Today on Iron Chef, the theme ingredient is crap. Imagine the most glacially-paced self-indulgent experimental ambient knob twiddling you possibly can, and mix liberally with all the lameness in Lameonia, and it won’t prepare you for how truly pale this CD is. While vacuous and uninteresting, it yet somehow manages to be as engaging as an empty TV channel. I wish I could say it sounds good from a technical standpoint, but it sounds (I suspect deliberately) like my stereo is broken. All the soft random background sounds that forced other artists to do another take ended up here “composed.” That’s what this is a recording of. And I realize that I ended that sentence with a preposition (and started this one with a conjunction), but dammit, that’s how much this disc moved me.
While enshrouded in the cold intergalactic vacuum of this disc’s artistic merit, I was happy to discover that at least it’s not pretentious. You have to, at minimum, be communicating something on some level to do that. The only cool thing here is the teeny little mini-CD it arrived on. Another sentence ended with a preposition. Look out: I’m a WILD MAN. I can’t believe I sat through this. (Conrad Teves)

Diesel T.V. is two, overly schooled Canucks and a bassist with a phony name (Robes London? Come on). The Loyalists in this band boast in their press kit about all the famous musicians they have studied with. Let me tell you guys: no one cares, not when you are obviously trying to be as MTV ready, gap add friendly, Seattle scenester grunge-pop as possible. It sounds as if they sold out long before they ever picked up an instrument.

The key grips and assistants to the production manager's hair stylist did a great job on this CD, as for the musicians and writers? Less than adequate. Regardless of how many more yes men they put on the payroll, I don't think Diesel T.V. will ever make any real impact on the music world...although they might muster a short lived hit on some corporate rock station. This band is a good candidate to be sued under a class action copyright lawsuit where the plaintiff is every grunge musician, both living and dead. This CD is an evil black lie and if Lucifer doesn't come to collect the Canadian souls that were promised him in exchange for all the fancy degrees and experience gloated about on their monstrously pretentious press-kit, then they might just land a gig opening for Limp Bizkit. (Jacob Caravan)

 

 

It was a snowy day in the city by the river when the Demorama Bosslady came into the office. She's one tough dame but I'd never seen that look on her face in all my years as a PI/indie music reviewer. Ma Fiske didn't raise no dummy, so I braced myself for the worst. "Spit it out, doll."

"Luis, somebody sent me this" she said, depositing an oddly shaped package on my desk.
"The Black Bird again?"
"Not the Falcon, I sense something more awful."

I tore off the paper layers covering the object. There it was, "Driftfrozen"....I suddenly needed a stiff drink. I tell the Bosslady to act like she never saw the package and leave this mess up to me. Alone at my desk, I loosened my tie and grabbed the bottle from the bottom drawer. I didn't bother with a glass - - I was dealing with Driftfrozen, afterall.

The package yielded some clues. Someone was obviously very morose and decided to try to express themselves in the musical arts. I sized it up pretty quickly. Self-centered pretentious Goth whining set to a synthesizer. Hadn't dealt with anything this bad since I cracked the "Quentin's Theme" case for the Dark Shadows people in '69. Another shot of whiskey and Luis was ready to give a serious listen. I checked my piece to make sure it was loaded, just in case. Then I called Sam's office; he was over in a flash with his topnotch sound system. I handed him the package.
"Play it, Sam."
"I played that type kind of gothcrap before, Luis. You don't wanna hear it."
"Play it again, Sam!"

The sound filled the office and we violently clutched our bellies as if some cheap hood had emptied a gat into them:

"Then speak to me none of this. It a-glow in your eyes with a single smile and lead me into your darkest parts. Speak small then fall quietly then the only language that will be heard will be that only those creatures of this underworld understand. Leave this place for a little while", whispered a disembodied voice while someone desperately pretended to play a keyboard.

Both Sam and I know this had to be stopped fast. Not that there was any chance of it spreading, but I knew my office would be uninhabitable for a few weeks. I don't mind living dangerously, but I draw the line at things like this. This was the stuff that nausea is made of.

We called the Bosslady for letters of transit and scheduled a flight . Didn't matter where, Casablanca seemed far enough. Somewhere over the deepest part of the Atlantic I opened the planedoor and told Sam to throw out the Driftfrozen package. I stopped him for a second to empty the remaining whiskey on it, then lit it with a match. Flinging the flaming offending parcel to the ocean below Sam turned to me, smiled, and said "Luis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." (Luis Fiske)

There’s stuff that sucks ass and then there’s stuff that sucks ass. OK, perhaps I’m being a little blunt here, but I’m still wondering what the fuck I just fucking listened to here. Did you ever listen to something that made you want to punish your speakers for having punished your ears in a really bad way? Well, that’s how you’ll feel after attempting to get down to Athen Da Emissary and his Ghettology.

Or maybe it’s not called Ghettology. Hell if I know. There’s a picture on the above mentioned site that says “Ghettology” and then in the artist’s description it says that Athen is currently working on Ghettology. So let’s just drop the whole thing and refer to this as “Four Songs by Athen Da Emissary” a.k.a. Andre Henderson.

Athen’s skills are listed as being a “rapper,” with additional skills being “drums/percussion, producer, DJ.” Well that’s very nice, but the guy could use some more practice before he decides to cut loose majorly. The biggest qualm I have with each of these songs is the godawful compressed sound each track suffers from. Add to that Athen’s odd need to load up his vocals with various effects, and boy howdy you’re in for one super headache. The effects completely render the vocals as largely unintelligible. Not that it matters much when the overall mix is piss poor like this to begin with.

The first song “Hood Hopper” is based on a really terrible keyboard loop that sounds like some child squeezing the last drop of life out of a piano’s keys that he just decided to rampage on five minutes before. It’s annoying and it fucking sucks. There, I said it and I’d say it again (wait, I have three more songs to say it about before I say it once more for this one). Athen isn’t much of an MC, either. He sounds like he’s trying to hard as his cheesy effects (they mainly sound like either a gate or bad phasing effect) squash his vocals and destroy the tune. You might be able to shake your ass to it for two milliseconds, but that’s about it.

The second track, “Aaaroof” starts off with some really bad synth human voice notes from a keyboard that sounds liked it was crafted in 1989. There’s a ton of natural vocal samples on this as well that all vie for front and center attention. Once again, Athen shoots himself in the foot by trying to get too funky too fast and falls flat on his face. For shame. This one sounds like it coulda been the next “Whoomp! There It Is” in a way. That’s not a good thing, either.

“Rotten Apple” sports some discernable lyrics, but again the performance is too damned forced to matter, and the beats are mixed way too loud. They’re also not very good, being a kind of off-kilter shuffle bump thing that sounds like someone sat on Athen’s drum machine and rendered it useless. Luckily, the last song “My Eyes” overshadows the other three tunes in sheer badness by taking all the aforementioned terrible ingredients and cooking them into one big stew, complete with really bad female backing vocals and some P. Diddy kind of “uh” and “huh” vocal exclamations. Oh, those never get old. Never.

What I like best about Athen’s web page is that it says “Emissary Hopes his new style of music takes the music industry by storm because it's proven he has alot of talent.” Well, it’s not a new style of music. It’s just bastardizing other styles that need a good kick in the ass themselves. And all this from a guy who cites Scatman Crothers as an influence. I was really hoping for some good grooves based on that. Now my dreams are dashed. My advice: stay 200 feet away from Athen Da Emissary’s music at all times. ( Jason Thompson)

 

 

Fine Red Brown sounds like The Monkeys on crystal methamphetamine. This is the usual happy-core pop punk stuff, and it isn't done well. Although it's barely worth writing about, my huge Demorama salary compels me to pen this review. If the choice were between seeing Fine Red Brown live and picking dog poop off my shoe bottom, I would pick the latter.

Seeing how nothing more can be reasonably said about this ugly sounding rip-off of Blink 182 and/or a million other high-schoolesque bands, I would like to use this opportunity to coin the phrase, "diaper-punk." Diaper-punk refers to amateur, 3-chord punk coupled with Weezer style vocals that is becoming increasingly more common these days. Yes, diaper-punk is something you'd find at an all ages coffee shop venue crowded with high school girls sipping alternative colas and wearing cat glasses and teddy bear backpacks. Diaper-punk is young, energetic, cute boys bouncing on stage while haphazardly banging out power chords on their ill-tuned Les Paul knock-offs and Marshall stacks that daddy bought. As a very good example of diaper-punk, Fine Red Brown sounds like any reasonable punk rock band minus the anger and the masculinity. (Jacob Caravan)

I’d like to just sit here and summarize this band by saying they sound like shit and just end it there. But you need more. Even if you don’t want it, I know you need it. Welcome to the living glory hole of musical excrement that is the Greedy Kings. Crappy electrostatic outdated metal at its worst/finest. I swear to God if I have to listen to another band this bad anytime soon, I might just have to become a Slim Whitman fan.

Three stupid songs await your listening pleasure. They are “Rewind Me” (trust me, you won’t want to), “Grape,” and “Break It Down” (gladly). Let me just give you a sample of the rot that passes for lyrics in “Rewind Me”:

“And then she calllllllled (Or is that “cold”? The lead vocalist sounds like his nuts are going to bust from over-emoting) / She wants to come again / And I said that’s OK / ‘Cause I don’t give a shit! / Just like when we fiiiirrrst met / And everything between was all a dream.”

Jesus Christ, that reeks. But then there’s “Grape,” noted as “an empowering song about finding love in a ‘bitter, perfect world.’” Man, the perfect world is bitter? That sucks, dude! Well, so does the song, filled with hilarious jerked off riffs that sound like they were ejaculated in 1986 and left to dry on a greasy motel room wall. Listening to it didn’t empower me, it just made me pine for the return of Marty Robbins. Come on, now. “El Paso” fucking rules compared to the heavefest that is “Grape!”

Fuck. Then there’s “Mellow Mover,” which the band likes to think as being “a mellow mover about remembering great times and good friends.” Makes me wanna barf already. OK, hit the play button, please. The guitar solo makes me wanna shit my spine it’s too damn funny. You know guys, there were some very good reasons bands like L.A. Guns, Faster Pussycat, and Nelson shriveled up and blew away. You’re playing each of those reasons right here.

I refuse to recommend anything by Greedy Kings, because, well, I can’t, and number two anyone with a pair of clean ears can tell you this is the absolute bottom of the shit barrel when it comes to cheesy hard rock/metal. But hey, whatever gets you laid and paid, right? But then again, I think of all the outright nasty freaks I’ve known in my life also getting laid and paid and not hurting my ears with mind numbing bullshit like this. Give it a rest, guys. You don’t have what it takes. Oh, I do love the picture of you all swaddled in an American flag surrounded by a ring of fire. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? I can’t blame you for hiding it under a link. But hey, Taco Bell always awaits new recruits. (Jason Thompson)

Short answer: No. No, I do not dig.

Long answer: So about a year ago, circa April, me and the Demorama Super Elite Clique went out for a Minneapolitan night of Mexican food and live rockshow power action, all amped and stoked and such to be but a few of the million faces to be rocked at the time and hopefully in points future by some aspiring new Band Of Hotness. Despite the snow (yes, snow in APRIL), we were in fairly high spirits, blissfully unaware of what was to befall us. Eventually we made our way to Lee's for one of those "six bands in one night" deals, mostly because we liked the opener (name omitted to protect the innocent). But what with us being the types to always be on the lookout for fresh new stuff and all, we decided to stick around, and see if this next band -- "Idle Hands," they were called -- were worth checking out.

Suffice it to say that they were, much in the same way that it is in the interest of one's entertainment to watch Billy Squier's "Rock Me Tonight" video. Nobody at our table really paid attention to the music, given how inert and ass-draggingly "indie-pop-rock-like" it was. Mostly we just sat there and snickered at how the band's lead singer seemed to be the main reason the band was named such. The man flailed his eponymous oven mitts around as though he was testing out his new science-miracle hand transplants, necessitated after losing his fingers in a tragic pinball accident. He stuck them in his jeans, played aimlessly with a beer bottle, and basically acted the part of some sort of Minnesota Fats of pocket pool, albeit with a probable "hey ladies, look what I can do with these fantastic fingers of love" motive behind those theatrics. It was sad. Sad and corny.

It should have been a memorably bad performance, though the memory must have faded by the time I dug this demo out of the "feeding trough" and looked over the band's name with nary a flicker of recognition. I figured it'd be a decent listen, what with the fact that the liner notes credit a guy who plays moog (instrument of the gods) and the photos made the guys look like a bunch of NYC hipsters -- types who, while often unsound of character and decency, usually make swank-ass music. It was only later, after I had chosen this particular demo, that I realized my mistake. I hoped that my opinion of them was merely clouded by the frustration of an April blizzard and the sight of this man's thinly-veiled attempts at onstage self-stimulation. They should, I guessed, at least be better on record.

Wrong.

It should be stated that I do not like Oasis very much. The Idle Hands are, for the most part, the Brothers Gallagher and company (possibly including Bez) only with nasal Midwesternism and the Dandy Warhols in place of the Beatles. Lest you think that somehow denotes a catchy, crunchy-type pop-rock assault, I should mention that "Sorry Now," one of the more laconic midtempo pieces on this 5-song EP, has reared its head every so often on Cities 97 (Minnesota's own radio station devoted to the boring bastard children of REM, as well as REM themselves) and fits right in alongside toothless mush like Counting Crows and the Jayhawks. I am also averse to excess whiny condescension in lyrics, and it's all over this EP like a rash, from the title track's "why are you so boring" hectoring to "Dissipated's" attack on "stupid people like you/who've forgotten how to lie and how to be true." Most pathetic of all is "Manifesto," which takes every single bitter, cynical I-was-indie-garage-before-you jaded hipster rant about the Strokes ever written and adds one of the most laughably childish opening lines I've heard in ages to kick it off: "All you trust fund babies can smoke my pole." Ooooh BURN. Yeah, way to stick it to all those phony rock star rich kid ex-teenage models like... er... Marc Bolan (oops, wait, T. Rex is listed as an influence, my bad).

The Brian Jonestown Massacre's Anton Newcombe was so struck by the band's stage presence during one show that he signed them to his label almost immediately. You'd think that the press kit would find a quote from him more substantial than his assertion that their singer is "one fucking handsome man," but hey, go with what's important. I'm just hoping that nobody falls for this shit -- the Idle Hands can cram their hands in their pockets all they want, but keep them the hell out of mine. (Nate Patrin)

The first song, a direct rip-off of the sad old song, "I Want Candy," started me off on the wrong foot. "Welcome to the Land of  L.U.V.," by, you guessed it, L.U.V., is a colorful package wrapped around the same old thing.

The liner art has some interesting things to say but the same cannot be said for this self-congratulatory music. Heavy on sap-ridden blues guitars and very thick orchestration, with enormous intros and interludes that cause the listener to grow violently impatient, this well-produced, well-played stuff does not communicate anything heavier than the encouragement to 'rock on!?

And rock on I shall, to some other, better music. (Serena Vale)

I was looking earlier today for an online store I could buy an STP ballcap -- not out of any particular motor oil brand loyalty, but out of the need to rep St. Paul. Problem is, the only sites I could find via google were ones devoted to Stone Temple Pilots. I fucking hate Stone Temple Pilots. Man From Fiery Hill sound like Stone Temple Pilots. I wish Stone Temple Pilots never existed so it would be easier for me to find STP apparel. I also wish Stone Temple Pilots never existed so that Man From Fiery Hill could shamelessly ape a less pathetic band. I'm guessing this is really all you need to know. Oh, wait, this is a live CD. You might need to know that. It's not Cheap Trick at Budokan. It's not even Frampton Comes Alive (and don't front, "Show Me The Way" is great pop). I wish I cared enough to write something more detailed, but I figure if I make this review as boring and aimless as the CD sounds, that should make everything as detailed as it needs to be. I am going to have a sandwich now. (Nate Patrin)

I picked these guys out because they're named after this old-school badass wrestler who went on to be a member of the '80s WWF tag team Demolition. "Here comes the Ax, here comes the Smasher..." Yeah, those guys. You'd think that a band named after a professional wrestler would sound pretty hardassed, but you'd be wrong. I think this Masked Superstar is going for a comedic alt-country vibe here, given their goofy-warbling nasal singer (think Alfalfa at 19), their propensity to play guitar in a way that seems intentionally sloppy and irritating, and their tendency to give songs extraneous instrumentation that doesn't seem all that necessary (like the monotone synth buzzes in "The Liquor Stars" and "Hang On Sloppy"). I'll be generous and say they feel like a simultaneous tribute to Big Star's Southern power-pop and the Mountain Goats' brainy weirdo-folk, though it's a tribute played with only a minor amount of gusto and a major amount of lo-fi clunkiness. Not recommended for those easily prone to headaches, as the squeaky guitar and the synth crap makes me feel like I've taken a sloppy clothesline to the back of the head. A walking disaster. (Nate Patrin)

I'd figure Jesus, midget or otherwise, to be more into dub or Al Green than bad bad awful whingy tweemo. To answer the title's question: He'd record a better album than this, I'd hope. What a sad, tragic waste of a fantastic band name. (Nate Patrin)

Mohi, in his submission to Demorama, tells us that he's been writing music for "about a year now," and that he's finally put together an album. For this album, he would like some feedback -- so remember -- he asked for it.

I've seen musicians put together some incredible shit with a guitar and a computer, but Mohi's efforts are lame. I listened to every song available at the mp3.com site, so you don't have to. They're all the same. A fuzzy guitar, endless repetitive loops, and, occasionally, an off-pitch guy repeating something along the lines of "you don't love me anymore." Those are the high points.

These are the days when anyone with a few hundred bucks can write, produce, and distribute an album. That doesn't mean everyone should, and Mohi needs a few more years at the drawing board before his stuff is ready for prime time. Or even before his stuff is ready for late night cable, between infomercials for Ron Popeil's AssMaster 2000 and Sally Struther's plea to save the children. (Melanie)

124 plays to date on mp3.com Well that can't be good, can it? Especially when you have a song by the name of "Allison Wonderland". Look Thomas, my advice to you is to just gut the music career and try out pornography or pharmaceuticals or something like that. You're not going to win anyone over with a song like that. And you're not going to win any AT&T Battle of the Bands or whatever your hoping to feather fuck for the fame. Look, no one ever really makes it on mp3.com. I suggest you move your shit over to Soundclick where you at least won't be shackled by the flatulent "rules" that rape the mp3.commers day after day hoping to have that big hit! I had a hit on that site a long time ago. Well, it was in the late '90s and it was with a song called "Communist Toilet" that was actually recorded in 1991. That's what the people want, Thomas. Not "Allison Wonderland". The Toilet stayed at #1 for almost three weeks. If you really want a hit, just write to me and I'll fart one out for you. It really takes no effort at all.

You know what's really gross about that song, Thomas? That godawful flange/phasing effect you threw onto it. It's so fucking cheesy. Also didn't care for the really shitty Casiotone beats. Get rid of those as well. Only They Might Be Giants were taken seriously when they used a similar instrument, and well, you're not even close to being them. I also despise your "sensitive" singing. Of course, the whole bullshit-laden sensitivity you dipped this song in will make anyone want to fire a hot bullet through their temples.

"Your Tears" is beyond hideous. The George Harrison-like slide guitar? Don't ever do that again. And please, I already told you drop the cheapy beats! This doesn't even make for a good demo. Get someone else to sing those songs. Maybe some chick in leather with large breasts whom we can at least look at if even she can't sing. That would be a good way to go.

I'm not even going to bother with "Where Did You Go?" It sucks, OK? It reminds me of 99% of the stuff that gets sent to me by people wanting a review. For God's sake, stop kidding yourself with these songs. Put some effort into your music making. This morose/romantic bullshit is not going to get you out of your parents' house. If you're going to make music, make music. But don't waste my (or any of our readers') precious time with this garbage. (Jason Thompson)

"Not caring what people think may impress some people, but that doesn't affect me because I don't care what people think."--John Snell X

Then why did you send this mess of warmed-over Gordon Gano meets Beck meets Chicken Little meets a pound of Cousin Red's ditchweed glorified four-track bullshit in? By looking at his website, X must think that each and every word that dribbles out of his cakehole is some piece of Yogi-esque profundity. Acoustic doom & gloom has never sounded quite this baked. (SCIsadore)

Four more lifeless, mid-tempoed songs about unrequited love. (Is there any other kind. . .of song, that is.) These guys go the acoustic guitar/harmony route without much to offer. Kinda like the Thorns on downs. The less that can be said about the hidden track "Theme from Gilligan's Island", (performed in "AARRGGHH Matey voices and giggles, no less) the better. (SCIsadore)

So, I, uh…it’s kind of, well no, not really… umm, folksy? But a drum machine was used. Shit. And he does some sorta psychedelic thing with the guitar on a few tracks…or is that just incompetence?
Mr. Tuttle is, according to his press release, a “folk artist, songwriter, and guitarist.” AND he “hears the voices of angels.” Funny angels, if they’re the ones that inspired him to sing “Something to Drink About.” It’s an oddly listenable song, however, as is much of the CD, in the same sense aurally as when you can’t tear your eyes from a screening of a particularly gristly but mind-numbingly dumb horror flick. For a man that waters flowers at Wal-Mart to pay the bills…fuck. I don’t even know where I was going with that.
For those of us that have heard William Shatner’s version of “Mr. Tamborine Man,” life has been slightly out of balance since that fateful moment. Mr. Tuttle covers The Beatles (“Strawberry Fields”), Bob Dylan (“Lonesome”), and Dolly Parton, or Whitney Houston covering Dolly Parton (“I Will Always Love You”). And I’m…just…speechless. (Mike Mitchelson)

First off, their bio describes them as "Beat Driven Alternative Rock" and their songs as "steeped in angst." I figured this is something I have to hear due to the fact that their promo photo looks like a bunch of aging truckers. However, I learned long ago not to judge demos by their covers or promo photos. After listening to three of the four tunes on their website, I have to give Undertoad the "Worst of the Worst" award for this month.

Angst? Alternative? Not even close. I could best compare Undertoad to what you might hear walking into your local VFW hall on a Friday night and hearing some wretched cover band trying to get through ZZ Top’s "Tube Steak Boogie." This is some of the worst classic rock I’ve ever heard. The production is really flat. It’s also really needing some harmonies or backing vocals to fill out the sound. The music is muffled and the vocals are piercing. The lyrics are so contrived. Their song "Angel in a Fishbowl" is apparently about a girl trapped in a fishbowl brothel in Bangkok. What? Care to unpack that for me, guys? "Hot Dog" contains the most inane sexual innuendoes I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing. That’s right, ladies! He wants to be your Hot Dog. "Open Up and say, ‘Ah!’" The next verse goes on to talk about the lumpy white potato salad you get with said hot dog. I almost puked. Worst of the worst of the worst. (Archie Rex)

I would really, really love to see these guys perform live. There’s no need to go into the details for my reasons to observe them onstage, other than to say that it has been a really long time since I have witnessed a bottle-throwing incident. You know, a good old fashioned hailstorm of empty Budweiser bottles raining the stage from a disgruntled audience, with one member of the offending band taking the bulls-eye shot square on the forehead. Immediate feedback, man. You just can’t beat it. (Mike Mitchelson)

I see on their bio sheet that Walter Ego went through the trouble and expense to trademark their band name...I sincerely doubt other bands are waiting in line to steal the name, "Walter Ego." And it's not only their name that's not worth ripping off, it's their sound too. Why? Because it's already contraband. I caught these guys red handed; their bio sheet reveals that their usual set is comprised of mostly cover tunes from the usual greats: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Cream, etc. Their CD demo is of original compositions, but in the vein of their rock heroes. These guys play fuzzy, shaggy 70's hard rock, without improving upon it one bit. Their sound is very lifted, bordering on copyright infringement. Someone should pull the plug on these rock and roll pickpockets. (Jacob Caravan)