Snarky, shameless, sleazy, Bator-bitin’ rock n’ roll from a bunch of finicky young upstarts that, by all accounts, oughtta be playing video games or workin’ some mindless part-time job after school, not signing themselves up for dereliction duty, cursed to mumble and stumble their way through a life of whiskey-swillin’ and ne’er-do-wellin’. The righteous punk rock that drips off of Reckless Relations, The Adjusters’ debut full-length, easily does their homeland proud (that’s England, in case you’re wondering) and will ignite in you a raging flame of hope for rock n’ roll’s oft bleak and soggy future. I mean, just dig all that twinklin’ ivory, man! And those teenage riffs with the blues-infused solos and glam pop hooks. Killer! The Adjusters hand out fistfuls of silk scarf pomp and back alley stomp in equal measures here; name your favourite old school degenerates and I guarantee they sound just like ‘em. But the kicker with these lads is that they also sound like the best part of every decade since the 50s, which includes, but is not inclusive to, Chuck Berry, The Stooges, The Joneses, and hell, even Social Distortion. I don’t think I’ve heard raw, glistening energy like this since Silver’s 2004 debut, White Diary, and that album is fucking brilliant. If they keep this up, The Adjusters are well on their way to being bloody brilliant as well.
From The Heart Attacks to Poison Arrows to Biters, the long road of rock n’ roll glory for singer/guitarist Tuk has been littered with trashy riffs, drug problems, and dead ends. The usual suicide story that sticks to every tight-pant Thunders junkie like a safety pin on a worn out leather jacket lands a lot closer to sad than success, but if the stigma doesn’t kill ya, it can only make you stronger, right? Probably, which is why Tuk hopes his latest bubblegum machine, Biters, will break through the bastard cliches and avoid the inevitable burst that comes when you sink your teeth into the cheap, sticky solution of reckless days and wasted nights. Whether that happens remains to be seen, but for now our springboard is this self-titled EP, and goddamn it if it’s not screamin’ at me like a gaggle of teenage groupies. With the five deliciously catchy glam punk ditties on board here, I don’t know how the Biters are ever going to avoid burnin’ out in the gutter like a bunch of high school dropouts. This is some magic marker mayhem, man, part Cheap Trick power pop, part New York Dolls lipstick rock, and all jukebox jive. If the Biters aren’t the biggest band in the world real soon, we’re all doomed.
I don’t know if this six-song offering from Britain’s Bad Taste Barbies is an ugly, low-rent, tin can glam rock demo or a transmission from Planet Trash that’s been intercepted and cleverly repackaged for distribution throughout the global drag community, but any cartoon character who likes to suckle at the heaving bosom of all things fabulously fetish will go gaga for the sugarcoated proto-punk and lipstick sleaze-pop found here. Responsible for this mascara mess are a quad of means and queens – known individually as Crystal Grenade, Kurt Dirt, P. Baby Fontaine, and Stu Gibson (yep, he’s back and stranger than ever) – who beat the hell out of decent decorum with steel stilettos and cat claw riffs.
The Adjusters
Biters
Bad Taste Barbies