There’s no doubt about it, this goddamn war in Iraq is diverting attention away from the fight right here at home. And by at home, I mean America. Some of you may have noticed that this country has got a few problems. For instance, poverty. It’s here to stay. Obesity, traffic, prejudice, we’ve got ’em all. But there’s a more insidious foe lurking in the darkest shadows. The candidates aren’t talking about it. The religious groups are begging us to abstain, but it ain’t working. It’s time we face it head on, or we might not have a future to worry about. The problem is the garage rock revival, people. Wake up; the plural nouns must be stopped. With or without an adjective, they are a menace. Their lack of real hooks, their vaguely attitudinous appeal, and their blatant riff aping are a threat to our way of life. If they aren’t dealt with in time, we may all end up, well, I hate to say it, but we might all get bored. Bored to damn tears.
And we should take our fight right to Echo Park, California, where the Rolling Blackouts are making a mockery out of us. First of all, a rock band shouldn’t be allowed to call itself the rolling anythings. Did they think of Led Blackout? That one’s not taken either. These boys are either at the tail end of a tired marketing trend or a lot bit self-deluded. I’m telling you now, it’s probably both. But they ain’t fooling me. They grabbed a few Stooges riffs, wrote a bunch of strutting songs about absolutely nothing, started playing badass for the crowd, and we allowed it to happen right under our noses. That shouldn’t be good enough for you, people. You’ve got to stand up. Tell them you’re not going to take it anymore. Check out some of these titles: “Hung up on the Hangups”, “Loophole Blues”, “Ms. Bitter”, and “Velvet Revenge”. I’ll give you three guesses what this band sounds like. What’s that you say? You don’t need ’em. Smoky guitars churning out chunky blues riffs? Yeah that’s right. Cocksure vocals about partying with the ladies? Bingo. Drums? No doubt. I’m pretty sure they’ve even got a bass player.
These boys lay their cards on the table with the first 10 bars of “Black Cake”. It’s sludge, pounded out sludge. “Up Up Up” takes the formula and tosses in a hand clapped chorus about a limousine. And that’s the problem with this stuff: it’s got a nasty way of worming itself into your psyche leaving you feeling violated and alone. It’s the same thing with “Rock Paper Scissors” with its ooh la las and clunky rhyming of words like decision and incision. They’re trying to lull you into thinking you’re safe. What’s the harm in a little rock ‘n’ roll? Well, here’s the harm: this record is on autopilot. They’re hitting you over the head until you’re numb. Numb and susceptible to their charms. Sure, there are a few mild diversions like the textbook psychedelics of “Overdrive” or the vaguely southern groove of “Troubled” — both of which seem to concern life in the “fast lane.” “Ms. Bitter” has got an old Aerosmith swing, and even new wave rears its ugly head on “Velvet Revenge”. But it shouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, people. You’re better than this. And god help you if you fell for that ballad at the end. This is a war, people. Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face and stand up for yourselves.