Another Biters EP? Oh, that’s right, Jack. I guess releasing one outta-this-world album in 2010 wasn’t enough for these power pop superheroes because they’ve gone ahead and dropped yet another five-song masterpiece on us like a sack full o’ diamonds. Seriously, if they keep this up my heart’s gonna explode in a shower of cocktail napkin confetti. But really, can you think of a better way to go? Sure, you’re saying, when I’m balls deep in a teenage scream queen. Well, I got news for ya, friend. This is better than that. I’ll take your juicy thighs and smeared lipstick and raise you an orgy of rock n’ roll, cotton candy, jungle cats, wet tongues, and champagne bubbles. It’s just all sorts of crazy good stuff, ya know? When I had a go at their self-titled EP, I said that if the Biters weren’t the biggest band in the world real soon that we’d all be doomed, and I believe that now more than ever. So do the Biters apparently, who are doing their part by releasing the most amazing music at a roller-skate pace. It may be OK to like Biters, but it’s better to fucking love Biters. In fact, it’s pretty much mandatory.
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.
Biters
Biters
Bad Taste Barbies