Flashback: gothic rock, 80’s band, trying to make it as the opener for the Crue. Bashing drums, metal riffs, and Sabastian-style singing. This cd was hard for me to finish, since it's not akin to my personal likings. However I'm not saying it was bad -- I'm sure these guys throw a hell of an interesting Halloween party. If you're into goth and live in the Minneapolis area, check these guys out. They play a lot of live shows and have a very solid fan following. (Killer)

The primary songwriter and lead vocalist behind this demo is named Eric Deneen. This proves to be somewhat of a conundrum, considering our editor's first name is Deneen, and I would feel awkward and strange writing things like "Deneen is an irritating hack" or "shut up, Deneen" or "give up and do something else, Deneen, because everything you do will result in miserable failure and hopelessness." Fortunately for all involved, I will not have to say such things. Instead, I will mention that Deneen is a good unconventionally-voiced singer -- trying for Jagger, but reaching an odd, likeable high-register Westerberg yawp instead. The band itself goes through a variety of familiar nu-garage-isms to catchy effect -- drumbeat-driven buzzsaw rave-up power action in "Hotel Motel", Interpol-if-they-loved-The Unforgettable Fire shimmering in "Why Didn't You Fail?", epic languid echo-chamber comedown psych in "It's On" -- and they display an impressive amount of versatility given the 5-song 17-minute length of the EP. This is some great shit here, real Top Honors material, and I'd like to thank both Deneen and Deneen for the opportunity to listen to it. (Nate Patrin)

I was really hoping that when I grabbed this CD out of the ungodly huge pile of Demorama shit discs that I would finally get a good one. By the cool graphics on the case I had thought that this might be something interesting, something electronic-tasty! But noooooo, just another average band with crappy lyrics about some stupid problems. But noooooo, just another CD that stung my ears to listen to. Not that the whole CD sucked -- if you can tune out everything else and just listen to the lead guitarist -- you'll note that the dude can jam. I'm almost positive that when asked who inspired Braintree they would say either Queensryche or the Boss. However, this group is far from either. (Killer)

Dear Julian,
Hi! How're you doing? You don't know me, and I doubt any of the other guys in your band do either, but I bought Is This It and seriously, fuck the haters, it's a hell of an album. And that new thing you're coming out with, Room on Fire? OK, I admit to copping it on filesharing but no way am I not going to buy that when it drops because it's sick as hell. Anyways, that's not the point. The point is, I am heavily indebted to you and Nick Valenti and whatsisface that's getting with Drew Barrymore and that guy with the Ital-fro and whoever else is part of your whole Strokes thing because you've essentially kickstarted the much-too-belated movement to smash the remnants of '90s-style "alternative" to tiny little shards. Everyone in the press is all "hey, we lurve the Strokes" and "rock is back", and you know that's got to be hard on all these Nickelback clones who've worked so hard on their warmed-over churn-whine snivel-rock. There's still a few of them out there, but they sound really disheartened and undermotivated, like "man if I were five years younger you know I'd be rockin' skinny ties and riffing out inverted Buzzcocks chords", but they're stuck in this grunge stasis and they're just settling into autopilot. Like this band I heard recently, Contacthigh? Oh shit. Ohhhh shit, man, you would not be-lieve how dead they sound. We're talking "WB teen drama circa 1997". (Wait, was the WB around back then? I forget.) We're talking REM oozing out of Creed's pustules. We're talking music that isn't meant for dancing or making out or partying or sitting with the headphones on meditating or getting introspective or anything but the act of making noise where there previously was not noise. So once again, thank you and thank the Strokes and the Hives and the White Stripes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Rapture and Interpol and all those other bands that cynic anti-hype reactionaries talk shit about, because if it weren't for them, groups like Contacthigh might actually be making it onto the radio. I don't care if your daddy's rich so long as you keep that fight up.
Sincerely,
Nate Patrin

I'm feeling especially cranky, so I'm not going to stop with the album: I'm going to mock the enclosed pitch letter and press kit. Not the whole thing, mind you, just excerpts. First, the letter: "If you can imagine Leonard Cohen meeting the Cure for high tea at the local opium den." OK. Imagined it. Can't figure how it'd sound like nasal wet noodle whimpering over sluggish easy-listening pop-rock. How about I imagine Jakob Dylan meeting Sheryl Crow's crew of session musicians at the local oxygen bar? "It's not just that his lyrics are poetic, they are poetry. db's poems have been published in over a dozen literary magazines, with a book on the way." See, the difference here is that most poetry is not meant to be sung, and that if you set "Leaves of Grass" to tepid Adult Alternative ether-binge melodies and have the words sung by a man who sounds like Peter Gabriel with a tennis ball in his throat, it sort of loses its impact. "His performance of the original material is striking." This isn't an adjective -- it's a verb. And management has brought in a scab. "Pedal steel was performed in a dark Brooklyn living room." Well turn the bloody lights on, then, so the guitarist can see what the hell he's doing. "It is with immense pleasure that I pass the record onto you." Sadist. And the press kit's even worse: "[He] makes use of every tool of technology, yet his music reflects a time when teenagers read poetry. Before cigarettes caused cancer. When there was a touch of flamboyance in the air- when excess was everywhere and the words in the streets and the bars celebrated the essence of it all. A time when men wore ties to go out in the evening and traveled on ships, because they could." Uh. Teenagers still read poetry. And they write it, too, and as any LiveJournal reader will tell you, a lot of it is awful. Cigarettes have always caused cancer. And excess and dong-heaving arrogance still ooze everywhere, and it's not especially enjoyable. Neither is this demo. (Nate Patrin)

Take a little Primus bass, add some Mr. Bungle-flavored lyrics, stir in a dose of mysterious southern-derived musical tendencies and you will have the components for a tasty Discordian Society snack. This Virginia-based band plays music that appears to teeter along the line between metal and hard rock while still managing to remind me of the Grateful Dead. For some reason, I come across a lot of bands from the south that are like this. Why? Maybe the musicians' need to retaliate against the oftentimes stifling southern society attracts them to the musical style of Ween and the like, but with pot so easy to grow in the warm climate, they learn the value of a long, slowly evolving song. The band could almost be the darker (yet more humorous) brother of Kentucky jam band (now defunct), Catawampus. I envision lots of fire at their concerts – both at the end of a torch (or flame thrower) and tattooed on the bodies of their fans. Whatever the secret is, Discordian Society fits its chosen genre well. While this isn’t my preferred style of music, the trio is accomplished at what they do. The lyrics are a little quiet, but it appears the guitars are the main attraction, anyway. [Vanessa Moore]

Gloomy and dark are the first two words that come to mind while listening to Frances 8. The music weighs heavy on your shoulders and will drag you down to the ground weeping if you let it. The ray of sunlight in this otherwise stormy scene is the female vocal stylings of Nicole Katler who looks a cross between Pink and Joan Jett. Her voice falls somewhere between Tanya Donelly and Sophie B. Hawkins and is the only thing from keeping the blade off your wrists. I think "Half Whole" is a perfect description to sum up this record. It’s one of those ‘good but not great’ albums you hear all too often. Frances 8 features a cello player to add atmosphere to their dark sound which is a nice touch. It works well but they need to bring it to the forefront more often which worked wonders on Cursive's "The Ugly Organ" and would really add the extra emotion that "Half Whole" needs. (Neal Mayerle)

Is it shallow to say that a horrible band name equals a bad band? Maybe so but in this case it is true. These middle age rockers consist of two females and two males but appear to have forgotten to get a songwriter to join the band. I will admit the CD has a strong start with the song, "Can't" which is Ginger Moon's finest moment. After that they deliver some real stinkers (i.e. "Stuck With Yourself" and "Do I Know You"). The songs are very dry and the band doesn't sound very excited to be playing them. It almost sounds as if they were forced to record this album. None of the members of Ginger Moon stand out from one another -- sadly, together they help define what mediocrity really is. (Neal Mayerle)

Since my knowledge of metal brickwalled right about the time Mr. Cobain rendered 99% of it moot, I had planned to listen to 93X and figure out just where January Voodoo fits into the current realm. I soon realized that I would rather have elephantiasis than listen to anything that has Trapt, Staind, or Godsmack in its regular rotation. All of which is a rather strange preface to me saying that I like most of what's here. It pretty much sounds like what I remember before I fell off, with a large dollop of Alice in Chains mixed in. Cheesiness notwithstanding, I like "Lost and Never Found" the best; it could have come from a set of Dokken outtakes: "I'm higher than an aeroplane, into the night, I just can't find my way" over a George Lynch-type riff. All I need now is a goofy video. But the real surprise is the sound; could have come straight from Sunset, but comes from where? New Hope? Wow! Sounds great Echo Bay. (SCIsadore)

Sounds like the Boss jamming while really drunk on guitar. This CD gets sadder as it goes...everyone loves the blues. A total festival band (the Fair, the Taste, MC ralleys, or maybe even Ribfest): drinkin' expensive shitty beer, chicks in bikini tops, deep-fried alligator liver on a stick, and dudes on Harleys reven' their bikes. A total outdoors band. Where everybody is miserable in the heat and humidity, but they still hang out 'cause the band is decent, the food is good and everybody is drunk. I wouldn’t mind seeing them play if they came to MN, but I would have to be drunk. Let me know guys. (Killer)

Yeeeeeee haaaah! Some good old fashioned, drinkin' your sorrows away, country western music. Sounds a little like Elvis and a little like Johnny Cash. Effective use of the slide guitar to really feel the pain behind the music. This is a good cd to play when you’re drinkin' by yourself. I have been really fuckin bored all week, stuck in Boise for work. But when I started playing this cd, I didn't feel so lonely anymore. Good job guys. (Killer)

Les plays typical 90's rock in the vein of Tool and Soundgarden. Heavy guitars and changing themes are common elements in their music. Les are masters at fitting nice little melodic sections in their songs at just the right times. The band is very competent and the sound is so polished you can almost hear the shine. The only complaint is that they don't really venture into unchartered territory. But sometimes that can be all right, especially considering how well Les pulls off this same old song and dance. (Neal Mayerle)

Apparently this guy named Dean got some busted-ass pager as a "gift" from one of his friends, and it worked so poorly that one day he received 37 voice-mail messages in one afternoon that consisted of nothing but beeps and boops and buzzes and other bits of electronic noise and crap. There's probably been more ridiculous muses out there, but I can't think of any specific examples at this time. Somehow the result of the technical difficulties is a 67-minute ten-track collection of rudimentary, static ambient electronic generica that makes Aphex Twin's Selected Ambient Works 85-92 sound like Funkentelechy-era Parliament. My interest has been disconnected. If you would like to make a record, please hang up and try your music again.

LP Outsiders are a pleasant surprise from St. Louis of all places. Five boys playing a mean mix of hip-hop, soul, and funk. Backing hip-hop with live instruments is nothing new, but these guys are so tight they do justice to the style. Yes, there are plenty of highlights on this album. However, they throw in some garbage that is guaranteed to make you cringe. I am looking at you "Heart and Soul," which is an awful update of the traditional piano piece played at elementary schools around the world. And where do you think you're going "Without You"? Yes, The New Crown would have been better "without you." But beyond those complaints, this is one of the most solid demos I have heard in a long, long time. One lesson LP Outsiders many need to learn is that just because a CD can hold over 76 minutes of material does not mean you have to fill it up. Please repeat after me, "quality not quantity." If the LP Outsiders trimmed the fat this demo could have skipped Demorama and gone straight to the majors. (Neal Mayerle)

I took the CD solely for the cover art, which has Latham (presumably) draped not only with a guitar but some decent looking chicks in skimpy black outfits. He’s either full of himself, or has a sense of humor. Fortunately, I think it’s the latter. I thought this would be a CD I could let loose on with some serious ranting, but instead it appears that Mr. Latham is serious about his craft. And he has that all-important sense of humor to pull off his schtick. I’m not saying he belongs in Demorama’s heady “best of the Best” category—his 15 song CD could easily have been edited down to nine or ten tracks and it would have been much stronger. When Latham sang with a rasp, I kept trying to think of who he reminded me of. The extra tracks gave me the time to dredge it up: Richard Marx, after a decade-long, pack-a-day smoking habit. Not good. And Latham can sing—he lets it sneak out in the hilarious acoustic hip-hop tune, “Forgot about Dre,” and a couple other songs. But most impressive about the CD is his diversity. He tries everything: the afformentioned hip-hop, funk-infused rock, and some early Bob Segar-ish Motown complete with gospelly back-up singers. The final track on the albium is a solid reggae tune, “I Remember When.” Not everything works on the CD works, but for pure effort, I’d give Latham an A+. As soon as he figures out where he wants to be as a vocalist, it might solve a lot of his problems. (Mike Mitchelson)

Write typical lyrics about heartbreak, bang on an acoustic guitar, whimper like Dave Pirner, get the world's most typical mid '90s alt-rock band to back you up, open with an annoyingly strident two-minute moaner ("Skin Skeleton"), flirt with actual energetic rockers to impotent effect ("Just A Touch", "Taken Back"), fart around with a phony sitar sound ("Dance On Your Grave") wrap it up in a CD case just nice enough to fool the clerks at Cheapo into thinking it's worth giving the seller $3 for, bore me to tears. (Nate Patrin)

I believe it was Andrew Dice Clay who punctuated one of his anecdotes with, “And your mother blows.” And this Mother blows, too. Although not at first. The first song, “Patience Ignites the Cherry Blossoms,” was kinda cool. I listened to the whole thing and thought, ‘Well, maybe these guys are decent.’ I made it through the second track, too, although the quality slipped a bit. From there, however, my finger was on “next track” button the rest of the way (I have found my new car to be perfect for reviewing music—I’ve got the stereo control buttons in the steering wheel, right under my thumb). The problem is the music descends deep into pretentiousness, both lyrically and musically. The only explanation I can come up with is these guys listened to a lot of Rush growing up. The drummer, Josh Zampino, is very good, although he should stop trying to be Neil Peart. Zampino takes every opportunity for a bit of breathing room in a song and fills it with a paradiddle of some sort. The vocalist, Tim McCauley, is also decent, but began to irritate me in the same manner as Thom Yorke’s “vocals” on the new Radiohead CD. Wayyyy too much wailing. Loosen up, fellas. As soon as you stop striving for depth you might find yourself getting there. (Mike Mitchelson)

For some reason, I generally root for the band that incorporates an upright bass. Call me biased, but seeing one of those pluckable behemoths amidst a group of musicians signals to me a certain panache, an old-school attitude with improvisational flair (also, there seems to be a higher incidence of pedal-steel use in those bands with the upright). For the most part, New Harmony Indiana succeeded in meeting the expectations I placed on them. They play some catchy lounge-type music, mixed with some more traditional rock and a Bayou-ish blues number. The only outright problem I had with the band was the singer. His nasally tenor kept throwing me off the music. It pains me to say that, because he’s the guy who plays the bass. Sorry, man. (Mike Mitchelson)

Hey. You know what? War is bad. You know what else? Sometimes, when people fight, they can get hurt, and maybe even killed. Ya, really. I just learned this from Nigel Parry, who spent some time in Palestine. He saw some bad things, I guess, and wrote about them in pedantic fashion. Yeah. He’s seen too many things, teenagers on stretchers, all that stuff you see on CNN. Well, actually, not nearly as bad as the stuff you see on CNN these days, because all these tunes were written and performed a few years before the latest conflagration began in 2000, before President Clinton’s peace summit with then-Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak and Yassir Arafat failed. Yeah. And what makes this CD even better is its “bootleg” status—most of the songs were recorded in St. Paul coffee shops in 1999. Oh, there was one song, “Julia Roberts’ Smile,” which was recorded in Ramallah. Yeah. That song is about as good as its title. Now, I can respect a guy (or gal) that goes to one of the world’s hot spots to try to understand the situation and possibly communicate the experience to others (see Jon Lee Anderson’s dispatches from Iraq in The New Yorker). But Parry sounds cheap. What we’ve got are a bunch of overwrought songs written by an opportunist that sound like shit. And we get to listen to him fumble around on stage, too. The sad thing is, this guy probably gets more coffee house chicks pining for him than he can deal with. Fuck you, Parry. The people you wrote about deserve much, much better. (Mike Mitchelson)

Nobody wanted to review this disc. After all, any frontman-guitarists over 23 years of age is NOT worth listening to, eh? Or so our Corporate Kleptocracy would have us believe. Find em and grind em: How many one-hit wonders do the suits have to sell us before we realize that while cute young people are mandatory in soft drink and beer commercials, their presence is not mandatory in music that has soul and spirit? Old = Tired? Hardly. Pete Berwick has slapped us up with a disc of Old School Cool Kicked Up With Fresh Spunky Vitality! This veteran sounds like he's still pissed off enough to claw his way to his that late post-set-bought-by-a-converted-audience member-whiskey-shot and throw it back with a smile on his scraggly face. The guitar tones are in-your-face and organic, but the licks are anything but overindulgent. The vocals are passionate and masculine, with the patina of real-life aches and pains brought on by years of wisened experience. This is the stuff that speaks to any grizzled diehard with a couple a turns around the block, who has little patience with X-tab club kids--they don't know how fleeting youthful innocence inevitably becomes. Time for some schoolin', kiddos: Pete Berwick is onstage! (Dylan Ritalyn)

So you go to this real kickass hardcore show, and you're jumping up and down and having a crazy-ass blast in the pit, but then some fucker elbows you like right in the temple and you've got an awful headache for the rest of the night. But the band is SO ON FIRE that somehow you wind up with this perverse association between headaches and rock-derived pleasure for the next couple months, and each subsequent show you go to you start picking fights and running headfirst into walls and punching yourself in the top of your skull to replicate that feeling. But the band isn't as good: they're not as short-fast-loud-slash-melodic as that first band, the singer's not as Biafra-meets-MacKaye intense and loony, the guitarist's not chopping out these angular kinda-Ventures kinda-Wire riffs that turn your brain into an Intellivision and your eardrums into Breakout paddles, the words aren't as bizarre and nonsequitorial. The band isn't Popular Shapes, and therefore the headache isn't fun. You pop an Advil and wonder when the hell those crazy fucks will come back again, vowing not to remove your earplugs until they do. And when they do, they're free to concuss you all they want. (Nate Patrin)

The guys in this band were obviously brought up on a steady diet of Frank Zappa. Pushing Red Buttons know how to play their instruments and they know how to play them well. Musically, they have a sound not quite all their own; it's like listening to a really rockin’ band with really annoying loud cartoons in the background. Pushing Red Buttons consists of seven people playing keyboards, guitars, percussion, drums, and two bass players. As you can imagine they have one powerful sound. These guys take turns singing lead vocals, which gives each song its own voice, and when they harmonize I am reminded of The Beatles. Lyrically, some of the songs sound really pissed off (ex: “Of all the people that I’ve known no one puts on a bigger show,” and the song "What’s Good For You?"), but the soaring guitar solos and pounding bass and drums make all the songs sound upbeat. Also, normally a keyboard player in a band tends to grate on my nerves, but Steve Herrig, the keyboardist, proves he can lay down the funk in such songs as "Temporary Heaven." However overall I'd say these guys need to rely more on their own sound than outside influences. Only Zappa can get away with Zappa. (Jess)

Hmmm, not sure what to say here guys. Sounds a little choppy and a little sloppy. I hear some talent on this disc, but I’d say fire your producer. The whole CD sounded messy, kinda like my garage looks. I can understand that when you're in college, you wouldn’t have any money for a real recording. But this is the second time I've listened to this CD, and I really can't come up with anything very good to say. Keep practicing, I guess. (Killer)

I must start off by saying that, this is the coolest fucking CD case I have ever seen!! Clear plastic with red mechanical parts -- that you can see working when you hit the eject button that spits the disc out. Fucking Rock! By the way our highly esteemed editor loved the packaging too. Anyways... I loved the cd as well. It was peaceful and relaxing -- so perfect for easy listening on a Saturday Morning after being on the road for two weeks. Each song carried soft progressions that kept me listening with excitement and anticipation for the next song. The piano was tasteful and soft. I will end by saying r + r is going into my personal collection. (Killer)

I don't have anything to say about this demo. I can't have anything to say about it. You know why? Because nothing I could say would be as effective a critique as the simple act of turning your radio to whichever "modern rock" station there is in your town -- the "grown-up" one that really likes to play Counting Crows -- and combine all the crap they play in an hour's span. Including the commercials and the DJ banter. I listened to this for twenty-five minutes and the only thing running through my head the moment I pressed "stop" was REO Speedwagon's "Keep On Loving You". Not that they sound all that much like REO Speedwagon -- I think it's just some weird defense mechanism. You can tune a piano, but you can't tune a piece of shit. (Nate Patrin)

Staci Twigg is a San Francisco pop quartet that features female vocals over bouncy bass-driven tunes, much like their old locals, Romeo Void, or more currently, The New Pornographers. The bittersweet tunes are all about relationships (what else?)and belie their energetic surroundings. The overall sound is good, if a tad thin at times, but all the lyrics come off as shrill screeds aimed at exes. The less closely you listen, the more likable this is. (SCIsadore)

I can’t say this 12-song CD really turned my crank (could’ve just been my mood), but I do have to give the Apparitions props for providing one of the most musically accomplished submissions I’ve heard in a long time. The songs are about all sorts of stuff you probably wouldn’t expect, slickly constructed and executed in a professional, yet relaxed folk-pop manner. Perhaps my lack of passion for this comes from a lack of passion on the disc. The songs come across as quite cerebral. That is in no way bad, of course: just a little unusual. It does seem, however, that the Apparitions clearly know what they are doing, and if there is anything keeping them off of a Major Label, it’s something intangible. Possibly passion. (Conrad Teves)