Loverock
GUITAR WOLF
Narnack
On the giant 1-10 measuring scale of punk-rock chaos, Guitar Wolf is striving for that mythical, Spinal Tapian 11. The band's music is strictly high voltage — all fast, all the time, with an admirable sloppiness, and Japanese lyrics shouted and screamed with a raw-throated fury. Loverock is Guitar Wolf's fifth album to arrive in this part of the world and shows not the slightest change in their approach. The album is brutal from start to finish. Now, on paper, this band sounds amazing: cool name, a great notion of watching them on a grimy basement stage — and they're foreign, for Christ's sake. But on record, the band falls flat. I've never cared for hardcore of the Black Flag variety because of one reason: I cannot sit and listen to someone scream at me in the same monotonous howl for too long. And that's the problem with this disc: band members Seiji, Billy and Toru kick up a stomping musical ruckus that locks into a groove, but they've not written one truly memorable song. With all the vocals reduced to screaming, the music turns out to be punk rock lacking precisely those qualities that make punk rock memorable: namely, humor, melody and a willingness to stretch out. Other complaints: the disc is way too long (there is no way to justify 17 songs and 48 minutes of ideas that could have been squeezed onto a brief EP); and "Katsumiya Tobacco City" blatantly rips off the Clash's "Remote Control" (which serves to underscore everything the Clash got right). There are exactly two good songs here: "Violent Letter" and "Ultra Might Nite." Both stand out from the crowd. Maybe I'm a wimp, who knows? But when confronted by Guitar Wolf, I would place them in a bin with Korn rather than the MC5. And that's saying something. 
—COOPER LANE BAKER
Antics
INTERPOL
Matador
Yeah, I'm tired of the hype too. But forget it. Don't let it sour you on Interpol prematurely. I know it's hard. I was hesitant myself when the acclaim over the band's first record, Turn on the Bright Lights, first came pouring down from on high. I finally broke down and bought the damn thing a year later and have grown to care for if not outright love it. The key to that album's success is in the details: the long, shimmering guitar tension of the opener, "Untitled"; the funky drum rolls on "Obstacle 1"; and the full, rough bottom end all over the record, an aspect often overlooked by indie bands. Focus on the details, man, and it becomes easy to dismiss the ridiculous haircuts, the glamorous photo spreads and the pseudo-philosophizing ("The utter and total satiation of your immediate senses is the fruits by which you shall live," Carlos D tells Rolling Stone).
As for Antics, "Next Exit" is a mellow opener with droning organ work, occasional piano punctuation, and autumnal guitar phrasing, done very attractively all around. The first single, "Slow Hands," is a fast sing-along not easily forgotten once it's in your head. "A Time to Be So Small" is a loping closer that caps the album.
Sonically, of course, the band is still gloomy, but it's a glorious gloom, perfect for its season, perfect for a time when public affairs instill such a sense of doom and ignorance. The lyrics sometimes veer into childishness, but these sins are forgivable when the words are delivered with such an eloquent voice.
Can Interpol walk on water? No. Have they made one hell of a follow up to a precocious debut? Yes.
—COOPER LANE BAKER
Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned
THE PRODIGY
Maverick
The Prodigy mastermind Liam Howlett brings his mix of mechanical beats, space-warp textures and fuzzed-out instrumentation (guitars, bass, flute!) back to the techno table with this collection. Following the blueprint established on albums like Music for the Jilted Generation, and especially 1997's The Fat of the Land, Outgunned never manages to transcend the familiar. Howlett remains a gifted sonic engineer, as the rockin' "Wake Up Call" and the deconstruction of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" on "The Way It Is" clearly illustrates. The guitars swirl and the beats bang just like they did in 1997 when The Prodigy was hailed as the great electronica flag bearer. And that's the problem. A lack of depth or growth (it's been seven years) leaves this album a friendly, if uninspired reminder of days past. 1/2
—JOE BARDI
Wet From Birth
THE FAINT
Saddle Creek
Unless listeners are fascinated with hearing songs about erections and other divulgences regarding sexual pleasure, then this one is better left to perverts and pre-pubescent adolescents. The new wave electronic music as done by The Faint sounds too much like cheesy '80s pop to take seriously. Lyrics on this album are superficial, with discourse on a par with that of junior high school students. The sheer absurdity of some of the tracks is not humorous or entertaining, it's annoying. Some songs, however, shine through on a record that is otherwise void of any coherent music. "Desperate Guys" has serious replay value, as does "Phone Call." But these are the exceptions from another band with the overused emo-gone-techno sound that has become trendy in recent years. If eccentric music is The Faint's goal, well, they have that right. However, if good music is the goal, then they need to try a little harder next time.
—WHITNEY MEERS
Within a Mile of Home
FLOGGING MOLLY
Sideonedummy
Seasoned punkers will testify that this band kicks ass, as will spiky-haired children of the Warped Tour generation. With the talent of seven incredible musicians, Flogging Molly mixes traditional Irish folk music with punk rock. The band comes through on their newest album, using fiddle, accordion and tin whistle to add flair to what might otherwise be basic pop-punk. Frontman Dave King's distinct, heavily brogued voice sets the mood. A few ballads provide contrast to Flogging Molly's otherwise hard-and-heavy sound. Blatantly criticizing President Bush and the War in Iraq, Within a Mile of Home opens ferociously with "Screaming at the Wailing Wall," one of several politically inspired tunes on this group's newest release. Loud, blunt and rebellious, the disc will make you want to pour a Guinness, turn up the volume and enjoy it until the sun rises.
—WHITNEY MEERS
This article appears in Oct 20-26, 2004.