With the sun shining, let’s start with some pop. “Johnny Action Figure!” I scream out to Pope who’s got his butt planted in the navigator’s seat and therefore controls the stereo. Within moments, the sheer sunny pop bliss that is JAF fills the Ghia speakers. Big rolling runs of bass and piano bring in “Phantom Blues,” the first track on this mini-smorgasbord of pop smarts. Coming from Reading Pa, the action men lace their pop with tons of good jazzy beats, big band swing jive, delectable harmonies and more melodies than can be found on an entire season of American Idol. In doing so, they effortlessly blend the old and the new, creating the . . . timeless.
Imagine Elvis Costello in a heated love affair with the Beach Boys and you’ll get a feeling for the craft here. “Young Rider,” is pure California-meets-NYC pop bliss, sparkling and shiny, yet edgy enough to hold the crowd in a cool underground beat club. Toss in some Steely Dan ultra smooth and some The Shins indy coolness and the picture is rounding out. “Until You’re Gone,” just brims with everything that was cool about the ‘80’s with it’s big bass lines, stop/start riffing and layered harmonies.
Yep, the drive’s off to a good start.
This Moment in Black History
– Public SquareOk, with the drive off to a blissful start, it’s time to rev up the energy. Hitting the freeway in our mad burrito quest, we need something to terrify the drivers next to us, a warning to stay the heck outta our way. As if on cosmic mind meld, The Pope’s eyes light up in that unmistakable recognition that we need some punk. Suddenly, This Moment In Black History pops in and . . . holy crap . . . we’re not in Kansas anymore!
Raging (and I do mean raging) from the Cleveland HC scene, TMBH need but one second to let us know they now control the stereo and they mean fucking business! Thirteen songs, most clocking in at under 2:30, this is full-on spittle-faced, buzzsaw guitar, hardcore. Instantly, Pope and I form a mosh pit within the confines of the Ghia’s two front seats, and trust me, that’s not a pretty sight! “Forest Whitaker (In an Uncompromising Role)" is the first thing to assault our ears, with its sledgehammer to the brain of bass and hornet’s nest guitars. 1:25 feels like a lifetime as we expel as much energy and phlegm as if we’d been in 13 Gilmore for a whole night. “Theophylline Valentime,” is just an attack, an agro blitzkrieg on anything that resembles common sense. Hyped up beyond the ability to be affected by the natural laws of physics, this is a noisy, cacophony of pure dischord. God bless it.
Then, just when you begin thinking that TMBH are one trick pony of rage and speed, “Pollen Count” fights it’s way out of the stereo and suddenly my ears are alert again. Riding a massive, retro-seventies, fuzzed out riff, this song has more in common with Fu Manchu than Black Flag. Didn’t see this one coming and love every second of it. “MFA” and “About Last Night” bring back the tornado of Ohio dissonance. Then just as our ears are screaming for relief, “Makes My Teeth White,” proves once again that these cats got more than powertools to smash against their guitars. Still full-on punk in its fury, TMBH mix in some subtle moments of quiet, dropped out guitar parts and gang vocals amidst the chaos. Then “My Notes,” takes everything we’d just heard and tosses it right out the window in one snotty, sneering, finger-up-you-ass moment of true rebellion. Synths banging over a mouthed-hip hop beat, TMBH drop into a full-on old school, Run DMC homage of rap. Don’t know where that came from, but damn if we weren’t smiling and laughing the whole way.
From there the chaos returns, some of it interesting, some of it not. In truth, Public Square is too much of a mixed bag for me to rave on and on about it, but damn, it still got us to the burrito stand.
With our ears brought to near lethal intensity, and our bellies full of carne asada, it’s time to head back to the Ripple office and get to work. Promos to send out, one-sheets to write. Still full of post-TMBH adrenaline, we wanted something punky, something rocky, but with a little more cohesion than what we just subjected our poor inner ears to. Reaching into the glove box I put out this little gem from Tsurumi Records. Now, I can’t claim to know everything there is to know about this little indy label, but one thing I can say is that they are infinitely cool. Pressing their stuff on vinyl, each LP comes with a full CD copy of the album, plus inserts and photos. Lots of cool stuff. More importantly, the Tsurumi guys seem to have latched onto a world all their own. . . some sort of international garage/punk love fest between the Seattle and Japan music scenes. And that’s what the music sounds like, some blessed union of garage grunge and Japanese crust. Heavy fricking punk but totally unique and absolutely listenable. The mere presence of Jack Endino at the helms of this compilation of previous vinyl cuts should be all I needed to know I was in store for a treat.
The Beautiful Mothers is a disc I’d been meaning to review for far too long. This long-player is like one long orgy of thunderously heavy bass and fuzzed guitars. Eric Balaban, the main Mother, comes across like some modern Jonathan Richman, and his crew of Rob Wheeler (drums) and Joey Lazerhead (bass) are his grimy, sweaty, dirty Modern Lovers.
It’s hard to describe just how good this disc is. But any lover of heavy garage punk must tune in. Songs like “Cold Sweat” and “Craigers” are simply terrors of simplified pounding rock. “Last of the World’s Gentlemen” rumbles and roars like a terrified freight train steamlining for my brain. Forget guitar solos on these cuts, there’s no time for that, not when the band can lose itself in the total abandon of the riff.
Not since I reviewed The Estranged and their drop-dead cut “Fast Trains” have I been as energized by a dark and heavy punk record. These cats totally restored my faith that cool shit is still being made and good shit is still worthy of writing about.
Needless to say, with the Beautiful Mothers as our accompaniment, the drive home was a blur. Too short, way to short. I wanted to hear Chikara again. Pope, maybe on tomorrow’s burrito run?
--Racer
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