SELECTRIC Funeral

SELECTRIC Funeral

Chuck Eddy

Yeah, so anyway, what we got here is a new column detailing the goings-on and goings-down and gettings-down of heavymetallurgy and hard-rockery, which if you’ve been perusing my ramblings in this journal long enough, you realize I deem less or more the same animal. All’s I care is the guitars are loud and it boogies; genre headings are really just marketing tools used to sell more records (and magazines!) anyway, and they don’t interest me (even though I cheat and use ’em sometimes). My working title for this column is "Selectric Funeral,” in honor of the fact that "Electric Funeral” was a whopper of an early Black Sabbath tune, and in recognition of the fact that an "electric funeral” is pretty much the sound that I think hard-rockers oughta aim for—not to say that it necessarily oughta sound like the song "Electric Funeral” (though Pere Ubu’s "30 Seconds Over Tokyo” does, and it kicks ants—big red, ferocious African army ants, I mean), but rather that it oughta feature pluggedin instruments, and strive to make your eardrums bleed and dance on your grave and swell stuff like that.

So, like, no pansy music ’cept in the sense that I can say horrible things about it, and Arte Johnson and Joanne Worley can bet their sweet bippies I plan to. (And yeah, I admit that the new Journey song that sounds just like the Spinners is pretty great—so what?) Into glory ride, phantom lords, and if you’re lucky I might be able to review a couple of the LPs tabulated below in fuller detail in the record review section sometime in the near or far future. But maybe not, so take copious notes or woe be unto "youse,”-as our pasta-core pals the Cheetah Chrome Motherfuckers might put it.

Anyhow, next to the Jim and Tammy Bakker episode, the most exciting news of 1987 so far has been the transfer of former punk-rock-unknowns into a scheme of things where they reconstruct/reinterpret/redevise the nasty clodhop fray-metal made back in the Nixon/Ford era—not merely by daintily copping a lick here and there to scratch the surface, but by diving in head-first/cannonball/jackknifestyle. Best example of this I’ve heard is Electric Peace’s Medieval Mosquito (Barred, 2153V2 N. Highland Ave., Hollywood, CA 90068), which I’ve listened to more than any other LP of any kind this year, and the coolest thing is that I only heard it ’cuz I’m on Restless Records’ mailing list and some guy in the band’s a janitor there (or something), so they’re distributing it for him as a favor, even though they’re too stupid to sign his band and make them the huge superduperstars they deserve to be. A friend of mine compares Electric Peace to old Deep Purple (around Machine Head/Fireball, like), but to me they’re way beyond that and real tough to pinpoint—no direct ripoffs I can identify, just monster low-fi riff/swing tendencies, switch-hit arrangements, no paucity of distortorama hooks and a bassist who howls about how you shouldn’t be afraid ’cuz it’s natural, just like drilling for oil. Bound to be a collector’s item if you’re into that sorta thing (and who ain't into getting rich?), so order copies for all your close relatives—sure beats savings bonds!

Then there’s the Cult’s Electric (Sire), which a lotta jerks prob’ly dismiss ’cuz this useta be a faggy U.K. haricut combo, but if the dismissers had a sense of humor they’d realize that the band’s dubious past is part of what makes Electric (that word’s poppin’ up a lot today, ain’t it?) so awesome. Rick Rubin (famous rap knob-tweak dude) turns the Cult into total Zep-AC/DC mimics, but they’re only capable of stealing about one riff per song. The singer still sounds like an emotionless haircut twerp and the "Born To Be Wild” cover is as awful as the idea of covering it is obvious, but the record cooks like gangbusters anyway. And you just sit there dumbfounded because you’ve finally realized that great hard rock can be faked after all—it’s just that nobody’s ever pulled it off before, and if you don’t get the joke you’re even dumber than you look.

Meanwhile, after a week on my broken turntable, Redd Kross’s Neurotica (Big Time/MCA) hits me like the sleekest hybrid of teenybop-pop and HM since the last Redd Kross record (if not the first Redd Kross record, if not the second Cheap Trick album, if not the first Sweet album, if not ever)—no Kiss or Monkees covers like last time, but there’s a nice Iron Maiden homage, and I think those "long-haired friends of Jesus in a chartreuse microbus” come from ‘‘Convoy’ by C.W. McCall.. .and if you think Bon Jovi is wimpy you need to hear ‘‘Love Is You,” which I recommend to Tiny Tim if he’s still alive. (Wimpy ain’t always bad, ya know.) The most Tyrannosauran EP of ‘87 as of the day I’m writing is the White Pigs’ White Pigs (Combat Bootcamp), the only Sabbath tribute I’ve heard that really puts the emphasis on the rhythm section, which is where the emphasis oughta be. The singer sounds like a Mentor, “Children Of The Grave” rip number 93 is called “Blessed Be The Holy Trinity,” and I know these swine are in it for fun, ’cuz they cover the theme from "The Munsters.”

Lastly, my profile of Ann Arbor’s Necros ran a few issues ago, but that was long before Tangled Up (Restless, 1750 E. Holly Ave., El Segundo, CA 90245) finally hit the stores. In addition to my fave rock ’n’ roll single of 1986 (the title track), the LP has some great big post-Nuge/Smith/Dolls ’70ish gulps in "Gun” and “Big Chief," an extremely artistic (really!) eight-minute veggie-rocque suite, and even a few short, fast ones to keep the skateboardin’ townies happy. Might as well note also that the Necros/Whlte Flag JailJello EP (Generator, 10 West Adams #601, Detroit, Ml 48226) is, at long last, consumer-available as well—the sound quality’s nothing to write home about, but with the Necros reinterpreting Rufus Thomas (that’s Ratt to you) and the Chantays, and with White Flag reinterpreting the Beatles (“I’m Down”— the song Michael Jackson wouldn’t give to the Beasties!), why complain? No Dead Kennedys fan should be without it.