Sleaze Round-up: February 2012

Sleazegrinder on new releases from The Grannies, Chillihounds, The Live Ones, The Gaggers and Midnight Bombers

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The Grannies: For Those About To Forget To Rock

Hmm. Glossy gatefold vinyl record with old creeps in masks wearing tattered dresses and playing guitars. The latest Kiss record? Well, that’s probably in Paul n’ Gene’s near-future, but nope, its just the enduring shame of San Francisco back for another round of hook-heavy fuck-rock nuggets. Expect two-minute honks of punk-infused geriatric rock with an eye-dropper of swirling psychedelic grunge and song titles and lyrics that live and die with the goofball gimmick: Toothless, Denture Breath, Walker On The Wild Side, among other geriatric-flavoured gagging. Funny stuff, but the searing rock’n’roll ain’t no joke. Also, I gotta commend these nuts on the superlative packaging. The wax is thick as a sandwich, there’s a full-colour fold-out cover of the band (should you want to stare at men in dresses while you rock out), and a CD insert for the more digitally minded. If it came with a blow job and a coupon for a cup of coffee, The Grannies would have single-handedly saved the record industry. (810)

Chillihounds: Shake Your Skull

Third album from these Swedish 70s rawk fetishists. The ’Hounds possess a vocalist who sounds like Danzig channelling Astbury, a guitar player who sounds like he was already playing Cat Scratch Fever in the womb, and a clutch of tunes that sound as though they’d be at home on the jukebox in one of Rob Zombie’s retro-bloodbath movies. Yep, skulls will definitely be shaken. (610)

The Live Ones: Very Quite Welcome

Scruffy, over-aged R’n’R lifers from Brooklyn who sound like Ace Frehley fronting The Dead Boys. Can you imagine what an amazing goddamn world this would be if that happened? No? Then listen to this record and dream some seriously awesome rock’n’roll dreams. Fist-waving, bar-brawling basement jams played with reckless, punky abandon. (710)

The Gaggers: Rip You Apart

It’s not like Britain’s own Gaggers invented any of this stuff. Safety pins, pogo-parties, puke, and used-leather all existed many years before they were even hatched. And yet, they make it all sound like punk rock is a wild new idea. Part Sex Pistols, part GG Allin, all snot n’ snarl, this record makes you feel stupid for not being young, skinny and broke. Out with the new and in with the old, as they so rightly bellow. (810)

Midnight Bombers: Dirty Business

Christ, I feel like I have to take some kind of antibiotic shot after listening to this. The Midnight Bombers surpass sleaze and dive head-first into pure filth. Every song is about a bad night with a worse hooker, and it’s all bolted onto a runaway train-wreck of He-man motorpunk with just enough grubby street metal to attract the strung-out blonde floozies who most surely pay their rent. Balls fuckin’ out. (610)


Came from the sky like a 747. Classic Rock’s least-reputable byline-grabber since 2003. Several decades deep into the music industry. Got fired from an early incarnation of Anal C**t after one show. 30 years later, got fired from the New York Times after one week. Likes rock and hates everything else. Still believes in Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction, against all better judgment.