Q&A
SONIC REDUCER
Wrestling, Mohawks, Albini!
Four Albums That Will Endear You to Mum and Dad

by JOHN GRAHAM
and ZACH DUNDAS
jgraham@wweek.com
zdundas@wweek.com

Various "Artists": World Wrestling Federation: The Music Vol. 5 (Koch)
Darkness lurks behind the eyes of pro wrestling impresario Vince McMahon. Vince is America--'roid plumped, veiny-necked, greasy, smart, venal, immoral, indestructible. In furtherance of his plans for global domination, this CD anthologizes the bad music that hammers through arena PAs as his gladiators pimp-walk to the squared circle. There's so much bad metal on this disc, you could probably start a bitchin' party just by cranking it in any high-school parking lot. Two tracks do, however, offer small distractions from the parade of nobodies. Lemmy Kilmister's caustic bark opens proceedings, as Motörhead contributes an uncharacteristically sluggish and unfun B-side. (Do they need work this badly?) In contrast, hip-hop mythmaker Slick Rick teams with The Rock on a playful, relaxed finale; Rock's cocky proclamations go 'round with Rick's sly Bronx/Caribbean lilt, street-party beats cut jarring gospel choruses. Like wrestling at its best, this is goofy, surreal and funny folk art. The rest of the disc? Let's just say McMahon's success isn't to be confused with taste of any kind, low or high.

Various Artists: History of Portland Punk Vol. 1 (Zeno)
Anxiety over the state and future of Portland music rises and falls in predictable cycles. If the Scene pulses vibrantly now, it won't be long before someone discovers a slow cancer inside. Then wait six months for a "new generation" to fertilize the tree of liberty with blood, etc. It feels good to absorb some historical perspective. Vol. 1 of Zeno's projected archival series gathers 7-inch singles by four bands and a batch of tracks recorded live at the now-defunct Earth Tavern on Oct. 29, 1979. The Wipers, Greg Sage's legendary band, are a highlight, of course, ringing dire prophecy as timely as ever. The Stiphnoyds offer three classic punk song titles ("Afraid of the Russians," "Mom's a Fake," "Radiation") and buzzsawing New Wave hate. The all-female Neo Boys' tightwound, agitated pop could teach a few lessons to present-day punx in search of razor simplicity. Sado-Nation couples apocalyptic fury with surprising melody, and Napalm Beach's menacing "Rock and Roll Hell" seems to summarize the whole epoch. The live tracks pull in a motley army of bands--Smegma, the Rubbers, the Cleavers and Bop Zombies all storm through. The undying urge to kick and scream at unsafe speed survives all manner of transitory changes, and this disc is the proof.

Shellac: 1000 Hurts (Touch & Go)
Señor Albini rides back into the arena to flay the bleeding skin off that bull we call indie rock. Like previous Shellac albs, 1000 Hurts feels more like an impromptu studio-improv exercise than a genuine album--which is, for this man whose work with Big Black and Rapeman was a white-knuckle punch, a definite disappointment. But there are moments that get the bile rising well enough. In the opening "Prayer to God," Albini eggs Him on to lend a little personal help, screaming, "Kill him/ fucking kill him/ just kill him already." "Squirrel Song" slices up jagged guitar lines rougher than fingertips run through a cheese grater. The mid-song breakdown of "Shoe Song" transforms Albini's six-string from a simple chime into screeching metal machine music, and the slinky riff of the closing "Watch Song" has that distinctive scrapyard pick-scrape sound that is all Albini. Any chance to hear that is worth the price of admission alone.

Rancid: Rancid (Epitaph)
It's taken many weeks and many more listens to sift through conflicting opinions and emotions, but yeah, I do actually like this latest Rancid album. Agreed, they are sellouts. And yup, the "raw" production on this, the Bay Area blasters' second self-titled album, tastes like a sour contrivance cooked up to reclaim underground respect. But Rancid remains an excellent, if not shattering, record, their best since the days before "Salvation" made them mallrat darlings. They've dropped the ska, thrown that (blue)beat in the garbage can, and stopped wanting to be the Clash. Instead, they just turned up the amps and let rip at 22 roughly chopped cuts of meaty punk played at hardcore speed. Nothing new. But nothing you'd hear on NRK, either. Obviously the didactic punk-rock pedagogues will still have a field day--"Don't you know they're killing punk by showing their mohawks on MTV?!?"--but if punk is so pathetically weak it can be killed by exposure to Carson Daly, then it probably don't deserve to live anyway.