Poor li’l Le Shok. Their arrival into Anytown, USA signaled the descent of the Romulan armada and a call to arms for any available teenager whose haircut came complete with a chinstrap. Adding further insult to injury, they were maligned by scenesters for their affinity with local, quality trim and hipsters were similarly irked by the hype and instant collectability of their records. So sad, really.
In a time when most style bands were tormented by time signatures and dairy products, these guys were citing Teengenerate, Red Cross, and the Delta 5 as reference points. Granted, not everything they touched was golden—I’d say about 38% of their recorded output is probably worthwhile, but that’s still a notch above most bands, especially within the context of the late 90s and the substrata these guys dwelled in. Don't begrudge 'em cuz of those lacquered bangs.
This, their second solo 45, is their finest moment. Yeah, that split is surprisingly good, but this single captures them at their peak. There’s more than enough Gang of Four / Screamers damage to render these recordings way more passable than most anything released during a notoriously dismal spell.
300 copies were initially pressed on pink: 151 with the standard sleeve (kiped directly from The Decline), 99 with the fancy sleeve, and 50 with the really fancy sleeve. There were other pressings, but they’re all later, so who cares.
Greetings, pals! Here's a quick update to let y'all know that Gina from Dress Up as Natives contacted me and was kind enough to shed some light on her mysterious band and their porky prime cut:
"The pressing was 500. We actually saved a couple of our "better tracks" from the studio for a compilation that never happened. Each cover was hand colored by a band member. Yours looks to have been colored by me. I'm curious as to what the heck I wrote about a window on the back. I think we had *ahem* a few beers while coloring. The band went thru several drummers before we succumbed to ennui in Shitsburgh. If we would have had a clue and been someplace else, I think we would have been around longer.
This might blow yr mind. There are some really good recordings there --some DUAN stuff and our first incarnation called the NONSTOPS. Live Cardboards....the list goes on."
Do yourself a favor and poke around the website mentioned above. Lots of files to download and an extensive peek into the weirder side of steel city. Thanks again, Gina, now where's my Cardboards lp?
Sorry, folks, I picked up a virulent strain of something particularly nasty this week and, consequently, all of my free time has been devoted to sleeping. Here’s some second-string, pre-Simple Minds hokum with that needling, insistent riffage that was all the rage in ‘77. Who could’ve predicted that their self-abusing lead singer would get paid for openly cavorting with his beloved peregrine years later?
Do you remember that one movie, you know, the one with that murderous fucktard who wantonly dismisses the fourth wall and whose smugness rankles you so much that you wish you could somehow enter the film, grab the nearest artillery gun and joyously mow the motherfucker down during that totally tubular “twist and shout” sequence? Speaking of music, do you remember that film’s odious anthem and, moreover, would you believe that the same smarmy, mustachioed creep responsible for that atrocity also penned the masterpiece detailed below? Well, here’s your chance to flex the suspension of disbelief and explore the decadent world of Dieter Meier.
A conceptual artiste armed with limited talent and pockets of inverse proportion, Dieter Meier staked his claim early with a punque du jour slice that still holds up as one of the best 45s to emerge outta Switzerland’s nascent punk scene. Backed by the crack combo that was Fresh Color, Cry for Fame delivers an amphetamine-addled gonzoid blast that's immeasurably indebted to Meier's unusually shredded glottis. You can almost picture a thick spray of bloody droplets as he goes apoplectic and rattles off a seemingly stream of consciousness-style rant—years later, I still have no idea what he’s saying or whether it’s a load of gibberish. Who cares? I can’t think of too many tunes that outweigh the complete ferocity of this track.
My copy of this record came with a promo insert that alleges Meier to be equal parts Captain Beefheart and Kim Fowley. Y’know, that comparison kinda makes sense.
Four weeks of spelunking in the deepest, dankest crevices of established female talent is a strenuous task that’s bound to leave anyone feeling plum tuckered. The only thing that’s even more tired is the fraudulent castigation I foolishly heaped upon myself—the one that eventually assumed realistic proportions and is largely responsible for the tardiness of this entry. Let’s consider my penance exacted, cautiously inch a little closer to the surface and hope that Kleenex are sufficient for wiping away the bitter tears of regret.
