way I like it. I love covers! The only regret that I have is I wish they did the whole soundtrack. I would have loved to hear them do the theme song. –don (No Idea)

The Last: CD
The first eight songs on this CD were “the last” recordings of Leatherface when they broke up in 1993. The recording was never officially released in the United States and pretty much got executed right out of the gate in Europe on Domino Records. BYO’s done us a favor and in this re-issue and have added eight songs. If your panties get twisted easy, the last eight songs aren’t technically Leatherface songs, but Pope songs (never officially released), recorded in 1994 with two Leatherface members (Frankie and Andy) and drummer Chris Mackintosh. While not as consistently stunning as “Mush,” you can’t go wrong with any Leatherface release. “The Last” oscillates from the forlorn pop of “Little White God,” and the stripped, piano-heavy “Shipyards,” which get you ready for the Louie Armstrong-esqe (or choking Muppet, take your pick) skat number, “Ba Ba Ba Ba Boo” and the quirky disco, techno beat breakdown flourishes and whistles in “Winsome, Losesome.” It plays like a band who’s eager to try new things without abandoning what they do best. The Pope material is very reminiscent of Frankie Stubbs’ other project, Jesse. Frankie’s rasp seems to be the center point, and all of the instruments surround and scrub at him, which limits some of the crush and crunch of full-on Leatherface, but damn if it isn’t simply enjoyable to listen to. My obligatory bitch is that there isn’t a lyrics sheet. I mean, who give two shits when bland pop punk band’s yelping about losing their girlfriend, but when one of the most ingenious and literate men in punk rock writes a song, it’d be nice to read the exact words (especially since eight of these songs were never officially released.). –todd (BYO)

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