Mood swings not withstanding, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead are a band who knows how to share musical duties and still sound compelling. Their songwriting is the juggernaut of multiple attacks from several different angles, and it works because of their differences, not in spite of them.

The Secret of Elena's Tomb is a five-song excursion for these four guys from Texas. A jolting collage of art, noise, and pretty songs, Elena's Tomb is challenging yet listenable; complicated, yet enjoyable. The tone of songs here varies drastically, but combined they make up an epic oddessy that drifts through the choppy waters of conceptualization on distorted guitars and melodic vocals.

Trail Of Dead opens up the effort with an ear pummeling "Mach Schau". Like a childhood tantrum, it's a relentless and pointless exercise in pure expression. Trail Of Dead never claimed to be more than an experiment, but Mach "Schau" is the closest to explosive here. A more melodic tide crests with the middle tracks "Counting Off the Days" and "Crowning of a Heart". Each of these is a landscape portrait of climatic sonic aptitude, introducing different textures (cello, horns) and conveying meaning without having to come right out and say it.

Heart-stopper last track "Intelligence" bridges the industrial/tribal territory and throws in some good old fashioned deconstructive attitude in the chorus. A tasteful use of technology, it's a throwback to the 90's with drum box back beats and backwards guitar solos, and it still manages to sound right in the 21st century.

Trail Of Dead is compelling for many reasons, a few of which emerge on The Secret of Elena's Tomb. An ability to write in several different styles and still sound cohesive is what this band really has going for them. If you've been looking for an album that has magically covert moments heavily disguised by art rock pretensions, then Elena's Tomb is what you need, and quick.

C


Cheerleader
Cheerleader
(October23 Records)

Rock and Roll is supposed to be safe, nice, anti-septic and virginal.

Not.

Toronto's dysfunctional rejects, Cheerleader, are filthy, dangerous, horny motherfuckers hell-bent on taking the living piss out of anyone who dares cross their path. Cheerleader's self-titled independent release is no exception, full of dirty sexual suggestion and lowbrow musical aggression.

There's a spirit that permeates both Cheerleader's live performances and the CD in question. It's the undeniably good feeling that comes with breaking the rules. First there's a rush of adrenaline, then excitement inducing paranoia, and finally the secret glory of getting away with something you're not supposed to. How Cheerleader is able to personify pure illicitness stems from the camaraderie both within Cheerleader as a band, but also between the group and the audience live.

Imperative in tone, songs like "Go" and "I Want Action" command attention from the outset with their powerful awareness and gang-bang seduction. Be it Ethan Cawke's throbbing bass lines or Cobra's self-conscious vocal pleas, Cheerleader nails what it means to desire everything and refuse to take no for an answer.

The gritty production on this album could have been better. This album feels like an old punk rock release, from the way it's mixed to the way it's miked - little definition and all attitude. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. But while punk rock may not be about slick treatments, it can still sound good so I would like to hear what Cheerleader could do on a bigger budget with a few more tracks at their disposal.

Cheerleader are to be applauded for making an album that stays true to themselves and their unabashedly vile honesty. Reputations may come and go, and for Cheerleader it's better to be notorious than nice. With this record they'll have you rooting for the outlaw in no time.



Concrete Blonde
Live in Brazil
(ARK 21 Records)

Concrete Blonde returns with their first live album ever in their 17-year career. Recorded on location in Rio de Janeiro, Live in Brazil is two discs of Concrete Blonde the way Concrete Blonde should be heard - live.

Concrete Blonde live, as one would expect from an experienced band, is tight. On cue solos and excellent timing leaves plenty of room for Johnette Napolitano's vocal flights and bluesy improvisation. A healthy measure of a-list hits and lesser-known cuts from earlier releases, Live is Brazil is an accurate portrayal of the veteran rock band in performance.

Older songs like "Days and Days" and "Your Haunted Head" have fun with some hard-hitting musical tangents, but most of the older songs don't turn out the interesting performances that grace Concrete Blonde's newer material. Of course this is like saying a machine gun isn't an AK-47; both guns have loads of power. Concrete Blonde's seasoned repetoire is more than adequate, but the fresh material consistently elicits an impassioned performance from front lady Johnette.

Napolitano's soulful wailing and vocal dynamics have never sounded better or more lax here. "I Was a Fool", from their latest album Group Therapy, sparks personal nuance and mature self-reflection in a way that old standbys like "The Vampire Song" and "God is a Bullet" never could and don't on this album. The same goes for greener material like "Violent" and "Take Me Home". Each of these tracks is seeping with dynamicisn and emotion that the more polished regulars lack.

While Concrete Blonde puts on a flawless performance, Live in Brazil could have benefited from a better mixing job. The sound quality is what you'd typically expect from an untouched live production and gets ratty and distant in parts. It sounds as if there could have been some difficulty setting the initial levels - phasing problems, standing wave resonance, and inconsistent vocal levels in the first few songs are distracting. Thankfully these problems diminish over the course of the album. This is the only serious flaw of this album, though, and relatively minor, in the scheme of things.

Even if it sounds as if Johnette is sleepwalking through the more recognizable fare, the old songs are still sturdy enough to carry the album through its rocky production. By couching the more vibrant material inside their applause ready standards, Concrete Blonde makes Live in Brazil a worthy addition to any fans catalogue.



D


Division Of Laura Lee
Black City
(Epitaph/Burning Heart Records)

What is it with Sweden anyway? Not merely limiting themselves to world class hockey players and furniture, Sweden's latest commercial export of critically acclaimed rock bands shows no signs of decreasing the trade deficit anytime soon.

Yes, Division of Laura Lee is from Sweden. Yes, they can be considered to be garage rock, to an extent at least. They're noisy, charming, blunt, and esoteric. Division of Laura Lee does what any successful band does, they reconcile multiple aesthetics and in the process emerges a wholly original soundscape.

It's the counterfeit originality of Black City that makes Division of Laura Lee different from their contemporary peers. There's the hopeful malaise of the 90's Manchester scene, the ground-breaking honesty of the 70's New York sound, and a good helping of ultra-modern production here.

"Trapped In" has the feel of Seventeen Seconds era Cure musically - thick bass lines and sparse guitar work are the framework for confident yet moody vocals. A dreamy atmosphere reminiscent of a drug induced splendor; the mellotron saves this song from becoming too despondent. At the other end of the spectrum is the majority of the fare on this album, which is relevant in the same sense of the MC5. Or rather The MC5 with the lips of Jim Reid and the body of Joy Division - refreshingly noisy songs that lack plot, but not story.

Energetic and spirited without being too superficial, Division of Laura Lee sidesteps the Swedish hype with a timeless album in feel and flash. Loud and necessary, Black City is an accurate portrait of the times we live in and the perfect soundtrack to the frantic pace that surrounds us all in our search for stillness.

G


Glampire The Soft White Ghetto
Drop Dead Gorgeous
Heavy Blessings
(Musesick Productions)

Glampire is an intentionally difficult artist. Everything from his music, to his image, to his musical backround defies traditional interpretation. As I was sent three Glampire CD's, This won't be a straight-ahead record review; there is simply too much material here to evaluate distinctly.

Instead, for those of you whose curiosity is piqued, I will give an overview of Glampire, who he is, what his music is about, and how this all fits together.

There's not too much info on Glampire's backround. He lets us know he's from New York City, that he studied guitar with Robert Fripp (King Crimson, David Bowie), and that he likes to engineer and produce his own work. He talks a lot about his philosophy "peace 'n' glitta" (to be discussed later). But, truth be told, all we really have left to go on are his massive body of work and a whole lot of photographs.

Ok, the first thing you need to know about Glampire is that he is neither very Glammy nor is he very vampiry. Oh yes, he looks it, with his muti-colored braids and leather codpieces, but if you are looking for a goth, industrial, or glam album, you will want to bypass New York's Glampire or you will suffer severe disappointment.

That's not to say that Glampire is bad, it just means he is challenging. Challenging because there isn't the usual trappings of image here to work with. The image and music simply don't match, so we must look beyond his façade and judge the Glampire solely on musical criteria.

So how does the music stand up to scrutiny? Glampire's music is entirely written and performed by himself, which is no small feat. His bass playing is superb. Glampire holds down the bottom end with funky slaps and slides quite easily. And as for guitars, those lessons from Robert Fripp have paid off in both his tones and his space-like solos. The drums are all programmed, so Glampire gets some reprieve on this issue. And his vocals show off a pair of lungs that don't quit.

Glampire can play and sing alright, but still, something about the Glampire doesn't add up.

No matter how proficient a musician you are, there is an invisible piece to the puzzle often called soul. Truly gifted musicians have the ability to convey emotion and ideas through their music. And on that count Glampire strikes out.

Sometimes he creates a great hook with his guitar, only to negate it with his vocal line. Or vice versa. His songs meander and his bland choruses drag to fill out the songs. He also is lacking in focus. One song is drum-n-bass, the next is some parody of soul, and then, to confuse us more, Glampire tosses in a goth-esque lament.

To top it off, his production quality sucks. There's little definition to his mixes and the majority of the songs are drowned out by the bass at higher listening levels. So on the off chance that one of his goth/funk/bluegrass/DnB/industrial songs does strike a chord, good luck turning it up. All of these reasons make listening to Glampire for any length of time intolerable.

Glampire is often compared to wacky innovators such as Prince or Perry Farrell, but both these artists speak and express themselves coherently when convoluted. Glampire does not. Instead he sounds like he didn't program his drum machine correctly.

But I could overlook that as genius pushing the limits of creation. Maybe his tones and textures are foreign to my musical vocabulary. So I ask myself, what is Glampire trying to say?

Overall, Glampire's philosophy of "peace 'n' glitta" is pretty cool. He wants a better world, peace, and people to get together and understand one another. He believes in doing your own thing. His songs talk about looking for the positive and overcoming what holds you back. And I can't dis that.

But despite what he preaches, Glampire doesn't overcome his own flaws. With six records under his belt, you'd think that he might have been tipped off to at least one of his narcissistic musical missteps. But he keeps churning out the records, so somebody must be enjoying what he has to say.

I give the Glampire an A+ for effort. It takes balls to put out your own record and do your own thing. And I can't say that the Glampire is wholly untalented, because he's not.

But I can say that you all should feel sorry for me. I had to go head-on with half his catalogue, and the more time I spent with Glampire, the more I secretly wished my stereo would break absolving me of further torture.

Save your money and buy something else.



H

Hanoi Rocks
Twelve Shots on the Rocks
(Major Leiden/RLF Music)

What can be said about Hanoi Rocks, a band who influenced to one degree or another, nearly every glam/hair band of the 80's? Well, Hanoi Rocks is back with a new album and it's worth more than just a passing listen.

Twelve Shots on the Rocks is the record that makes music like they used to make music. From the opening enthusiasms of "Obscured" to the rock balladry of "In My Darkest Moment" this album doesn't stop delivering hit after hit.

Except it's Hanoi Rocks, and Hanoi Rocks were always given the short stick of infamy in the big Rock and Roll game. There was a time when Hanoi Rocks was huge in Europe, Japan, and Canada. But while they paved the way for bands like Guns-n-Roses, they never really got the notoriety that was deserved them in America. That is until Vince Neil of Motley Crue laid Hanoi Rocks drummer Razzle to an early rest with driving that the courts dubbed vehicular manslaughter. Thereby prompting retirement for Hanoi Rocks at a time when American success was finally looming.

That said, this album is actually the two original members Michael Monroe and Andy McCoy under the pretense of Hanoi Rocks. It may not be the real deal, but the music is.

Nearly every song on this album is good. Sure some songs are more hooky than others, but all of them show signs of well-honed songwriting that makes this album easy on the ears. The guitars are melodic, the rhythm section dead on, and Michael Monroe's drawling, attitude laden vocals make a man as well traveled as him sound youthful and spry.

This album is basically the masters of glam making rock look simple. It's in your face. It's edgy. But most of all, it's fun. Twelve Shots on the Rocks is showy without being over the top, it holds back just enough to craft a solid album, instead of kicking off a just few gems here and there.

Hanoi Rocks does nothing new on this album. They stick to what they do best; well-crafted songs that are uplifting yet agitated. While most vintage bands are content to produce mediocre new material and use old hits as a crutch, Hanoi Rocks instead brings new life to old riffs on Twelve Shots. This is a supreme rock album, and Hanoi Rocks gets the crown.



The Heroines
Groupie
(Wolverine Records)

In an age where it's proclaimed the 'year of the women' every time an artist with a pair of tits racks up record sales in record numbers, it's easy to forget that women rarely ever disappear from music. Which is good news when it comes to The Heroines.

Punk rock never had it so good. Or rather, Girl Punk never had it so good. Germany's The Heroines first full-length release, Groupie, on Wolverine Records gently bitch slaps you with sweet harmonies, tough lyrics, and dominant female solidarity.

The Heroines don't ask for respect, they ferociously demand it. They want to be worshipped, steal your heart and kick your ass. And on Groupie they accomplish that and more.

Comprised of two women (Eve on vocals, Galactica on guitar) and two men (Chris and El Filipe - bass and drums respectively) this forceful foursome echoes the hard rock of early Motley Crue or Guns-n-Roses. So how are they different than any other band claiming the same bad influences? One word - Eve and her emotional throwback to pioneering vocalists like Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry.

Explicitly truthful lyrics get a boost from her expressive voice with its lilts and rallies. Lyrical sidekicks to the jaw are softened up as she conveys both power and sensitivity in the same breath. Backed up melodically by Galactica, The Heroines estrogen charged frontline is formidable and engaging in its toughened sweetness.

Usually 13 songs is more length than most full-lengths call for, but each song on Groupie is recklessly romp-worthy and this album goes down both easily and repeatedly. "Groupie", "He's My Whore" and "Cigarettes" stand out as prime examples of The Heroines self-given titles of Queens, each rocking with a staggering show of self-confidence and zeal.

Groupie is a stunning debut. Strong both in presentation and style, The Heroines hold back nothing and satisfy on many levels. Steady guitars and capricious lyrics make this Heroines first effort far from being their last.



M

Ministry
Animositisomina
(Sanctuary Records)

Al Jourgensen is still angry.

Ministry returns with their first studio album since 1999's Dark Side of the Spoon, and it was worth the wait. Militant and abrasive, Animositisomina is pure gristle to chew on.

This is not an album for the feint-hearted. The distorted wash of Al Jourgensen's vocals lingering about like a poorly recalled nightmare. The guitars hacking away at the binary doors of your central nervous system. The relentless forward movement of the drums. It's all tension with no release.

But what did you expect, With Sympathy?

The first few tracks of the album were hard to stomach without the aid of something to throw, or someone to slam into. There's no breaks here, just straight-ahead aggression. The aural bric-a-brac thrown into the production adds some layered variance, but otherwise the first half of Animositisomina is a dense tapestry of controlled chaos that just keeps getting faster and faster.

The centerpiece of this album is the cover of Magazine's "The Light Pours Out Of Me" which hard-core fans may remember from Ministry's live shows. The production is de-emphasized on this track so much that it sounds like a completely different album. A good nostalgia piece, the vocals are at the forefront on this song and it changes the mood from the thrashing wall of guitars to the more minimalist workings on the rest of the album.

Which is really what the big deal is about on Animositisomina. Al Jourgensen actually sings without much electronic aid on the second half of this sub-apocalyptic freakfest. (It must be said, however, that it sounds very similar to Skinny Puppy frontman Nivek Ogre's attempts at the same sort of vocalizing a few years back.) It works, though. It sounds different and it's nice to get a new Ministry album instead of a mutant strain of old gimmicks.

Animositisomina strikes a good blend between the speed-metal Ministry of Filth Pig and the more conceptually oriented Ministry of Land of Rape and Honey. The sheer stamina on this album leaves no doubt that Ministry is very much alive and very much kicking. There's something on Animositisomina for everyone, with the exception, perhaps, of your neighbors.



N

Nashville Pussy
Say Something Nasty
(Artemis Records)

Why does Nashville Pussy bounce from record label to record label? Say Something Nasty, the third release from the (mostly) southern quartet, may not be as gritty and loose as their previous releases, but it's still something good.

Say Something Nasty is a departure from the sound cultivated on previous albums Let Them Eat Pussy and High as Hell. Gone are the bratty group chants and spitfire guitar speeds. Gone is the production of rock avatar Kurt Bloch with its dirty vocals and walls of guitars. And gone is long-time member Corey - the fire breathing bassist with repetitive substance abuse problems.

What's left, however, is a very, very good band.

Mainstay Blaine Cartwright seems to have taken the reins of this time's outing. His words and vocals sound more personal without the stylings of Bloch to gravel them up. It's disconcerting at first. Nashville Pussy was always a band who crashes the party and hogs the keg. On Say Something Nasty, though, it's the messy day after.

This album focuses on playing, not antics. Before, Nashville Pussy seemed content being jokers, with the music almost as an afterthought. That the Nashville Pussy could actually play good rock-n-roll was always their ace in the pocket.

Say Something Nasty lays the cards out on the table. Guitarist Ruyter Suys shows off her deep-fried southern roots with nods to Skynard and CCR. Her playing is laid back and comfortable, easily tossing off riffs and trading licks with bassist KatieLynn Campbell. Musically, chances are taken with both style and technique breaking up any possibility of monotony.

The welcome addition of KatieLynn Campbell on bass draws out the down-home comfort that merely curled up in the corner on earlier albums. KatieLynn plays steady and in the pocket, adding depth and feeling to the established frontline of Ruyter and Blaine. This new dimension makes Say Something Nasty enjoyable from beginning to end, and allows Nashville Pussy to be taken seriously musically.

Highlights on this album include "Keep On Fuckin'" and it's beer soaked chorus, the playful "Here's To Your Destruction", and the cover of Rick Derringer's "Rock N Roll Hootchie Coo".

This may not be a typical Nashville Pussy album. It's raw. Its flaws are transparent. It's been bumped and bruised on the way to completion.

And it sounds all the better for it.



R


Rachel Stamp
Oceans of Venus
(Captiva/ Pure Stirling)

Blame it on Bowie. He's responsible for all the glam bands with the 'fell to Earth from space' theme. And don't think Rachel Stamp is any exception, they just tumbled out of the Triffid Nebula. But don't go thinking they're copycats either.

An epic first effort, Oceans of Venus is excess to a tee. Musical excess. Poetic Excess. License to borrow has been thrown out in favor of pillaging grand works of the past. Cat-like gasps, soulful bellowing, and weighty guitars aid Rachel Stamp in pulling off a rock'n'roll masterpiece that covers all the required territory and then some.

There's some poppy fare here. "Do Me In Once" is pure bubblegum that flows nicely between verse and chorus. Title Song 'Les Oceans de Venus" is a warp speed excursion through bloody love. Strong riffs and decadent refrains push this song beyond standard rock phrasing. If any song stands out, it is this one. It's wild, it's fast, and it fits the conceptual schema Rachel Stamp is going for without crossing the line into art for arts sake.

Crescendo-like backing vocals add flair and punch in operatic measures and keyboards (courtesy of Shaheena Dax) give the album the feel of listening to something grander than a rock record. But a rock record it is and David Ryder-Prangly's snarls and whispers ground the celestial ambitions of Oceans of Venus in old-fashioned greasy sleaze.

Complaints? There's the obligatory drug reference masked as a love interest song that isn't cloaked nearly enough to pull off. "Heroine" is what is seems, and the album would fare better without this clunker. While songs like "Black Cherry" and "Permanent Damage" suggest dirt and power through their delivery, the transparency of "Heroine" devalues the hard work that comprises the majority of songs on this album. For all the originality Rachel Stamp achieves on Oceans of Venus, the resort to such an obvious ploy is an insult to their musical intelligence. Luckily the album stands up well enough on it's own to not be marred too deeply by one song.

Don't be scared off by the Journey-esque album cover - the schmaltz here adds to the experience. And besides Rachel Stamp is capable of handling the nervous jolts on their own. A thoroughly deep exploration, Oceans of Venus succeeds in conquering all territories - musically, topically, and image wise it's all together. Finally a band who can put the package together, Rachel Stamp takes decided chances others are unwilling to pursue. And after listening to Oceans of Venus, it's obvious the odds were stacked in their favor all along. The time has come to walk the walk, and Rachel Stamp saunters and stirs with confidence.



Robin Back and the Intergalactic Rock Stars
Planet:Fame
(Sextant Records/EMI Music)

This album is arrogant, obnoxious, self centered, and full of cock-rock posturing. And I like it. These guys look famous, act famous, and have the chops to pull it off convincingly.

On Planet Fame, Robin Black and the Intergalactic Rockstars (or simply RBIRS) show much ambition and originality both musically and lyrically. Judiciously avoiding the typical boy-girl themes, RBIRS instead creates a world that's both futuristic and gritty, a world where fame and all its trappings are king. Proclaiming that he wants 'to be like Elvis', Robin Black struts his ego in your face and entices you to play along on such songs as "Suburban Sci-fi" and "Time Travel Tonite". Think Cheap Trick with the swagger of David Bowie and you get the idea. This band is not all image though, musically they have it together, and it shows. The rhythm section of Kevin Taylor (drums) and Killer KY (Bass) is envious, melodic and tasteful, a great counterpart to the in-your-face assault of Stacey Straye and Starboy's guitars, which bring energy galore to the album.

Though don't be confused, Robin Black and his band aren't your typical rock group. From the female backround vocals that almost taunt you, to the Monkees-esque tambourines, RBIRS layer untypical rock sounds in such an obvious way that you can't help but feel swindled that it sounds so good. The keyboards are used so sparingly that you hardly notice they are there, adding to the ambience instead of detracting from it. The music box during the chorus of "Take Myself Away" turns the one ballad on the album into a glam-rock lullaby, and "So Sick of You", the first single off the album, showcases Robin's unique voice. Raspy and seductive, he punctuates his singing with animalistic shrieks and howls, giving both a ballsy and passionate vocal performance.

All of the 13 songs on this album clock in around 3 minutes, so there's really no filler here. "Better Than You" and "Teenage Sex" are live tracks and both rock a bit harder than the studio material. Overall though, giving one of these songs full studio production and scrapping a weaker song such as "More Effeminate Than You" might have benefited the album a bit more, making it a solid album through and through. That being the only complaint, this album is still way ahead of the majority of new product out there.

For all the bravado this band has, if their debut is any indication, we may have to get used to Robin Black and The Intergalactic Rockstars slapping us around with their brand of rock-and-roll snobbery for awhile. I, for one, am looking forward to it.



S


Sparkling Bombs
From Bubblegum Fun To Glittered Depression
(Coexistense Obscure Records)

From Bubblegum Fun to Glittered Depression is a five-song e.p. from French glam-punkers The Sparkling Bombs. It's full of trashy-punk rock songs that are heavy enough on content to be listened to without being dismissed as another band on the nu-'whatever-tag-is-here' wagon. FBFGD delivers glammy songs that reek of street sexy guitar riffs and hardcore rebellion.

The opening licks of "Hellbent Loser" are enough to get the boogie back in your bottom with its jangly rhythm and raw enthusiasm. This is glam-trash at its finest moment. Bluesy guitar riffs slide all over the place reminiscent of all that was good about 80's hair bands, three-chord punk, and whiskey chasers.

The stand out track on this e.p., "It Hurts Me", is a fun song despite the heartbreaker story of the lyrics. Augmented by backing vocals from guitarist Lady Bittersweet, the chorus is hypnotic and memorable. If the bombs could get more funding for production, this song could be a hit.

Drummer Laur handles all the lyric writing on this album, which are all surprisingly in English, so there's no language barrier here. Though the Bombs could benefit from lead vocalist Alice writing his own lyrics, if only to get a more impassioned performance out of him on a couple of the tracks. He does a more than capable job nonetheless, especially for singing in what could be at best a second language.

"Take Two Bites at the Cherry" is the wonderful, high-energy closer to this album. Lady Bittersweet (and yes, she is a Lady, boys) goes crazy on guitar, the whole band sounds coherent, and Alice gives his all on this last track. The band sounds raunchy and wild like a two-ton truck on fire at the demolition derby. High energy and lots of fun, it's amazing this was recorded in the studio without damaging any of the equipment!

The best part of this album? It's short, it's sweet, it's solid. Every song on this e.p. is thoroughly enjoyable. What it lacks in production, it makes up for in attitude. The Sparkling Bombs have managed to reinvigorate the stale genre of punk with style and substance on FBFGD.


Stellar Tuesday
Demo
(Self Produced)

Everybody wants to be popular, well liked, and maybe be just a little cooler than the next guy. Some people drop names, some drop cash in their attempts for social acceptance. But what's obvious about all things hip is the unstated - that it can't be flaunted or advertised, it just is. And Stellar Tuesday just ain't.

Stellar Tuesday slid Dixie Tucker a three song CD. So that means it's a demo. Which means most of you out there aren't going to hear it. In fact, we almost didn't review this album for that reason. What good does it do anybody to read about something they may never experience?

But upon further listening to Stellar Tuesday, it became apparent that reviewing these guys (and gal) from New York could help those of you making music to avoid some of the pitfalls made here.

Let me say, the music on this demo is great. The guitars are edgy and jangly, the songs may not beg for a second listen, but they're not bad, and the drums provide solid backing. Judging by just those elements. These guys have the foundation of being a great pop/rock band.

Unfortunately, their singer so totally ruins anything the rest of the band had going for them.

Banal and self-centered lyrics like "I know you want to be the girl to go home with me" and "She is an addict, addicted to me" really sink any chances of enjoying this album. Maybe someone with the brevity or balls of Robin Black, Bianca Butthole, or that guy from the Toilet Boys could get away with indulgent lyrics like this, but not Stellar Tuesday's Eric Hauptman. The three songs here just go on and on about how cool this guy is, how cool his friends are, and (of course) how all the chicks want him. And rather unconvincingly too.

Listening to Stellar Tuesday gave me the feel of a band that hopped on whatever bandwagon could be the next big thing, in this case the rock-y punk-y thing. For all the bolstering here, it's hard to see why the band only came up with three songs for this demo. I just didn't get it. I didn't get rocked by these guys, I didn't stand up and shout, and most of the time I felt I was listening to Soul Asylum - like I'd ever do that.

Stellar Tuesday is a band that could really be something good if it weren't for the pretensions of their lead singer. There are better bands out there doing this sort of music with more humour, style and longevity. Check them out instead.



T

Tijuana Bibles
Custom Made
(Tear It Up! Records)

Toronto's favorite lucha libre horde returns with some rock 'em sock 'em tunes on Custom Made.

While the production quality has slid since 2000's Apartment Wrestling, the songs have greatly improved. On Custom Made there are less of the Tex-Mex instrumentals that define the Tijuana Bibles musically and more of the tongue in cheek humour that propels their live show. They aim higher here while hitting below the belt and create wacky tunes that capture the unique appeal of this band in words and attitude.

For those of you not familiar with the Tijuana Bibles, they are mask wearing, baseball bat wielding wrestlers. It doesn't really matter if they rumble in the ring or in the studio, though, as knuckle sandwich after knuckle sandwich of good tunes is churned out one after the other.

The Tijuana Bibles bring a new edge to them on Custom Made. "Big Belt Buckle" is a laid back tune that would be sexy if it wasn't so hilarious. "Custom Made Man" evokes images of jet-setting playboys everywhere. And as for "Reverse Psychology", how can you not like a song that has lyrics like "You can't get me drunk, No matter what you thunk, or all the rounds you buy"? (It's reverse psychology, get it?).

This album has a few of the signature rockabilly struts interspersed among the more 'serious' songs. The musicianship isn't flashy or anything too complicated, but it's steady and gets the job done.

Custom Made picks up where Apartment Wrestling left off. The Tijuana Bibles are becoming more set in their identity on this album and having more fun with it. Felina Negra seems to be stepping more into the spotlight with her sax and keys, and giving some of the vocal duty to drummer Super Destroyer is a move in the right direction.

The Tijuana Bibles seem less confined by the Mexican brawler image and more like a band on this album. Viva Los Bibles!


Toilet Boys
Toilet Boys
(Masterplan Entertainment/Hall of Records)

Take four tattooed, wife beater wearing, all around tough looking New Yorkers, front them with a transvestite, throw in a reputation for ruckus live shows (the more pyrotechnics the better), and you would expect the Toilet Boys self titled album to be the most exciting, most mind blowing rock-n-roll experience this side of the time you took those twins home and got it on 13 ways to the dozen in your parents bed.

That said, with all the buzz surrounding this band, this record comes off slightly disappointing. It's good, make no mistake, and maybe it's too much of a good thing. The Toilet Boys' have a knack for taking standard punk rock anthems and giving them a distinct heavy metal twist. The opener "Party Starts Now" will rip through your speakers and grab your attention in two seconds flat. Songs like "Future Is Now" will send shivers up and down your spine just from the vocal highs of the chorus alone not to mention the guitar solo that hits all the right notes in all the right places. "Saturday Nite" is a song that seeps with a mob-action decadence that hasn't been seen since classic rock became, well, classic rock. You will get excited about this album. The first half of it, that is.

Then it will grate on you. The hooks and hidden melodies become less frequent. You swear the guitar riff on "Rock 'n' Roll Whore" is the same one used a few songs earlier. Singer Miss Guy's voice becomes more monotonous, says less. You wish the album would be over soon and lose interest.

Only to start the disc back at the beginning. Because when the moments are good, they are really, really good, and you'll want to hear them again. And the more you listen, the more forgiving you become. The lackluster songs aren't so bad and become kind of catchy, even if they're not so obvious.

The Toilet Boys have often been accused of having a phenomenol stage show, but lacking on record. Live, their guitarist Sean breathes fire, instruments shoot flames, and Miss Guy shocks them all into a frenzy with his gender bending tactics (and I'm not talking a man with a smidgen of blush, I'm talking the kind of androgeny that looks better than your girlfriend on a good day). On record, you know the presence is there, you can feel the sweat behind every guitar riff, but it somehow doesn't follow through with the jolt you expect. Chalk it up to too many songs, or too much hype. This is the album you buy after being rocked live when you want to recapture the experience, relish in the guitars and shake your fist at the world. Listening to it without the stage show leaves you with some good songs, but still a mediocre record.

The Toilet Boys are not a band to be easily dismissed, though. This album is still worth the price of admission, if only because it fills the niche for loud and sleazy rock-n-roll, an area that is sorely lacking in talent these days. And the Toilet Boys certainly deliver in that respect. While the album is a good time and definitely has some bright spots, I don't feel, however, that this disc is the future of rock by any stretch of the imagination. I will wait until the Boys become more consistent songwriters for that. In the meantime, guilty pleasures are still pleasures after all, and I have some serious fist shaking to do.


Tuuli
Here We Go
(Linus Entertainment)

If Courtney Love had a kid sister, it would be Jenny MacIsaac, mastermind behind Tuuli, Toronto's all-girl rock and roll sundae complete with a cherry on top.

Yes, they write about girl stuff. Boys, breakups, and even shoes manage to get plenty of air time, though it is done without whining, accusations, or any poor little me attitude. Half Melrose Place, half Seattle, Here We Go is a marketer's dream, which is exactly what is wrong with it.

The girls are tres photogenic, well coifed and well dressed. Look too quick and you might not hear the music behind the doe eyes that peer out at you on the cover. But Tuuli is worth and extended listen.

Go beyond the processed, pressed, dyed, and painted surface and these girls rock. Maybe not in a fistful of metal way, but they are awesome songwriters crafting near perfect pop music with an over-the-top girly girl edge. Granted, sometimes Tuuli's music can come off as the adult version of a rope skipping game complete with pigtails and bobby socks, but the musicianship is definitely there. It's just buried underneath the girl's irresistible cuteness and an overly shiny production.

There are some great harmonies here. For instance, "Whipped" will leave you absolutely breathless as the girls break into polyphonic melodies that twist and turn around the chorus. "Summer Song" is catchy as hell and will have you doing a double take at the speakers. "Rockstar Boyfriends" punchy backrounds of "you suck!" "too bad!" and "not even when I'm drunk" (ouch!) are downright hilarious. And such bile goes down easy thanks to sugary vocals and syrupy guitars.

The production on this album is sharp and sparkly. It sounds good, but it doesn't do the girls justice or show off half of what they are capable of doing.

On Here We Go, Tuuli hints at ferociousness. Bitchy vocals, showy drums, and mean riffs are all held back by the sweet package they've created. The girls in Tuuli spend a lot of time wailing away on their guitars only to have the final mix clothe them in dresses when they should have been wearing leather pants.

This is a good pop album, which is too bad. This could have been a great rock record.

The remix of "It's Over", however, is totally gross. It reeks of girl song crap, over reliant on studio technology. This remix shows a side of the band that is best left hidden. When one compares this AOR junk to the snarling blues guitars of track just before it (title song "Here We Go"), it sounds like Tuuli is perched between being savvy rock grrls or being the female version of a boy band. Yuck.

Not too many girls out there know how to grind out the loud tunes anymore. Instead we have the current rash of pop divas singing along to studio crafted music and drinking mocha lattes. Tuuli is a fresh face in stale scene; they project themselves as strong, no flak taking women. Here We Go has the chops to appeal to both the rock crowd and the more poppy lightweights. I just wish the girls would turn the amps up to eleven and let it all hang out. They'd still be cute, but more in a bad ass sort of way.



U


Undercover Slut
Naziconographick: Terrorism Tracks For Nihilistic Numbers
(Hateful Society Production)

France's Undercover Slut are scary. Everything from their songs to their image is controversial. Take, for instance, their press package. Complete with razor blades and hypodermic needles, it was shocking upon opening. It's one thing for four guys from Paris to say they are subversive, it's another thing to have the balls to send contraband through the mail.

Luckily their music lives up to such a stealthy reputation. On Naziconographick:Terrorism Tracks For Nihilistic Numbers, Undercover Slut crafts a brand of goth/metal that is reminiscent of the LA Goth scene circa Christian Death and London After Midnight. But still, Undercover Slut is unique. Their guitars are sharper and meaner. Their lyrics don't despair, they riddle. Just about the only thing keeping solidarity with the old goth movement is the drum machine.

Hypnotic and twisted, UCS dredges up what most societies don't want to look at. Songs like "Date + Rape" and "My HIV beauty Queen" are blunt and dramatic. But when 1 in 4 women experience date rape and it's estimated that 5 million people caught the HIV virus this past year, UCS begins to sound relevant instead of scary. While they are a band that wallows in glamour and decadence, they also don't ignore the brutal consequences that often follow.

Undercover Slut seems to have their niche when it comes to topics. Musically, though, they are still developing. While 'O's vocals are hypnotic and sexy, the guitars become repetitive at times. Most of the songs lack a definite separation between verse and chorus, which taxes the brain after a while. But the overall sound is fresh and interesting, even if they are still developing. For a scene that has burnt itself out on the Sisters of Mercy and their numerous copycat bands, Undercover Slut is a welcome addition to a stale underworld.

Two songs, "Vicious Precious" and "My HIV Beauty Queen", set this band apart from the rest. Both have grooves that wind throughout that are subtle, yet memorable. If UCS keeps writing songs like these - dark, yet danceable - they can really make an impact in the North American underground.