On The Rocks

The Worcester Phoenix
June 30 - July 7, 2000

[On The Rocks]

Independents day

The Christmas in July, local-disc review

by John O'Neill
As we reach the halfway point of the double-aughts, it's come to our attention that 1) the ol' Phoenix mail satchel is at the busting point with regional fare, 2) we haven't taken full advantage of the opportunity to generate as many hate calls as we should from bands' girlfriends, and 3) it's the holiday weekend. Nobody's around, nobody's playing out, and nobody is gonna pay us for not writing anything (as opposed to "writing about nothing," which we've also been guilty of). So sit back, grab a brewski and a sparkler, and celebrate our local independents as well as our God-given right to take a huge steamer on lousy discs. (Girls, please direct all venom to ext. 111.)

Rick Blaze and the Ballbusters, Manhattan Babylon (18-song CD; Vicious Kitten)
Let's see. The New York Dolls broke up 23 years ago; the Rolling Stones haven't mattered for at least that long; and Johnny Thunders has been pushing up weeds for almost a decade. This leaves Wormtown's own Rick Blaze to carry on as the last link to that brief moment in history when NYC's Lower East Side was the rock-and-roll hub of the universe. Not an easy task, especially when you consider nobody (except for the criminally overlooked Mick Taylor) made any money singing about the seedier side of the tracks. Yet Blaze rolls along unloved and undaunted, trying to keep the down-and-dirty, street-punk vibe alive.
And Manhattan Babylon (released by Australia's Vicious Kitten imprint) is no exception. Starting out with nine studio tracks cut with the majority of the current line-up intact (while a date isn't given, the material comes from a few years ago), the Ballbusters do what they do best: play blues-inspired glam rock with grit, heart, and just the right amount of faux-outlaw attitude. Like good scotch and snuff films, Blaze is an acquired taste, and the first half of Babylon, while technically good (especially the duel ax power of Jeff Crane and Dave Cuneo), spends too much time mired in the druggy drama of Sticky Fingers. The band sound, if not tired, then somewhat bored by the material.
Conversely, the nine live tracks recorded at the Lucky Dog reveal a band who are fresh, tight, and -- with secret weapon Cathy Peters handling the bass and backing vocals -- ready to bury an uneven past. All the members of the Busters, save drummer Jimmy Buscarino, contribute with songwriting, and the result is a better song selection. Add to that a rhythm section that has phasers locked on pulverize (Peters also kills with vocal turns on "Antichrist" and "Lust") and an incredibly underrated guitar tandem in Crane/Cuneo (who both have excellent solo discs out), and it looks like the Ballbusters are seriously open for business with the best stuff still to come.

Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy (16-song CD; Sugar Fly)
These cats are Sunday-night regulars at the Lucky Dog, which means they must have some degree of likability. But for the life of us, we can't figure out why. Their self-titled disc is proof positive that white men can't funk. Here's a little hint, boys: playing funk music is more than finger-popping the bass top string a bunch of times and talking about "freaks" and "throwing down" and substituting "thang" when you mean "thing." Lord have mercy, the nightmare only begins with these finer points, but it certainly doesn't end there. Super-processed vocals, super-cheap synthesizers, pedestrian guitar licks, and barely passable drumming do not Parliament make. Like a 45 played at 33 rpm, the superfly guys drag ass like nobody's business. Which isn't to say there aren't a few bright moments. "Focus on the Funk" is a repetitive little number that sounds like an outtake from a mid-'80s Kool and the Gang album until "MC" Tyree comes in to wreck it (like pretty much everything else). Cashton Keyes has a decent set of pipes. And you can cut the CD booklet up and make a real neato Sugar Daddy mobile. Beyond that, this thing is the aural equivalent of watching Jim Belushi do the "White Guy Rap" skit, and about half as enjoyable.

Bob Jordan, No Right Angles (15-song* CD; self-released)
Much like pop iconoclast Eugene Chadbourne and jazz avant-wizard John Zorn, Jordan seems to have been born for no other reason than to fuck shit up, which is a very good thing for the narrow times we live in. He's also the closest thing Central Mass has to a bona fide genius, even though (and most likely because) he is so darn idiosyncratic. A typical Jordan affair is home recorded with El Bobo playing most everything into a recorder, with the added adventure of his trying to blindly overdub Indian zither, tambura, marimba (or whatever is floating his boat) to his guitar and vocal track. It's improper, improbable to succeed, and, naturally, comes out aces, if less-than polished. Anybody who can draw on Sidney Bechet ("Petite Fleur") and Bruce Anderson (an amazing cover of MX-80's "Fifteen Laughs") and still make it stick together with his own whacked-out visions (the sparse "Another Lies Awaitin'" sounds like a Brian Wilson piano warm-up, and "Anything Can Happen" flops around the skull like a bad idea you can't shake) deserves bonus points. But maybe that's the true beauty behind the unconventional (and uncommercial) Jordan. He's one of the few people out there today who is able to bend genres without coming off looking like a total self-indulgent knob or a complete madman. Jordan is just a guy who makes music, programmers and niche marketers be damned.

NE Hostility, Killa Groove Candy (six-song EP; self-released)
First thing first. Like it or not, Worcester is the East Coast capital of rapcore and NE Hostility fit the bill quite nicely, thanks. Though they try to fly themselves under their own moniker of groovecore, all of the signs necessary for inclusion in the rapcore camp are here -- big, muscular guitar riffs, a propensity of pinning the snare drum in the mix, and rapid-fire, sing-shout vocals punctuated at just the right moment as if the vocalist's hand just got caught in the car door. That said, let it be known that not only is this a mile above their debut disc, but it's also as good as anything else being jammed down your throat by WAAF and the rest of the heavy backers of heavy sounds. Which isn't to say it's even remotely original, but it does have a vibe that smells an awful lot like the new millennium's teen spirit. It's fluid, crisp, loud, and primed with pissed-off rage: everything a young band need to play the second stage at Ozzfest to a sea of misunderstood suburbanites and to sell plenty of albums. We even hear potential heavy rotation in "You" and "Squash It." Are you listening Bay State Rock? Hey, after watching the assent of Godsmack and of Reveille, we'll gladly kiss NE's butt.

Chuck and Mud, Would You Like To Be a Banana?! (13-song CD; self-released)
Boy would I! If I were a giant banana, people would love me 'cuz I'd have a peel. Get it! If you do, this one's a must-have. Worcester's long-running folk tradition comes through with an album for the kiddies, and it's not so painful for the oldsters to sit through, either. Oh sure, you get the basics "Skip to My Lou" and "Frere Jacques," but you also get a little of folk's oral tradition thrown in with "This Land Is Your Land" and "A Place in the Choir." There's a wise lesson for future reference in "the Dog Ate My Homework" and an intro to the good stuff with "ABC Rock 'n Roll." Meanwhile, for adults, Chuck and Mud have never sounded better from a harmony standpoint, Bob Dick and Walter Crockett lend a little technical assistance, and Woody Guthrie, Tom Chapin, and Bill Staines all get covered. It's a no-lose situation.

The Skinny to musicians/bands/women who date musicians
All material sent to the Worcester Phoenix is reviewed at some point, whenever we have a chance to get around to it. Which we try to do ASAP. And if you haven't noticed, we're pretty good about getting your product into the paper at some point, and we're just as likely to tell you what we don't like just as much as what we do. Cruel? Maybe. But not as cruel as having to listen to a bad CD three entire times through (the unofficial self-imposed point for throwing thunderbolts of judgment for "On the Rocks"). If you want one of those non-constructive "constructive" criticisms, we also have the names and addresses of those publications, too.
*Some discs may include bonus tracks!
John O'Neill can be reached at johndelrey@yahoo.com.