Dirty, grungy pop, mostly without vocals. And the less distortion and layers the band puts on, the better the sound.

The guys write cool songs with simple musical lines. They screw it up somewhat by trying to make more of the sound than is there. And that's too bad. A like a bunch of this album, but when the everything gets involved, Hurl begins to sound like an average grunge band. And these guys are rather above that characterization.

I understand the urge to crank the volume and really rip out the guitar chords. I'm a talentless hack on the instrument myself, and I think I sound better with the volume up. My wife thinks I sound better when I don't play at all. Hurl is most definitely better when the delicate musical ideas they express are put forth in a more sheltered environment. In other words, when the volume is lower and the constructions can be heard above the descending cacophony of generic grunge chords.

Almost there. Hurl needs to define itself just a bit more, and focus on its real talent, which is writing good songs, not blasting a rocket into orbit. What I liked, I liked a lot. I wish the folk would just believe in themselves a bit more.

Perhaps best known for his wandering through the thing that is (was?) Dinosaur Jr., Mike Johnson uses all his creds to push through a record deal. And even manages to come up with an interesting one.

His voice is far too low to be singing this morose, pseudo-country grunge stuff (think of recent Neil Young), but after a while it stops sounding like it was recorded at the wrong speed. And once you get used to the whole thing, you notice that the songs are meticulously crafted pop gems, and the styles are merely ways to frame the painting (ick; artsy writing).

Well, it's not like this is ass-kicking music. Johnson is as comfortable with slow tempos and soft sounds as he is kicking out the jams. And actually, his songwriting style is much better suited to the mellow stuff, which makes up more than half the disc.

I wasn't expecting something this good, though I haven't paid any attention to Dino Jr. since Mascis took his freak show to Warners. A real nice set. A little weird for the kiddies, but fuckit. When you have the chance, why not choose quality?

As always, tightly produced. Metal riffs and hardcore vocals and attitude. And I'll admit, this one is catchier than previous efforts.

But still, the glossy sheen on the sound leaves this sounding slightly generic. And the fact that Gang Green riffs are slung without compunction (let's not pretend Gang Green originated them, either) is more than a little annoying.

And while Madball makes an attempt to write "serious" and "positive" lyrics, they aren't terribly original or insightful. Still the whole package does have a vague something that kinda attracts me.

While I obfuscate and try and pull my head out of my ass, I will note that I haven't really liked any Madball release previous to this (though I recall not hating the last one). Lots of other folks (most of them in the NYC area) do. So if I kinda like this one, does that mean they've sold out or changed enough that the old fans won't like this? Fuck if I know.

Kinda like the last Leeway album. I might even play this again, though it's not a priority. And I don't think that bodes well for the real fans of this band.

A nice alto voice slinging seventies-style pop tunes. Meri fits in well with folks like Rickie Lee Jones, though the songwriting doesn't quite hold up.

Earnestly singing vaguely silly lyrics is admirable, but still doesn't overcome the basic problem. The slick production slides the sound very much into that AAA groove, which I find kinda boring. I'm not sure where else to take Meri's songs, though.

Time has passed her by (even if she wasn't around the first time), and honestly Meri doesn't exhibit any songwriting skills here that would have impressed folks even twenty years ago. And with the ascendance of people like Joan Osborne and Sheryl Crow, well, perhaps the clock has swung around again. Meri will need to find a new muse, or a collaborator to help kick her songs into "interesting" territory. More kick, a more personal take on the lyrics and just a hint of originality might make her over into a pop star.

That's a lot of work. For anyone.

As in Load of shit, I guess. I wasn't expecting anything good, as the black album was a pretty dreadful experience, though it was at least fun at times. "Enter Sandman" may be derivative and stupid, but when you turned it up to 11 there were some charms.

The boys never even come close to that level of performance on this album. "Ain't My Bitch" is the fastest tune on the album, and I could sing the chorus even before I heard the opening riff (straight out of Angus Young's bag of tricks, by the way). In fact, this stuff is so predictable, I was calling chord changes for the next song all the way through.

Ride the Lightning is still one of my favorite albums ever. But Metallica seems to have succumbed to the U2 syndrome (not surprising, since they have made themselves over to look like Ireland's finest): Count the cash and copy what serves as popular fodder of the day. No more trendsetting for these boys. Just days of sitting around and contemplating lawsuits so they can buy bigger houses.

I wish I had full confidence in the taste of America's youth, but last night I sat through a packed dollar-house show of "Broken Arrow", which is pretty damned amusing, but only because it is so bad. Load can't even get that much of a recommendation from me.

Seventy-five minutes of noise noodlings, with Jared of Chemlab and a couple other friends. If you don't like this sort of thing, proceed to the next review.

Dedicated fans only, please. A lot of the noise is centered around a guitar, with lots of effects and distortion flying about in the midst of an unsettling silence. Quite honestly, most of you could make a good portion of this record by sitting down with a guitar and fucking around.

There is the other thirty percent or so which requires some other musical and recording talent (and probably some sort of chemical imbalance), and that kicks this over the edge into quality music stuff. No, your average Jane will run screaming. That's just what we want.

If most of the world came to believe this stuff was good music, then the musical pioneers would be folks like Richard Marx. You know, I only think of stupid things like that when listening to this sort of music. Inspirational or insipid, you decide.

While the guys all have shaves heads and goatees (in the liner photos, anyway), Pro-Pain long ago gave up being a hardcore band. These guys are metal all the way, and while I'm not one to generally support such silly distinctions, when a band is confused as to its identity (like the Madball reviewed in this issue), the sound can be a mess.

Pro-Pain is out to kick your ass from here until you jump off the rails. You know the riffs are coming, you know your ass is grass. You still submit. That is the measure of true musical power.

The sound on this disc is much cleaner than the last one, and since there are no guest shots from Ice-T, college radio folks may focus on more than one track this time out. Good, because the songwriting here is better. The grooves are smoother (the rhythm section is tight as hell), the riffage a bit tastier. The whole concoction goes down like the black Jack neat: nice taste, and a bit of a shudder.

Not a bad album in the band's history, Pro-Pain cranks out another solid disc, it's most accomplished and accessible to date. Not a sell-out, but just closer to the band's ideal. Play it loud.

The difference between cheesy jazz and good jazz: the use of drum machines, keyboards and bass lines. If drum machines are used to keep the tempo even, watch out. If the keyboards only flay out mealy-mouthed chords, you're in trouble. When the bass is used to bounce the song along instead of an instrument in its own right, you know you're in happy jazz land.

All of 'em hit here. When jazz is used as a term for non-offensive music, I take exception. Good jazz has always moved the course of music forward, not provided the backdrop for yuppie dinner parties.

Every five minutes or so there is about ten seconds of a good jazz idea. Kinda like mining a spent shaft. No use.

If you like your music to have even the slightest hint of a bite, don't wander down this path. This dog doesn't even have dentures.

Slayer does lots of old punk and hardcore tunes, with one new song and a couple that Jeff Hanneman wrote ten years ago. And the point is?

I dunno. Slayer is a cool punk band? Slayer is cool because they like TSOL? Slayer is cool because they are a metal band that wants to be a punk band?

Like I said, I dunno. These are slickly produced versions of songs that, for the most part, were charming mostly for the dreadful recording conditions involved. Yeah, the thick sound doesn't hurt, and Slayer has at least become competent musically (though that's not necessary to play most of these songs).

It all seems like a blatant attempt to cash in on the punk bandwagon. The songs aren't cheesed out or anything, but Slayer doesn't add much to the new versions, other than expensive studio time. Reasonably enjoyable, but there's no good reason for this.

Cheap and easy rawk en rool, fronted by Mickey Leigh, the younger brother of a certain Joey R. Guest shots from folks like Handsome Dick Manitoba and others who don't necessarily take their music seriously.

And that means the only way to judge this album is the fun quotient, which is reasonably high. Nothing erudite or sonically impressive, but enough to cause a chuckle or few.

A good enough excuse for an album. I can't imagine what else to say. If you've got a few extra bucks and want some slutty music, this is the choice of the week. Next week, buy something else. It may be eminently forgettable, but Stop cranks out enough amusement to keep me into the silliness.

The story is convoluted (though the Aaron Combetus' liner notes do a decent job of explaining), but Sweet Baby (Jesus) and Brent's TV were different versions of the same musical nucleus, with plenty of future East Bay stars wandering through from time to time.

And as the liners dutifully note, the sound in the late 80s was considered too pop to be punk even by Lookout, so Sweet Baby released an album for Slash. It didn't work out (for reasons too strange to explain here), but that record will be re-issued by Lookout in October.

What's here are various demo versions of the songs from the album, recordings from what was to be a second record, various odds and ends and stuff Brent's TV recorded (without hope of release), including 12 live tracks.

Fans of MTX (Dr. Frank did play with Sweet Baby Jesus for a very short period of time) will like the goofy, love-stricken songs. And well, lots of other folks might find this endearing as well. I sure do.

Nothing astonishing or anything, this still follows the now well-established East Bay formula: hooks, guitars and more hooks. Some might say this established said formula. I won't make any grand statements, but I do think it's fair to call this a fine document of a moment in musical time.

New drummer (Suzy Homewrecker--these folks do have fun names), same old sound. Damned sloppy punk music, highly motivated (though moderately effective) political lyrics and a gawdawful mix from the production room.

The drumming is much more in an American style (very much an East Bay thing), but the rest of the band sticks to its down-and-out Brit stylings. And since Total Chaos prefers to recycle the five or so riffs it seems to be able to remember, predicting progressions is a snap.

Of course, ridiculing punk music construction is like making fun of the Tampa Bay Bucs because they lose: You miss the point. Total Chaos exudes a nice bit of energy, but I've just never really connected with the band.

Too bad. This is a decent enough record. I just don't get off.

The first U.S. release for an experimental/noise compilation featuring tracks from Merzbow, Fat Hacker, Zoviet France and Lee Renaldo (Sonic Youth, you dork!). Nice pedigree, nice set of, ahem, tunes.

More of the well-produced tape loop style here, as opposed to the general chaos of the Peach of Immortality. Many of these tracks are immaculately and meticulously produced sets of noise. You can feel the texture and luxuriate in the quality.

And due to the obvious effort, this is the sort of experimental compilation that your average listener might start to comprehend, with great effort. Not accessible to the mainstream, mind you, but the sort of person who thinks old Sonic Youth is cool (though he's not quite sure what's going on) might find this to be an acceptable doorway to the electronic Pandora's box that is this music.

A very well-considered set. Worth whatever the price stated.

Far-too-thick chords punch through a basic pop-punk song construction, with the odd backing noise elements. Catchy tunes with squeals of pleasure echoing from behind.

The pride of Eau Claire (well, that's probably overstating the point), VLM cranked me a demo tape a couple years back. I liked it a bunch, and they sent this along. I like it a bunch, too. A bit more tuneful (there are discernible harmonies and honest-to-God backbeat drumming, after all), but still high quality. I can see the fine folks at a few Chicago labels taking note.

Perhaps the folks should clean up the production room sound just a tad, so all the stuff in the back can get a better voice. Or perhaps that stuff is a by-product of the mess involved. I can't say for sure on that subject, but I will give a big thumbs up to this album. Anyone from heavy pop heads to true punk rockers to just aficionados of fine music will dig this quite well enough.

Not a bad song in the bunch, and plenty of outright stunners. Knocked out all over again.