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Turn Me On, Dead Man: Haters, Space Invaders, And Clones

Everybody wants to be psychedelic these days, but nobody wants to do the hard work of taking so many hallucinogenic drugs that you lose your mind completely and can’t remember how to do anything except stagger around and play Stooges riffs on your battered guitar.

I haven’t raided Turn Me On’s medicine cabinet, but I can almost guarantee that it’s terrifying in there. This is the real deal, man. It’s Monster Magnet, Spacemen 3, Green River, Donovan and all the cartoon monsters from Yellow Submarine gang-banging themselves to death under a rotting green sun.

Haters… is a sort-of greatest hits for the long-running SF spacemen, but, you know, it’s the kind of hits you melt under your tongue before firing off to the heart of the sun at three zillion miles an hour. Flawlessly decadent acid-sleaze that will fry whatever is left of your brain and doom you forever to a beautifully groovy sort of hell. (⁹⁄₁₀)

Dogz Of Zeus: *Stone Gospel*

Dogz Of Zeus are a hard-rock band from New York in exactly the same way that Riot and The Rods were – you know, blue jeans, bad haircuts and no bullshit whatsoever. Well, their lyrics are apparently based on “historical mysticism” – that’s kinda flaky, admittedly – but otherwise, they’re all heads-down, balls-out, no compromises. I can dig it. (⁷⁄₁₀)

Burnin’ Rope: *Detonation*

This basically sounds like a metal band from LA that got hit in the head with a frying pan in 1982 and never quite recovered. I kinda love it. Songs stagger between chunky riff-rock, buzz-saw punk, and even bass-popping funk without mastering any of ’em. If you’re looking for your long-lost drunk uncle, he’s probably in this band. (⁶⁄₁₀)

Jaw Horse: *Slum City*

A good band name is 90 per cent of the battle and even though I don’t know what the fuck a jaw horse is, I like it. As far as the other ten per cent goes, this is an album packed with bluesy, punky hard rock that has way more confidence than competence. I already got a tattoo of their logo though, so let’s hope the next one’s better. (⁵⁄₁₀)

Son Of Rams: *Jean Store Cheetah*

Drugged-out creeps from Chicago playing killer fuzzy tambourine-sleaze with smart-alecky titles like Screw City Ambulance and Jedi Zipper Kid that are as catchy as they are headache-making. Like if Redd Kross were psychotic acid-eaters, or the Flaming Lips lifted weights. If I had a van I’d blast this and then drive off a cliff in tribute to its overwhelming rockosity. (⁸⁄₁₀)

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.