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Random Stabbings 21a

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Clouds “Legendary Demo" (Hydra Head Records)
It’s endlessly tragic to hear young suburban kids proclaim that 30-year-old bands like Zep and Sabbath are the only things worth listening to nowadays, especially with bands like this around. Influence-wise, Clouds are into MC5 and that kind of trip, but whether or not their sound concurs isn’t so much the point; they’re properly unhinged like Wolfmother but tightly knotted in the right places, and Adam McGrath’s bliss-jacked rippage on both guitar and vocals is less evocative of Boris than early Blue Oyster Cult (on “New Amnesia”). Inspired by all the bloozing going on, McGrath eventually settles on a vocal sound that’s a dead ringer for up-and-comers The Sword, but that’s all the similarity to such semi-lost indie hard-rockers you’ll find here – these guys are in the same weight class as End Of Level Boss. There is hope, kiddies. Order from

Chadwick “Blood Soaked World"
(TSR Records)
Misogynist gothies advertised as a cross between techno and a bunch of other stuff, but what you’ll hear depends on your mood at the moment: it’s either the next Bauhaus or utter, utter bollocks. Recorded in an outhouse most likely, the production values are what you’d expect from a band on pretty much no budget at all, and if there’s supposed to be synth on every track it’s a mystery where it is, not that it’d make much difference what was going on in such a cacophonous racket. But as referenced above, there’s a Bauhaus element afoot, unforgiving in its badass grooving, scratchy/meaty guitar and antiestablishment production. In a parallel universe they’re probably lord high masters of the underground. Order from CD Baby

Torpedo Boyz “Headache Music" (Sounds From the Roof Records)
Funky, kinda crunky Europeans with refreshingly major attitudes (all the funnier given their Ahnold accents), Torpedo Boyz are a lot like 70s funkadelica as seen through a Felix Da Housecat prism. There are plenty of layers going on, which gives weight to anything nowadays, but they’re irrepressibly modern in their approach, sort of like someone taking a baseball bat to all those poopy, quasi-ethnic hack bands that wouldn’t be polluting your local yuppie dive if they didn’t have a million friends. Blaxploitation trumpets battle turntablist wetware, samples fight for space with plonked bass, the singers repeating doofy catch phrases for entire song-lengths. Feel the ’64 Impala, brothers and sisters. Order from

Get Set Go “Selling Out & Going Home" (TSR Records)
Unfortunate timing for such a moniker, yes, infinitely so being that these guys are so much better at everything than their tuneless, corporate-alt-bot competition. OK Go may have the nu-mod dorks and TGIF Corona-burpers in their back pocket this fiscal quarter (and worldly art connoisseur Jimmy Kimmel waddling around claiming he “really likes” them), but they’d never be able to pull off a Kinks-vs-Who thing like this, let alone measure out the right amount of Dropkick Murphys to add in order to make it slam-dunkedly pub-worthy, not to mention the fact that the Get Set Go chaps look a lot more “what, no free trail mix in this dump?” than that inexplicably enthusiastic Abercrombie knockoff. Not for nothing, but Get Set’s got a lot catchier material, too, legitimately sticky stuff that doesn’t need twenty force-feedings to get one lonely head bobbing at the pool tables. All for naught, of course, if they don’t change their name on the double. Order from

Various Artists “Elaste 1: Slow Motion Disco” (Compost Records)
Decent but woefully overlooked dance music’s been around longer than the Charleston, if for no other reason than that the planet’s C-student mentality demands that its cutting-edge art survive a minimum of five years gestating in safely out-of-the-way places like Manhattan to work off any verist energy that may be hiding in its pores. Superstar DJs and their associated wannabes, whose stock recently started plummeting like a bag of Buicks once people realized that paying $45 to watch someone play records for 30 minutes was possibly maybe a ripoff, are running up the flagpole for weird-ass records to add to their rucksacks, Munich’s DJ Mooner being the perp in this case, holding mid-70s Italian Cosmic songs up for a public yea/nay. Mooner wants critics to say things like “that’s some wild beats, man,” but it basically reads like disco that didn’t blow up for whatever reason, most likely because it doesn’t do much. Nice as it is to know that Donna Summer wasn’t the only diva alive in 1975, there may not have been a good reason for it. Order from

Outraged ranting, indie label release news and spaghetti sauce recipes are always welcome. Email

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