Rick Barton and the Shadow Blasters – An American Rock Song

There’s an iconic scene in the movie “American Beauty” where the characters and the audience are mesmerized by an image of a plastic grocery bag blowing in the wind.  Caught in an updraft, it circles, flips, dips, and twists in an almost surreal ballet.  The bag itself is ugly.  The dirty sidewalk it drifts above is filthy.  But the juxtaposition of these two images with that weightless floating creates a scene of magical beauty.

Welcome to Rick Barton and the Shadow Blasters debut album An American Rock Song, except take that image of the plastic bag and substitute a floating, circling strip of leather, faded and tattered.  Edges worn from years of hard living and abuse.  Color faded and cracked.  Imagine that tattered piece of leather floating through the air like that magical plastic bag, rising and falling, climbing above the gutter and the garbage on the street, leaving behind the similar rubbish.  It's ugly, but it's seeking to soar.

That’s Rick Barton and the Shadow Blasters.

Mixing punk, folk, and rock and roll into an incendiary cauldron of down-trodden emotion, battered dreams, and never-ending hopes, Rick Barton has crafted an album that has already shot to the top of my Top 10 list for 2011.  Recently Pope and I espoused the amazing punk/folk hybrid of Everybody Out! An offshoot from the famed Dropkick Murphys.  Yep, that was a Rick Barton project.  Well, it seems there’s just no end to the DM offshoots, nor the talent of Rick Barton.  Rick Barton got his start with the Murphys.  Co-founder and guitarist in fact.  Add to that a band with former members of Amazing Royal Crowns, the Del Fuegos, and the Swinging Steaks and we off and running down a road to punk folk heaven.

I knew I was in good hands from the first few seconds of opening track “No Place Like Home.”  Above the resounding strum of an acoustic guitar, Rick Barton’s weathered and tatty voice sings out “I will be your worn out shoe, that’s covered far too many miles.”  The band kicks in behind him with chiming guitars reminiscent of a folkier U2 with a rootsy edge.  And right away you can tell this is no ordinary love song.   This is a song of blunt honesty and human frailty.  Of human survival.  And as the female backing singers join in as Barton belts out the chorus, “We’ll fall right into each others arms/and pretend everything's ok,” I can feel the passion, the authenticity.  Barton really is that worn shoe that’s covered far too many miles.  His voice is a thing of brutal beauty, passion burning through those shredded and tired vocal chords.  This is a true American roots classic, brimming with punk vitality.  This modern day Johnny Cash, a little worse for the wear, but just as passionate, telling a tale of making it through each day. 

“All Over,” fills the sound out even more, guitars jangling through the mix creating a moving wall of sound, cymbals crashing, bass pounding.  The band jumps into a faster vibe, particularly as the song whips itself into a fury for the closing.  That’s when it hits me; this is the closest I’ve ever heard to an American version of The Waterboys.  Those of you who remember Mike Scott’s band know what I’m talking about.   Folk and punk brought together in perfect symmetry, and the musicianship to carry it all off.  Loud and full, but real and honest.  “These Kids,” takes that energy and pushes it one step further.  Like Bruce Springsteen mixed with the Sex Pistols, chugging along at full speed, telling another tale of the streets and the fight for survival and trying to find something better.  Some life better.

Then comes “American Folk Song,” and boy, is it ever.  The first time I heard this song my jaw literally dropped.  I pulled the car over to the side of the road and just let it flow over me.  This song is a classic, a true American Gothic tale with a sinisterly mournful fiddle playing behind Barton’s acoustic and that plodding, woeful bass.  “We search for the truth but we only find questions which led us right back to our own point of view,” Barton sings as he reaches for his gun.  “The story was written on the day I was born,” he continues over the maudlin pace.  Until the chorus and all sorts of emotional hell breaks out.  Guitars rain down like thunder as Barton finds some level of passion in his voice that I couldn’t believe existed.   I had no choice, I simply had to let this song wash over me, sweep me up in its flow and carry me away.

“Lookin’ Out,” ups the Clash quotient and drops it right down onto the dirty streets of America.  “A Dime,” is a lost gothic treasure, as if Springsteen’s Nebraska album was reborn for round two.  Or better, as Barton sings, “Don’t fool around with my heart.  It may not be broken, but it sure isn’t sound.”  Yet through all the pain and weather-worn crags and cracks, I can’t help but believe that Barton has found a place where he clings to the brightness of hope.

And to me, that’s what this album is about.  Survival.  The strength to pick yourself back out of the gutter and let your past fall away.  Realizing that who we are is not the sum of our past decisions and mistakes, but who we choose to be in the moment. As painful as the past has been, the future hasn’t yet been written.  And its up to us to decide what that future will be. 

Sure, I may be reading (listening) too much into this album.  But I don’t think so.  Barton is a true American storyteller, and his story holds true for me.


--Racer

Buy here: One Way Productions

hear samples at:

http://www.onewayproductions.com/rickbarton/index1.html

The Business - Saturdays Heroes

Oi! Oi! Oi!

With a roster that includes such Boston street punk bands as The Dropkick Murphys and Streetdogs, it only seems fitting that Taang! should have The Business kicking around their digs also.  So as we wind up our weeklong look into the depths of the Taang! roster, it's time to feed Saturdays Heroes into the player, grab a pint, round up the mates, and head out looking for trouble.

For those who don't know, The Business first raised hell on the streets of South London way back in 1979. With a career that has gone on to span 30 years, these streetwise punkers never slowed down and this 1996 release finds the blokes in fine form.  Sweat-soaked, beer stained, pint-in-the-air scream-along anthems is what The Business specializes in and you'll find more than your requisite handful here.  And just as importantly, the band show no signs of slowing down as they moved from young upstarts to elder statemens of working-class punk.  It's no wonder bands like The Dropkick Murphys look toward The Business as inspiration.

One look at the photos and you'd be hard pressed to predict what mayhem is to follow in the grooves of the disc.  Singer Mickey Fitz possesses a truly guttural set of vocal chords that spits out socially conscious rebellions with a heavy-handed cockney accent.  And all that venom is lost behind the more-than-boyish cherub of a face, polo shirt, and arms that look like they couldn't threaten a girl scout.  Likewise, Guitarist Steve whale, bassist/chief songwriter Mark Brennan, and drummer Mick Fairbarn each play with spit-soaked abandon but look like they're crawling off the cover of preppie Gentlemen's Quarterly not ready for a hardcore frenzy.

Don't let looks deceive you.

Like that kid in school who looked so calm and shy but really ran a meth lab in his basement, the gents of The Business may not focus so much on their image.  But they sure do on their music.  "Spanish Jails" kicks this frenzy off in high-tension velocity.  A true fist-pounder in the classic style of some of the best of the Clash's early punk.  Guitars buzz and chug and churn.  The bass thuds and punishes and the skins get pounded harder than a pool hustler trying to cheat the Hell's Angels.   You gotta visualize a pub for this one.  Full of working class stiffs, rowdy-ing up for a football match or a gang fight.  Fists are pumping.  Ale is sailing through the air.  Testosterone is rising.  It's good.  It's all good.

But the fist-pumping street punk doesn't stop there.  "All Out Tonight" "Never Be Taken" and Shout it Out" are all rousing anthems of working class discontent and fury.   Rocking, riffing hardcore with sneer, anger, and cynicism.  Again, forget the boys appearance.  One listen to the soaring chorus of "All Out Tonight"  and I know I wouldn't ever want to get on these cats bad side.  "You're all just hypocrites/got money on your minds/I know your name and I know your game."  This is a call to class warfare of the nth degree and you better believe that each of the Oi! punks listening will be packing brass knuckles, chains, and tire irons.  Stay off the streets when the Business comes to town.

"Never Be Taken" is chugging, hardcore riffery at its finest, motoring along like some cockey Ramones outtake and Sham 69 venom.  "Hold your heads up high" Fitz wails above the dissonant buzzsaw guitar riffs.  With it's message of pride it's clear that with The Business, the working class battles on with dignity, intelligence, anger and wit.  Inspirational in it's intent and execution.  If I'd been a working class yob in London, this song would've rallied me to storm the palace.

In addition to the original album, licensed from Link Music, Taang! throws 5 bonus cuts into the mix including the revved up cockney gang fight "Hurry Up Harry", the moderately sedate, melodic neighborhood observation of "Get Out of My House", the gunfight in a bottle "Outlaw" and the original version of "All Out Tonight."  Plenty of Oi! for your money.

While never as popular as the Sex Pistols, the Clash, or Sham 69, The Business do what they do amazingly well and just may be one of the most overlooked punk bands of the Oi! movement.

--Racer

Buy here: Saturday's Heroes
Buy here live: Saturdays Heroes (Live And Loud)

Dropkick Murphys - Live on Lansdowne

I’m not Irish, but I can tell you, without going to the North Atlantic, there can be no place more fun to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day than in Boston with the Dropkick Murphys.  From the opening, massive audience chant of “Let’s go, Murphys” you can tell this was a crowd amped and pumped and just hungering for the Murphys brand of fiery Irish infused street punk.  And boy, did they deliver big time!

Recorded during the Murphys stint of seven shows in six nights encompassing St. Patrick’s Day in 2009, this is a roaring, bar room frenzy of Oi! Punk and roll.  The love the audience has for these cats is palpable, showering the stage with screams and chants and stomps.  The Murphys, in turn feed off that energy, like a hurricane feeding off a low pressure zone, gaining power and momentum as each moment of this triumphant affair unfolds. 

My introduction to the particular Celtic brand of Murphys punk came through the back door.  After reviewing the last Street Dogs CD, I bent over backwards to find everything these guys were involved with, but still, I was unprepared for the shear passion these cats bring to the live stage.  Whether tearing through a manic pure punk frenzy like “Famous for Nothing,” dropping down into some more fired up traditional sounds like “The State of Massachusetts,” or even punking up a traditional blast like “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya,” there is simply no stopping these guys.  They are Celtic Punk.  They are pure energy in motion.

Mixed in amongst the pure volume and raging devotion the Murphys bring to their music is an assortment of traditional instruments like accordion, bouzouki, mandolin, banjo, bagpipes and tin whistle.  Instruments most punks can’t even pronounce much less play.  And that’s one of the things that makes the Murphys stand head and shoulder above just about every other American punk band ever.  Each member of this rowdy crew is a musician first, finding their outlet in truly tossed-to-abandon punk rock.

God, to have been in the audience during “The State of Massachusetts”!  I can only imagine the dancing, hopping, jumping orgy in the crowd.  Dance floor or mosh pit?  Yep, it’s both as the pictures in the insert contest.   Tattooed punks firing their fist in the air right next to dancing girls.  With it’s incessant beat, pounding drums and violin(?).  The vocals literally bleed with passion in a sweat-drenched performance.  I get sweaty just listening to it!  The song is a testament to their northeast homeland, where the Murphys must be considered the godfathers of all Bostonian punk. 

“Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya,” is a show stopper.  Sure, we’ve all heard this song before but not this way.    Sped up to amphetamine pace, the band is one fused, tight unit, while Al Barr’s vocals dig into every ounce of emotion the song could ever imply.    This song alone cements in my mind the power of the Murphys live and etches their name forever into my forebrain as the legends they are.

This album succeeds where so many live albums fail.  Fuck the overdubs, this is raw and raucous and triumphant.  Never before had I heard a live album that made me want to be in the audience as much as this one does.  Pogo-ing til by calves cramp.  Throwing elbows into the ribs of my new best friends.  Screaming, and chanting and singing til my throat bleeds raw Guinness.  Fuck, this album is so victorious, it makes me wish I was Irish.  And Bostonian at that.

“Caught in a Jar,” is a bagpipe-laced punk rave up.  “Captain Kelly’s Kitchen” is pure fury.  “Fields of Anthenry,” is a torrent of bagpipes, guitars and heartfelt vocals, all wrapped up in a gangland, sing-along chorus.  Fists pumping in triumph.  Ale pints swishing side to side.  “Tessie,” a natural for this album is a crowd-rousing ode to the Red Socks leading the audience to gang chant a toast to their favorite team. 

And the album goes on growing in verve and vim all the way to the encore, where another one of Boston’s favorite sons, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones join the Murphys on stage to a pounding rendition of “I’m Shipping to Boston.”  I’m not versed enough to know which instruments are played on this baby, sounds like accordion and bagpipes and whatever else they found on stage, but it is magnificent.  Don’t know if anyone ever called the Murphys magnificent before, but damn it, they are.  Their fierce blend of Celtic roots and punk, so decidedly Bostonian, is just so zealous it can kickstart the oldest, most failing heart.

Yeah, I’m not Irish, but damn if the Murphys don’t make me feel I am.

Pope, pack the Ripple mobile.  Next St Patrick’s Day, we're there, and we'll be pressed up against the front of the stage and we'll be black and blue and exhausted and spent and we'll bless every second of it.

Somebody, get me a Guinness.


--Racer

Buy here: Live On Lansdowne, Boston MA (CD + DVD)