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Below are some recently posted reviews.

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Taste the Thunder Raise the Flag: CD
It’s only with the knowledge that no one actually bothers reading my rantings that I feel safe in saying this: Minneapolis/St. Paul, my Siamese twin hometown, seems to be moldering in the dank armpit of Tom Hazelmeyer, even now that AmRep’s been effectively dead for years. Hazelmeyer, the man behind AmRep, already hates me for poking fun at the alt/punk bars he owns around town, so indirectly blaming him for the miasmic conditions of the local punk scene will only further foster his contempt for me. And this is a concern, as I sometimes stop into his alt-speakeasies for a draft beer or two. But, nevertheless, here’s the rub: I think Falcon Crest is a pretty cool band—but I’m too contaminated by all my years of listening to AmRep bands to not hear something here that sounds a lot like a typical ‘90s AmRep band. Don’t get me wrong, AmRep used to kick out some damn fine shit: the Cows, Hammerhead, Supernova, Helmet—even the Melvins and Nashville Pussy at one point—but much of what the label was cranking out was starting to sound the same to me. Studied punk. The stale odor of Art School and Liberal Arts College influences everywhere. What rawness was there in the music was hamstrung by an artistic self-consciousness. I think that what it comes down to, really, is that I probably shouldn’t be attempting to review this disc. My finely tuned critical equipment has been hacking up AmRep hairballs for years now and anything that even remotely reminds me of the Mog Stunt Team or Guzzard is going to set off all sorts of burglar alarms in my brain. And it’s my own fault. This all probably has more to do with the way I filter things and pigeonhole them in my head than it does with Hazelmeyer’s armpit of influence. Sorry Falcon Crest—and sorry to Tom and both his armpits. I feel like once again I’ve really let the hometown team down. –aphid (Not Bad)

Reign in Blood: CD
The arpeggione is an instrument originally developed by a Viennese guitar maker/repairman named Johann Georg Staufer in 1823. Similar to a guitar, in that it has frets and its six strings are tuned in the same way as your standard guitar, it is held like a cello, meaning vertically rather than horizontally, and you use a bow. Although popular in the 19th century, its popularity waned over the years, with the cello more often being used when an arpeggione was called for. Erik Hinds is a proficient arpeggionist who apparently believes that Slayer’s Reign in Blood album and his instrument of choice are a complimentary match. He was wrong, not so much due to the limitations of the instrument, but rather the limitations of adapting what is essentially one of the definitive hardcore albums to a wholly instrumental format—you can’t make musical something that is essentially tuneless to begin with. Metallica, and even Black Sabbath, have enough melody infused into their songs to make previous classically inspired takes on their respective catalogues more successful, but—and this is not meant as a dig at Slayer, who remain a personal favorite—when you’re talking about a band whose primary mode of attack sounds like a plague of pissed-off hornets attacking a stronghold of locusts, you’re gonna be hard pressed to come up with something that doesn’t sound like a tuning session for a fourth grade string section. Maybe if he’d screamed the lyrics while he was playing he might’ve been onto something, but as it stands, Hinds could’ve covered the Neos or Siege and gotten the exact same results performance-wise as he got here. He also could’ve done it in 1/16 the time it took to listen to this, ’cause their songs are shorter. –jimmy (www.erikhinds.com)

People People: CD
A one-woman Japanese pop group of sorts, with the music provided by synthesizer(s). Most of it sounds like a weird melding of circus music, video game music, and game show music, all of it recorded at 45 rpm instead of 33 1/3 rpm. The drawings of happy people on the cover made me smile a lot. –jimmy (Records of the Damned)

Reactor: CD
Four-on-the-floor, cut-and-paste sloppy crust punk. Their hearts are in the right place (topics covered include the meaningful but standard fare: respect for cyclists, religion, the beauty standard, machismo, government, etc.), but it’s pretty run of the mill shit. Lots of gang screams, tons of soundbites and lyrics that sometimes read like Yoda backed by a bunch of drunk punks: “With us on bikes, the road you must share,” indeed. They’re probably a fun basement band to watch while fucked out of your head on forties of malt, but when they’re restricted to the stereo I just can’t help feeling that I’ve heard this record a hundred times before and didn’t really dig it that much back then, either. And the fact that their cover showcases the famous photo of that kid holding the grenade that was on the early pressings of SNFU’s If You Swear, You’ll Catch No Fish LP from a million years ago really doesn’t do much to lessen that sense of revisiting memory lane. –keith (Blood Money)

Self-Titled: CD
There might be people who disagree with me, but I think this is the best stuff Duane Peters has ever done. The backing band he has put together is stronger sounding and better songwriters than anything previous that I heard from DP. The songs have a strong OC feel and fit well with his vocal style. The songs are a notch above the average punk rock. The bass and drums on this recording pound out hard and make you feel the driving force. There aren’t basic bar chords with the guitars. The two guitarists interplay with each other to give you a textured sound. The songs sound fresh and don’t come off as something I have heard a million times. Enjoyable and would make a great soundtrack to a skate session. –don (Disaster)

Self-Titled: CD
Legend notwithstanding, I’ve heard Peters’s various bands on comps before and have never really been that impressed. Admittedly, I’ve never owned a full-length of their stuff either. Then I get this and I’m both surprised and floored: think of an updated version of Wild in the Streets-era Circle Jerks, except with better songs. I mean, it’s almost eerie how much Peters sounds like a primed-and-ready Keith Morris; there’s the same bile and venom, the same confidence and vocal swagger, the same fucking syllable stresses. It’s amazing. As the name implies, there’s a weird “Wild West gunfighter” theme threading its way through a few of the songs that I could definitely do without, including one, “Gunfighter,” written from the perspective of a kid who “killed his motherfuckin’ whore.” Said kid asks the question, “What good’s a woman for?” and the song just makes me cringe every time I hear it. That and the last one, “Marry Me,” in which Peters sounds horrifically drunk and mutters a la Shame McGowan over a lone guitar are the two that I’ll have to pass on. Regardless, the eight other songs that do cook on this album do so with such surety and precision that I’m willing skip past those two and move on. In the band photos, Peters looks like a crazed and damaged leprechaun, and minus the aforementioned songs, the majority of the lyrics are a shitload smarter than I figured they’d be, which really begs the question, “Why bother with the filler?” Anyway, it turns out that sometimes you pass judgement on a band and then they smack you with something out of left field and you’re left, for the most part, loving it. This one’ll get a few rotations. –keith (Disaster)

El Tubador/The Peleton: CDEP
Kind of a disappointment, since the tuba only creeps in on “The Peleton”—a low-key exercise in fusing the trusty tuba genre with outer space travel. “El Tubador” has a smooth but creepy feel to it, kind of like Pinhead from Hellraiser cruising for chicks in a sharkskin suit, martini in hand. –The Lord Kveldulfr (Sickroom)

Neversafe: CD
Their lyrics aren’t too bad, especially when they take swipes at fashion punks, but their take on the hardcore template fell just short of being interesting. Dug the cover art, though. –jimmy (Lude Boy)

Neversafe: CD
I’m completely biased on this one. I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for anything from Portland, Maine and an even softer spot for someone in the band who makes the best candy bread. That being said, I (as objectively as possible) really like this album. It’s New England punk in the best ways (dirty, fast, and full of hooks, but not in a poppy way at all). They stick to a well-worn path, but they do it well. It’s dark and angry, and easily something I would’ve trekked across the city uphill in snow both ways for. –megan (Lude Boy)

Justice in a Bag: CD
Mid-tempo mohawk-core with three singers, none of whom apparently can muster enough energy to sound particularly interested in what they’re doing or singing about. The lyrics, while not exactly Whitman, make their point. Of interest was “Hung, Drawn, and Quartered,” which is quite possibly the first song I’ve heard—on a record with such an anti-war bent to the other lyrics —to advocate hanging and castrating convicted rapists who are released from prison. While I may not necessarily be averse to the suggestion, I find it interesting that they would advocate torturing and killing one group of people—rapists or not—while at the same time decrying the torturing and killing going on in the Bush administration’s Middle Eastern war of empire. I wonder if they’re vegetarians that wear leather jackets, or are pro-abortion and anti-death penalty. –jimmy (Profane Existence)

Name of the Game is… Cocaine: 7"
Scumbags love to play rock’n’roll. The Dirty Fingers stick to the dirty rock’n’roll recipe to a T. Nothing new here. Songs include: “Name of the Game is.. Cocaine,” “Girl to Fuck,” and “She’s a Slut.” I have a feeling these guys don’t get laid much. In the vein of other raunch rockers like Nashville Pussy, Nine Pound Hammer, and Jesus Christ Superfly. Not bad, just kinda cheesy and unoriginal. If I only had a nickel for every band that ripped off Ed Roth’s style of artwork. –Buttertooth (Bigneck)

You’re Controlled: 12" EP
Hello Reagan-era hardcore. Welcome onto my stereo. It’s ’05 by way of ’82, and they’re neither restrained by the ripped-up jeans and bandanas of nostalgia nor guilty of licking off too much of Henry Rollins or Keith Morris’ armpit sweat and calling it holy water. They’ve taken from the best and put their own chips down on the table. How, oh how, does Direct Control do it when legions before them have failed? Don’t know, but it seemed for awhile that most of the bands capable of picking up the original American hardcore banner didn’t live inside the United States. This is neck-and-neck with DS-13, Amdi Peterson’s Army, and Career Suicide. Straight-ahead assault: like a chainsaw. At first you just hear the scary roar, and when you get used to it, you can see that all the whirring teeth on the saw are shaped a little bit differently without blunting the power. Yes. –todd (Kangaroo)

Plastic Surgery: 7" EP
I do believe it’s more of a spontaneous generation than an empty trend—new wave smacked on the jagged boulders of garage rock, exploding in a bounty of once-buried treasure. There are several bands doing this, and doing it well. The nearest cousin to Derek would be the dearly missed Lost Sounds: science experiments gone wrong, psychosis being wrestled with, and dirty electronics used as percussion instruments then caressed back into a melody. The best of all, the songs are thickly spined and muscled into form by solid songwriting instead of mere shtick or amateurish “hey, look at me being rad by sucking”-isms. In turns, this reminds me of Gary Numan, the Reatards, Joy Division, Human League, and a male-lead Epoxies. Good stuff. –todd (Florida’s Dying)

6 Songs: CDEP
This is very mature sounding music for mature adults, kind of a modern-day Invisible Touch-era Genesis for the post-emo crowd. Carefully planned Drive Like Jehu-style dissonance, but cleaned up so it will sound nice on your iPod coming out of the speakers of your new Jetta. It’s not necessarily bad, it just doesn’t seem like there was any fun involved with the creation of this. It’s very serious, and smacks of self-importance and pretense. The layout is very professional, the pictures of the dudes in the band are very professional. It comes with a video (I think, I don’t have a computer so I can’t tell) of a live show at Macrock, which, if you don’t know, is a big music festival held every year in the mountains of Virginia where a bunch of bands that nobody’s ever heard of get a chance to wear laminates and act important. A perfect venue for a band like Decahedron. It’s well done, it’s just not my thing. –ben (Lovitt)

Split: 7"
An odd pairing here that’s probably based more in geography and friendship than anything else, as both of these bands hail from Long Island. Deathcycle hits us with two metal songs, neither of which floored me too much. Lyrics deal with contemporary topics but are strained through the standard metal colander: the result of environmental irresponsibility isn’t translated into the passing of CAFTA and the ensuing depletion of environmental standards and continuation of nation-sanctioned sweatshop labor, but rather “dead bodies rotting everywhere.” I mean, I agree with them but I’ve had it up to here with the Cookie Monster and Oscar the Grouch snarling behind the mike stands, shouting doom-filled epithets while the double bass rocks it. Then I flipped the record and got stoked once I realized at least one of the kids in the Solidarity Pact used to be in Contra, who at one time held the belt as one of my favorite bands. And what the Pact is doing here, they’re doing well. Consider it an updated version of Contra—they’re not necessarily more pissed off, but there’s a fuller sound this time around. The vocals have to fight against the guitar just to be heard, rather than sailing easily over the top of it like Contra did. The guitars are fuzzed out and vicious and the songs seem less dependent on verse-chorus-verse than they are in going full-tilt from start to finish. Three quick songs on their side and every one of them just shits fire and brimstone, you know? It’s hardcore that’s intelligent and pointed, that’s less reliant on floorpunching (do kids still do that?) and instead rests on the bedrock of passion, solid songwriting, and a gut-wrenching intensity that doesn’t let up until the needle does. I hope they stick around long enough for a full-length. –keith (Rok Lok)

The Chimpanzee EP: 7"
Like a divine case of directed panspermia, the demented clown sperm of Henry Fiat’s Open Sore seems to have landed in the fertile manure fields of Germany and given rise to a hell spawn known as Dean Dirg. And that—praise the Lord—is a beautiful thing. Almost anything that can be said about HFOS can be said of Dean Dirg except for two things: 1) the Dean Dirg boys don’t seem to wear suits and wrap their heads in Ace bandages, and 2) their lyrics, though similarly disjointed and off-kilter, are not as funny and offensive as those that flow from the thoughtful pen of the Bard of Stockholm, Henry Fiat. But other than that, it’s a fast, trashy-but-tight, shit-flying mongo-fest that would do HFOS proud. I like this band a lot. –aphid (Ken Rock)

26 Kicks to Make the World Pay: CD
Living amidst a musical world of contradiction, Germany’s Dean Dirg pull together polar opposites. Sloppy/tight. Retarded/genius. Medicine/disease. Damaged/perfect. Warty/beautiful. They play like they’re all jumping around in a moon bounce, and yet keep it cohesive and short. The obvious match-ups are Henry Fiats Open Sore (whom they’ve done a split with); the Tyrades (for the too-much-coffee, not-enough-sleep, we’ve-failed-so-brilliantly-we’ve-actually-won patina); and the Functional Blackouts, where you suspect that there’s some actual real thinking going on behind the damage but they’ll probably never admit it because they don’t want to appear in any way, shape, or form as pretentious. Twenty-six songs. Not one hits two minutes. Recommended for folks who think tying their shoes is too much of a hassle and go with velcro. –todd (Dead Beat)

Split: 7"
Frenzied, trash-kicking mongoloid stompers from the idiot savant masters of the genre: Henry Fiat’s Open Sore (Sweden) and Dean Dirg (Germany.) Each band here plays three songs and each band does one song about the other band. HFOS does “The Dirg Never Sleep” and Dean Dirg does a ditty called “Don’t Make Fun of Henry Fiats Maybe They Are Really Retards,” which has, best as I can make out, references to HFOS’s famous velcro-strap footwear: the Mongo Shoe. I just wish the lyrics were printed out somewhere on the record cuz I bet there’s some pretty funny shit being yelled here. Regardless, this is top-notch tardcore and you’d be doing yourself a favor if you made room for it in your hi-fi record collection. File under: Big Dumb Mental Fun. –aphid (Green Hell)

The Value of Mistrust: CD
Tim Yohannon forgive me, for I am about to sin. This is a CD of grimy, stripped-down, heavy rock with a punkish sneer, ala Blitzspear—but it is laden with cock-rocky guitar wankery and, in spots, even reminds me a little bit—just a little bit, mind you—of (gasp!) Skid Row. And I like it. There, I said it. But this thing actually rocks out pretty impressively. Self-righteous punk rockers with extra starch in their rectitude might want to avoid this one, but me, I like it damn good. Simply put: when this band rips it up, they fucking rip. I just hope they don’t go off on some woozy Monster Magnet-type rock star trip down the road. That would leave me with some egg on my face. But for now, though I think there’s some self-indulgent fat that could be trimmed, Crash and Burn tear it up pretty good and you’d be a sectarian idiot to not acknowledge that. –aphid (Thorp)

Self-Titled: CD-R
They are so fucking bad it’s awesome. I really like the guitar sound. It sounds like weer neer weer neer and they seem to have something. I would like to see them live. Gabe Rock –Guest Contributor (no address)

Split: 7"
Ciril: I don’t think people get them. Me included, sometimes. The last record creeps up on you and gets you interested. This is a band you have to listen to more than a couple of times to appreciate what they are doing. Seeing them live a few times has made me a convert. Taking elements of death rock and the fuck you attitude of punk, they push the boundaries of the genre. They’re interesting with a healthy dose of snottiness that, at least to me, gives a spark to bring up the interest level. Often, the Rudimentary Peni comparison is thrown at them. They do a mongoloid cover of “Rotten to the Core” and jump into their own original that is a noisecore middle finger in the air. Here is another band that will have more fans music in the future than in the present. It will take people that long to realize what is actually going on. The Vaginals: First thing I thought of is that this band reminds me of Snap-Her. It’s more of straight-up punk that is more UK punk via ‘79 than modern. I have to see them live a few times to see if I’m missing something. –don (Despotic)

En La Linea Del Frente: CD
Not that anyone should care, but I work on many of my reviews for Razorcake up in the northwoods of Wisconsin, far, far away from poisonous Jell-O salads like MTV and Rolling Stone. It seems to afford me a certain mindset uncluttered with the detritus of music industry advertising and fashion trends. I mention this here only because, as I sit here in my antique lawn chair, sipping a beer, about to write down my salient thoughts about the Casualties, there is, coincidentally enough, a punk rock woodpecker pecking at a tree about fifteen feet from where I sit. In all my years of ducking humanity up here in the woods, I’ve never seen a woodpecker like this one. It has a thick black body and a white head with a streak of black cutting across its eyes and making it look a little bit like the mask the Riddler used to wear on the old timey Batman TV show. But the important part here, is that sitting atop its white and black burglar head is a genuine red mohawk. No shit. This woodpecker has a better mohawk than Wattie ever had in his wildest dimwit dreams. Talk about synchronicities; I just grab a beer, pop the CD in the player and sit down and—floom—this woodpecker that effortlessly makes clear everything that’s wrong with so many of the Ronald McPunks of the world, shows up and basically drops this review in my lap as if it were letting loose digested ants and inchworms from its lower regions. So here’s the poop, so to speak: be it a mohawk or a Jennifer Anniston or whatever hair arrangement you want, that’s fine. Go crazy with it, if you want. Harden it with your own filth and string it with Satan-mas lights. But no matter to what degree you torture your hair to peacockish flamboyancy, you’re just never going to have a mohawk as real and as cool as this woodpecker’s just a few feet away from me. And he or she didn’t color it with kool-aid or mold it with Krazy Glue or use some DIY mohawk kit purchased at Hot Topic. It’s natural. And if there ever was such a thing as a Punk Rock Bible, it should consist of nothing more than one page with one lone sentence on it that reads: be real. Wow, who’da thunk a stupid woodpecker and a stupid Casualties disc could so quickly whip me up into a pontificating blowhard? And only on my first beer. Life can be funny sometimes. I think it was John Denver who said “life ain’t nothin’ but a funny, funny riddle” and damned if he wasn’t right. So riddle me this: are the Casualties chemically altered hairdos mere clownish affectation or are they striking, porcupiney examples of angry self-expression? I’m guessing that’s one of those DFY—decide for yourself—sort of things. All I know is that my punk rock woodpecker friend, who has since moved on to another tree, seemed as genuine as genuine can be—whereas, when I look at the cover of this CD with these dolled-up mannequins looking all grouchy and mean in their spiky leather and spiky hairdos, I get a sad whiff of the mothball odor of people who’ve only got part of the puzzle figured out, but think they’ve cashed in on the big prize. In this case it’s a booby prize. Oh, and lest we forget, there’s the music. Well, even if you haven’t heard the Casualties before, you know what to expect: tough, snarly, and constipated (and on this particular disc, it’s in Spanish). Sorry boys, you’re not scaring anybody. Conformity as nonconformity still sucks. And the only feathers you stand to ruffle are those of the mayonnaise people who spend their money and energy on the less punkish affectations like fake tans and collagen-pumped lips and bleached choppers. And they’re not paying attention to you anyway. Go try scaring someone who matters. Your oh-so-important look is what the punk rock woodpecker pulls off without even trying. You, my friends, are trying too damn hard. Oof, that’s enough of that. I know this hasn’t been a very punk rock way to review this disc and I might someday consider apologizing for it if I made the band’s plumages bristle. But I doubt it. –aphid (Side One Dummy)

!Bailamos Murimos Juntos!: CD
Comparisons to the Faint are gonna be inevitable. They’ve got to know that. Maybe if that band and the Washdown hooked up at a swingers party, their illicit spawn-bag of corpulence and blood vessels would’ve been the Casionauts. Bouncy, angular-yet-admittedly-catchy keyboard rock that fans of labels such as Sound Virus would probably shit their tight pants over. I’d imagine these dudes have a pretty stunning white belt collection and that perfectly coifed bedhead is, like, mandatory for all members at all times, even when they’re buying groceries. They’re decent at what they’re doing, but enjoying this EP is definitely a dark and guilty pleasure, the same way that whacking it on the bathroom floor of an Elks Lodge at 4 AM is. –keith (Omega Point)

Feel Good Tunes: CD
Dear Operation Ivy: Please tell your legions of followers to quit forming bands. These guys are admittedly better than others, but this continued exposure to rehashed ska punk is not only making your music sound that much worse, it’s causing me to break out in a funky rash every time I so much as drop something and someone tells me to pick it up. I thank you in advance. –jimmy (http://buzzkill.biz)

Self-Titled: CDEP
This can be classified as Clash-y, poppy punk and is quite frankly better than that description makes it sound. Head bobbing, toe-tapping fun! The only sucky part? It’s a three-song EP. –mrz (No Front Teeth)

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