Mr. Dr.

How is it possible I've lived this long and never heard the Suicide Commandos' 1977 meunsterwerk "Make A Record?" It's a fact; I've managed to remain incognizant of this tasty slice of punchy guitar riffage for all these years, and I think it's safe to say that I have squandered my entire life up until this day. So it is thus, upon emerging from the murk of this fece-encrusted rat hole i once called existence, I peer pusillanimously at the new musical landscape that is stretched out before me and mutter to my trembling self, "I'm pretty sure Rick had this record in college and that fucker never played it for me." Beautiful Day of Discovery!


So here's what's between the hot-dog buns:

-Spastically limber-limbed drumming that drives the point into your brittle bones. What's that point, you ask? That's right, pal: Rock 'n' Roll.

-Slash-and-buzz guitar that's all up in your business one minute, then out front mowing the lawn the next, then before you know it it's right back in your face asking for some money to buy some more riffs. And you know you're gonna dig back into your wallet because you just love those wiry fucking hooks, you want more and more, but then the record ends you're left wallowing in your misery once again.

-A fantastic frontman, like a Richard (Hell) Meyers who never got involved with Tom (Verlaine) Miller and all that French Literature.

Whereas contemporaries the Sex Pistols inhabited a world of blues progressions and bondage pants, The Commandos relied on their fantastic chops and frantic, catchy tunes. And all these years later that stupid no-talent fool John Simon Ritchie is splattered all over t-shirts at the mall, while top notch Commandos guitarist Chris Osgood (not the NHL goaltender) is left to play minstrel music at Republican Political gatherings. But I suppose that's how things shake out in the rough and tumble world of professional record-making.


This one is a Top Fucking Pick! I'm Serious! Check out the lurching, woozy "Burn it Down," which no doubt got some needle time on the turntables of Clint Conley and Roger Miller.

--mk

Oh Joyous Funeral

Here is the Sandy Lopicic Orkestar:

Probably the best song about killing a spouse, really.

The Charismatic Croatian Caliphate of Crazed Caprice

Dear Reader, throw all that Erkin Koray shit out the window because the future of Turkish music is here, and it's from Croatia in 1991. That's the year that the Slusaj Najglasnije! (or "Listen Loudest!") label released the Vo-zdra EP by Hali Gali Halid, AKA a Mr. Goran Bare from Vinckovci, Croatia.


Now I first came across Hali Gali Halid courtesy of the excellent (if now-defunct) Static Party blog. Hali Gali Halid was the brain child of Croatian RNR mench Goran Bare, frontman/mastermind of Majke and all-around debonaire man-about-town. When Majke went on hiatus, Bare formed Hali Gali Halid to make fun of the Turkish pop craze sweeping Croatia.

This shit is far out. Honestly though, this is more than the sum of its parts, and its parts are fucking awesome. Besides Vo-zdra, there is a Hali Gali Halid tape floating around, which is a little rougher around the edges and sick as hell. Nothing else sounds like this—I crawl through dusty boxes of vinyl and around the internets and through estate sales like some cruddy Count of Monte Cristo looking for audio splendor that will help me exact my revenge on boredom and the dull etceteras of virtually everything, and then suddenly here it is, 20 years old and with cheerful cover art of a rocket ship flying through eyes. I know that this is supposed to be a satirical album, but I don't know enough to get the joke and I can't speak the language, but I know a thing or two about a thing or two and this thing is killer.


Hali Gali Halid lasted for a couple of years and then fell apart, Majke started back up and that was that. Luckily, the tape was rolling when these guys were kicking it.