Thursday, March 27, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Listening Station

U.S. Bombs

Covert Action

A cynic might surmise that U.S. Bombs are grubbing for street cred. I mean, check out the cover of Covert Action, on which the aging leatherbacks pilot old-school skateboards down the sidewalk; it seems suspect when you learn the band formed in '96. And what of this Brit-thug, pub-brawl vibe they put off like so much beer-sweat? They're from Orange County, fer Chrissakes. Is this a tribute band or something?

Almost. But U.S. Bombs has enough flame and flair of its own--in the form of oi-tinged tunes with rah-rah choruses, not to mention leadman Duane Peters, legendary skateboarder and storied fuck-up--to sidestep the dubious distinction. Covert Action reeks of cigs, beer, pogo-friendly punk and the Bombs' inimitable spout-first-think-later brand of social commentary that never saw an anti-government rant it didn't like. Indeed, beneath the stumble and stomp of this rank bar-punk are lyrics speculating that the Oklahoma City bombing was engineered by The Man as a means of rolling back individual liberties ("Framed") and expounding on how late mob boss John Gotti would've made a good U.S. prez ("John Gottie" [sic]).

Covert Action is no smart bomb; if you can get past the sometimes reactionary, oft-retarded lyrics (from "Art Kills": "Kill/ I kill too much/ Ya made me snap/ I'm sorry corpse"), you're in for a plate of musical manna--if not brain food. Taken on those terms, U.S. Bombs can add another safety pin to its lapel, as Covert Action rocks respectably with a no-frills mix of mid-tempo, chug-a-lug punk that makes you want to hoist a beer and punch your best friend square in the kisser. Worthwhile tracks include the searching, Clash-inspired "The Gow," "Shot Down," a classic shout-along study in Punk 101, and "Lab Rats," an amicable little frenzy that old-school mosh pits were made for.--Andrew Kiraly

The Music

The Music

One of the most refreshing changes among the indie/college rock crowd of late is its preference for dancing over navelgazing. More rhythmic-oriented acts--Hot Hot Heat, Fischerspooner, I Am the World Trade Center and the Electric 6, to name a few--have acted as the Pied Pipers of a Hipster Nation no longer hesitant to cut footloose between ciggy drags.

Britain has always enjoyed a more dance-friendly approach to rock 'n' roll, and its latest favorite, The Music, is rooted in the tradition of boogie 'n' baggy U.K. faves like the Charlatans, the Happy Mondays and the Stone Roses. It also favors the swamp rock aesthetic, incorporating elements of the blues, psychedelica and modern jam-electronic improvisation to create a considerably unique sound. And what a sound it is--an expansive blast of sonic force dominated by powerhouse guitarist Adam Nutter, the steadiness of drummer Phil Jordan and the fluid wails of singer Robert Harvey.

The Music's only problem, so far, is nailing down melodies that might transform its rave-ups to bona fide tunes. The beats and electronic enhancements have no problem locking you into the songs, but there's little distinguishing the verses from the choruses, and the songwriting seems to play second fiddle to the locomotive-like stomp propelling nearly every song. This is rather fitting, as the young act (no one is of drinking age yet) started jamming together as bored teenagers, less concerned with pop structure than allowing its extemporized clatter unfurl. The Music seems to enjoy losing itself in its own compositions as much as the listener does.

And yet there's something intoxicating about the celebratory nature of its approach--evidenced best in "The People," the most ecstatic and alluring song of the bunch. Should its label, Capitol, follow up the first single--the adequate "Take the Long Road and Walk It"--with "The People," The Music could make an impression on the indie bop adorers, and perhaps beyond.

The Music plays with The Vines at the House of Blues Fri., March 28, at 8 p.m. Info: 632-7600.--Mike Prevatt

Bleu

Redhead

According to the press packet that accompanied Redhead, Boston-based singer/songwriter Bleu (formerly William James McCauley) describes his music as "a mixture of Simon and Garfunkel and Guns 'n' Roses." And that--if it were true--would be pretty cool. Imagine Art Garfunkel putting his choirboy falsetto to work on "Welcome to the Jungle" or Axl Rose screeching through "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Yeah, that would be the sweet stuff.

But Bleu--like so many other one-syllable entertainers before him--proves long on promises and short on results. Rather than delivering the proposed mélange of heavy-metal spunk and folk-rock feeling, Redhead unfolds as little more than a collection of quasi-indie rock and foppish sappery (a cruel fact hinted at by "Trust Me": "I'm not above spittin' old clichés/ Just to spray you what I need to say"). Despite a peppy yellow sticker that boasts a song from the Spider-Man soundtrack ("Somebody Else"), Redhead bogs down immediately with the painfully exuberant strains of "I Won't Go Hollywood" and proceeds to grind to a near-complete standstill with the typically tedious mainstream-radio fodder "Could Be Worse," "Watchin' You Sleep" and "You Know, I Know, You Know." But honestly, could you really expect any more from a singer whose first project was a holiday CD titled Big Bang Holidang? Nope, that's pretty much the kiss of death.

So--if Redhead approximates neither Guns nor Garfunkel--what might be a more apt moniker for the sonic meanderings of pop rock's new mutton-chopped golden boy? If it were up to me, I'd probably describe it as an annoying amalgam of Ben Folds and Bryan Adams. Then again, I guess that just wouldn't have the same ring to it.--Newt Briggs