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THE
ROCK*A*TEENS:
Sweet
Bird of Youth
The
Rock*A*Teens
Satyricon,
125 NW 6th Ave., 243-2380.
10 pm Thursday,
Nov. 23. Cover.
Nine Inch Elvis:
Nine Inch Elvis
(Invisible)
There is bad. And then there's BAD bad. Like two-week-old
diaper bad. Rancid milk and rotten-kumquat-sandwich bad.
Or the absolute worst: George W. Bush bad. Nine Inch
Elvis is that sad and moronic. Sure, the idea--techno-industrial
covers of The King--is swell. Really, it's the concept album
the Revolting Cocks have been waiting to make for the last
10 years. Too bad Al Jourgensen isn't steering Nine Inch
Elvis--J. ("Who?") Wilder is, and he's got neither the programming
talent nor the piss-taking funny bone to do such a project
the savage, sarcastic justice it demands. The record's best
tracks, "All Shook Up" and "Blue Suede Shoes," may have
enough stabbing guitar and beat-bashing techno to get coked-up
KMFDM fans discoing robotically at the dance club's last
call; everything else, alas, is the sort of Velveeta-creaming
rawk guitar and puerile poptronica Sister Machine Gun leaves
on the cutting room floor. Elvis
hasn't just left the building--he's rolled over in his grave.
The Rock*A*Teens:
Sweet Bird of Youth
(Merge)
My cousin's lived in New Orleans for about a year, and
he told it to me straight during our last (very possibly
chemically enhanced) 1 am conversation: "Dude, people in
the South are fucked up. They are all fucked up
by the South." As if to demonstrate this axiom, the indie
pride of Cabbagetown, Ga., spins out of control on this
drunken mess. Emoboy wails and sun-drenched psychedelica
vie with folk and classical elements. God only knows what
kind of Dixie ditchweed fueled this, but perhaps it's the
advent of a new genre: harpsicore.
Various Artists:
Acoustic Revolution!
(Romeg Records)
Despite the fuzzy cover snap of someone's knuckle-tatts
spelling P-U-N-K and F-O-L-K, the only indication of punkness
herein is the album's tin-can recording quality and many
artists' painfully tin-eared inability to carry a tune.
At least old acoustic revolutionaries like Joan Baez had
the pipes to lead a populist sing-along. But just as folk
didn't Save the World in the early '60s, so, too, will this
"acousticore" (their term) revolution fall short of total
insurrection--especially since the listener's too busy cringing
to pick up that rifle and fight the Man. I humbly suggest:
Follow Dylan, Go Electric. The increased volume won't merely
add power, it may actually cover up the widespread lack
of vocal skill. Or not.
Orgy:
Vapor Transmission (Elementree/Reprise)
I'm ashamed to admit I wanted to listen to this record.
I'd heard the songs "Fiction (Dreams In Digital)" and "Opticon"
and thought they were pretty good. Like '80s Numanesque
synth, but with quality keyboards, not just a cut-rate Casio.
Unfortunately, the rest of the album finds Orgy coming on
heavier than the bandmembers' mascara. It's all big and
loud and "Hey, we may wear makeup, but we're hard."
It's the pummeling sound of boredom. I mean, this is the
band that sucked all of the emotion out of "Blue Monday."
They need to be given the vapors, Biz Markie style, themselves.
(Jamie S. Rich)
The High Llamas:
Buzzle Bee
(Drag City)
The press release for this rainbows-and-puppy-dogs retro
crap act crows, "Much continues to be made of the influence
of both the Beach Boys and Steely Dan upon the High Llamas."
My, doesn't that sound absolutely smashing? No, but it certainly
makes one feel like smashing something--preferably
the record's glass master on the High Llamas' collective
head. I dunno which would cause worse burning bowel problems:
having to sit through 40 minutes of the Llama's la-la '60s-minstrel
muzak--like Burt Bacharach's most insipid schlock-pop indulgences
tossed off with a faux-naif's psychedelic wink--or having
torturers get medieval on my ass à la the intestine-shredding
finale of Braveheart. I opt for the latter. If you're
going to pretend we're stuck in the past, at least choose
the option that's got some guts.
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