In case you were wondering where one of the top bands in the death metal scene came from, listen up.

This is the first BT disc, previously available only as an import. The production can only be described as woefully inadequate. Most of the guitars sound like they were recorded in a wind tunnel, and everything else kinda meshes together.

On the other hand, the songs are great and the energy level almost makes up for the shitty production. The only way to really put a value on this is in the historical sense, and there it rates a 10.

For some folks, the purest essence of punk is streams of profanity dumped on top of extremely simple music. I believe you can safely put Butt Trumpet solidly in that school.

Just because 15 of the 18 songs contain at least one word that the FCC deems unsavory shouldn't stop you from really digging into this disc. After all, one of the "clean" songs is a diatribe against the annoyance of yeast infections. If punk is going up against authority, that's about as good as it gets. You don't fuck with Mother Nature (wasn't that an ad campaign once?)

Sure, it's lower than puerile, but there is still some big part of me that really gets into Butt Trumpet. It's just a big (gooey) load of fun.

Due to an unfortunate reading habit, I caught an article in Newsweek that talked about the resurgence of bar bands. Like NRBQ and Los Lobos. Um, okay. I like Los Lobos a lot, but give me the Cadillac Tramps and decent brew any day.

A couple of summers ago they were wandering around with Sister Double Happiness, and I missed it (I was working two jobs and did an A&A issue that week). Needless to say, I was rather pissed.

It's a simple formula: basic chords, basic beats, basic melodies and angst. A big ol' glass of angst, with chaser of bitterness. Sure, the Tramps owe a debt to punk for the attitude, but they exhibit a real love for the basic rock and roll that brings out the best in a 25-cent; draw. And the best part: you don't have to be drunk to appreciate them. Just turn up the stereo.

My only previous exposure to Cyclone Temple was that Combat records album. I thought they sounded a bit too much like Metallica, though it was fairly catchy.

Now that Metallica, Anthrax and Megadeth have all mellowed, Cyclone Temple has beefed up the sound. Through the process of attrition, they own their sound (though Sonny DeLuca's vocals do bear some semblance to John Bush).

A caveat: many of these songs first appeared on their Progressive Records EP. Those tracks have been re-recorded with DeLuca singing, and they sound rather good. This is a dated sound, mind you, but if you dig classic eighties power metal, I'm not sure where you'll find a better taste.

Some old-school punk types decide to cash in and record a commercial record.

Um, well, sort of. If your idea of commercial is early Bowie with a lot of distortion and riffage, then it is. It certainly is a long ways from Void and the Meatmen, at any rate.

Good? It is, in a cheesy sort of way. This isn't anything great or original, but I've always been somewhat attracted to the spacey glam kinda sound (remember, I really dug Star Star, and still do), and this fills a nice craving I've had for that sort of thing. But I'm also the first to admit that Velveeta just might be the perfect food (at certain times, anyway).

Crafted for pleasure, this works.

Unlike many death metal bands, Fleshcrawl knows how to find a groove and stick to it. Sure, the boys cycle through tempos and riffs as much as any other band, but they manage to put together complimentary parts in each song.

By actually constructing songs this way, Fleshcrawl doesn't fall into the trap of "all the damned songs sound the same", as many of my R.E.M.-fan friends say. I bet I could get some of them to really dig this, if I had enough rope and beer. But back to the album.

A simply stunning album. Even I can get tired of the same-old, same-old from this genre. But with bands like Fleshcrawl, my interest is constantly revived.

So you listened to the House of Large Sizes and Fat Tuesday and wondered when those boys at RdB were going to get back to releasing kick-ass headbanging wall-of-noise stuff like the classic Coup de Grace album?

This is one of the heaviest albums released in the entire history of the world. Yes, heavier than early Melvins and Skin Yard (though owing them a small debt). Yes, heavier than Jesus Lizard (though, again, owing them a little as well). Heavier even than Streetcleaner. Really. And these (three!) guys are using real instruments.

Glazed Baby wears you down until there is no resistance. Then you are violated and left for dead. After the disc is finished and you recover in the silence, a sort of craving begins. You need more. You crawl on your hands and knees to stereo and punch up the disc again. And hit repeat. And pray to whatever you think will hear you that you might survive this wave.

No words can describe the pain. Or the ecstasy. Absolutely the best album I've heard in years. A cornucopia of visceral stimulation. What else is there to say?

Their first EP was rather great, straight-forward hard rock dabbling with some funk.

Well, now it's hard rock, a little funk, and more than a little Skin Yard/Melvins. That's distressing on its face.

Dig in, though, and you'll find those grungy riffs doing things they're not supposed to, like changing during a song. Sure, I wish Sarkoma hadn't colored itself with a trend, but this isn't that far from where they were. And as you get to the end of the disc, you find more of their old sound coming through (which isn't that far from where they are now).

Solid work from a great band. These boys should definitely be watched.

Um, yeah, these guys do come from the same town as the Jesus Lizard. Why do you ask?

It's not a rip-off, though, as Shorty is much looser (and stranger) than JL. Sure, these boys crank out a stool-grinding version of Chicago hard core, but instead of being overpowering, you can hear the space between the notes and the instruments. That and Al Johnson doesn't so much sing as hurl his vocals.

Once again, a certain S. Albini rimmed the knobs, and here he does the band justice. Chaos is born, and it shall forever be. If not, I'll just listen to Shorty a lot.

After a short sojourn with Megaforce, the Skatenigs return to another Chicago label. The music stays consistent.

Cheeze-metal riffs and industrial beats power these folk as always. Phil(do) Owen spits out the pissed off/often puerile lyrics with reckless abandon.

In other words, highly addictive. While "Chemical Imbalance" is the ultimate Skatenig song, this set is just as fun as Stupid People. If you have never acquainted yourself with the Skatenigs, get it together and throw this in the discer. You'll come away a fan.

Athan Maroulis, also of Tubalcain, provides the vocals, and R. Morton and Matt Green provide the strident industrial soundtrack.

Spahn Ranch is as lean and vicious as Tubalcain is catchy. Spahn Ranch merely cuts through all pretense and serves up 10 tracks of pure vitriol. Rather damned impressive stuff, too.

I know this is a little late, but certainly better than never. If you never got this or simply haven't picked it up, then now is the time. Essential.

Drag City's signing of the Red Krayola (a band that has been around longer than Deep Purple) yields this chestnut.

Thompson, Red Krayola singer and guitarist, first released this thing in the year of my birth, 1970. Needless to say, I missed it then.

About eight years ago, the Glass label across the ocean re-released Corky's Debt, but not to many people noticed.

It shouldn't take 24 years for a cool album to get noticed by people, but that's how it flies sometimes. Thompson shares much the same psychedelic pop philosophy as Roky Erickson, but unlike Erickson, Thompson has managed to surround himself with people who can really play! And they are meticulous in their proficiency.

You can hear many sixties influences flitting about, but this is an oddly modern-sounding album. Perhaps yesterday's pop sensibilities have come 'round again. Whatever. With music like this, why worry where it came from?

Determined to get rid of that power-pop-to-perfection mode their releases had been in, Doctor Dream presents the latest from Tiny Lights, a band that is more eclectic than, well, King Crimson.

Oh, hell, now I've gone and compared them to KC, and Tiny Lights don't sound anything like them. TL prefer to bounce around the pop idiom on flights of jazz, folk and maybe even a little r&b at times. There is the occasional pop gem like "I Don't Enjoy Life" which would have fit in very well on a later Simon & Garfunkel album, but Tiny Lights never stay in the same place.

To truly appreciate Milky Juicy you have to zone out, letting the songs merge together into some kind of higher form. Individually, they are nice. Collectively, this is amazing.

Just for the sheer magnitude of their catalog, the folks at Cleopatra are the top industrial/dance/goth etc. label around. But the list doesn't stop there, as their backlist includes stuff from the Exploited, the Damned and others. Certainly good folks to hook up with.

Nicely merging techno and industrial sensibilities into a rough-yet-club-ready sound, X Marks the Pedwalk has crafted a savvy second album. Yes, the band is from Germany and you can tell, but that is not all bad.

After all, this isn't a rehash of anything you've heard before, but something more interesting. Heavy enough to entice, melodic enough to sell to the masses.

Recorded just before the band broke up in 1991. The liners are somewhat self-congratulating, but even if Yard Trauma never did manage much of a following outside of California in its almost 10 years of existence, this is certainly a nice bequest.

Bret Gurewitz produced this with the band, and it sure does have his characteristic clean sound. This is extremely tight.

And Joe Dodge certainly could write a song (he wrote all but one here). Yes, they do stick mainly to melodic punk constructions, but you can do it well, or you can suck. Dodge does it well.

Makes me want to hear a lot more. Longevity can breed indifference, or it can improve things (like scotch). Yard Trauma may not have mellowed much, but this disc showcases a band at the top of its form.