Trap Them (originally known as Trap Them and Kill Them) was one of those bands that had great albums, but to truly âgetâ them you had to see them live. Which you canât now, because they broke up. Sucks to be you, loser. But if you did, you know what weâre talking about. Ryan McKenney was one of the most underrated vocalists around, a fact that was also true when he was the vocalist for the criminally underrated Backstabbers Incorporated. Norwegian black metal dudes who have killed people donât come off as scary as McKenney did with a microphone. On one tour, he broke his feet. Thereâs video of it. He spent the rest of the tour doing vocals in a chair and then the next tour on his knees as his feet were in casts. And it was somehow more scary, fucked up, and intense than when he could stand. Itâs like how they say a wounded animal is the most dangerous animal. Thatâs Trap Them: even crawling on the ground, with broken bones, theyâre gonna melt your face off.
5. Blissfucker (2014)
âNo bad albumsâ isnât the hardest feat with only five full-lengths. But it doesnât change the fact that Trap Them put out no bad albums. Ranking this album last is like saying wolf cubs are the 5th cutest animal. Does it mean theyâre not cute? No. Theyâre so cute. THEYâRE SO CUTE. But have you seen red pandas? Baby raccoons? Pallas cats? MY DOG?!?! All so cute, your brain explodes. Wolf Cubs are also adorable. âBlissfuckerâ is a killer album. There are no real complaints, other than it’s just not the Trap Them album we instinctively reach for when we wanna listen to Ryan McKenney shred his vocal cords for our enjoyment. But this album still slaps the hell out of your taint. Itâs a real taint-slapper. And the unrelenting blast beats of âFormer Lining Wide the Wallsâ are worth a listen on their own.
Play it again: âFormer Lining Wide the Walls,â Lungrunners,â and âGift and Gift Unsteady
Skip it: You donât skip Trap Them songs
4. Seizures in Barren Praise (2008)
For a lot of folks who arenât as cool as us, this was how they first heard Trap Them. And honestly, it’s a great intro to the band. The first two tracks âFucking Vivaâ and âTargetsâ are the perfect sample menu of the band. The former being a great example of their slower, heavy, almost noodley songs that weâll call âdread bangersâ and the latter being an example of their one of their furious, breakneck speed types of tracks weâll call âanger splooges.â This album established the band in the larger scene, with some claiming them to be torch-carrier-on-er of the buzzsaw sound of Entombed. Which is fine. The influence is there. But thereâs a stank on this record that doesnât sound like any of their âinfluences.â Or maybe it sounds like all of them, dead in a pile? I donât know. Itâs just a pretty swell record. Also âMission Convincersâ might be the best dread banger they have.
Play it again: âFucking Vivaâ âMission Convincersâ and âReincarnation of Lost Lonesâ
Skip it: You donât skip Trap Them songs
3. Darker Handcraft (2011)
âDarker Handcraftâ? Probably shouldâve named it âHeavier Awesomesongs!â Nailed it.
This album shotguns you into the darkest alley behind the grossest dive bar ever, right from the jump. Three anger splooges in a row that splooge a whole lot of anger. And while we havenât mentioned it much yet, the riffs in the band are legendary. Brian Izzi sure knows how to guitar his guitar. When he guitars a guitar, things are heavy. Guitar. For lots of folks, this album is number one and that sounds ok by us. While âSeizuresâ is a solid intro to the best, âDarker Handcraftâ truly the best album to start with, because if you donât dig this, youâre not gonna like the rest of it.
Play it again: âSlumcult & Gather,â âDamage Prose,â and âSovereign Through the Pinesâ
Skip it: You donât skip Trap Them songs
2. Sleepwell Deconstructor (2007)
Sometimes a debut album sets the bar too high to ever reach again. Other times is a skeleton blueprint, hinting at the future heights a band will hit, but you never really wanna go back and listen to it. But âSleepwell Deconstructerâ threads the needle in between both. Thereâs a (yeah we canât believe weâre saying this either) youthful energy to this one. Shorter songs and the feeling of âfuck it, we gotta record this in a weekendâ is spread throughout the whole thing. And hereâs something weird: itâs the only Trap Them album that feels almost⌠fun? Donât tell them we said that. They seem like they wanna come off very mean and scary. And mean and scary guys donât have fun. But this album is kinda fun.
Play it again: âDay One: Insomniawesome,â âDay Five: Garlic Breakfast,â and âDay Seven: Digital Dogs With Analog Collarsâ
Skip it: You donât skip Trap Them songs
Honorable Mentions: All of their EPs
Theyâre all good. They put out enough non full-length stuff for the collection to be a solid full-length album. And itâs all killer no filler. Everything from the demos to the early Trash Art stuff, up to âFilth Rations,â considered by some to be their best overall release (with some real tasty drum stuff). We wish we could quit Trap Them. But we canât. And we wonât. You canât make us. Because youâre not our real dad.
1. Crown Feral (2016)
Always nice when a band goes out with a bang, and âCrown Feralâ is a hell of a bang. Similarly to âThe Great Muppet Caper,â this album is much more nuanced than one might initially think. For one, the move to have Kermit and Fozzie be identical twins who are journalists is genius. And Gonzo as their photographer is a no-brainer. The film also has one of the all-time great Muppet songs âHappiness Hotelâ named after the eponymous hotel where our three main leads stay. Besides a villain in the legendary Charles Grodin, there are memorable cameos from John Cleese and Robert Morley, among others, as well as an always-welcome Sesame Street crossover from Oscar the Grouch. In the end âThe Great Muppet Caperâ is the best Muppet movie to exist andâŚshit. My bad, we were talking about âCrown Feral.â Yeah, itâs their best album.
Play it again: âRevival Spines,â âHellionaires,â and âHappiness Hotelâ
Skip it: You donât skip Trap Them songs
Absolutely not. This man is a convicted sex offender. What would the neighbors think if your new roommate had to go door to door to tell them all that he served time for exposing himself to an 8-year-old? Is it possible that The Jesus had some sort of back story in his spinoff that explained this away as a misunderstanding? Maybe. We didn’t watch it because some guy on reddit said it wasn’t very good.
Uli is one of Bunny’s costars in the porn industry. He is the leader of the gang of nihilists she hired to help fake her kidnapping. As a nihilist, Uli believes in nothing, and is loyal to no one. We wouldn’t be able to keep track of who he was scheming with or who he was double crossing on any given day. This ferret-wielding thug is only a slightly better option than the sex-offender bowler. And that’s not saying much.
This is the rug-pisser who started the completely avoidable series of events in “The Big Lebowski.” Everything that happens to The Dude and the unfortunate saps around him can be traced back to Woo’s inability to handle conflict without resorting to waterworks. Imagine forgetting to pay the electric bill and he decides to micturate on something of yours instead of writing a passive aggressive note like a normal roommate.
As confident as he is incompetent, this is another hired goon bringing chaos to The Dude’s life. This unnamed thug slightly beats Woo on our list because at least he only destroys property that belongs to the landlord, whereas Woo went out of his way to destroy The Dude’s personal property. And that rug really tied the room together. We’re going to pass on this one because he seems to be a package deal with Woo.
Nobody wants an incompetent criminal living in their house. Especially not one that would blast German techno-pop and trash the house with a cricket bat. We get it, you were in a band in the â70s. Good for you. How are the royalties on that uninspired Kraftwerk ripoff treating you after splitting them three ways? Maybe you should focus some of this energy on finding a real job? Or at least harassing someone for money that isn’t unemployed?
Ok, this character’s name in the credits is âNihilist #2,â but that’s fucking Flea! It would be kind of cool to have a celebrity roommate, right? And as far as the nihilists go, he doesn’t seem to be very influential in their decision making. He mostly just agrees with Uli and provides comedic relief. We were seriously considering Flea until we remembered the strict âno bass playersâ policy in our house. And unlike the nihilists, we believe strongly in some things.
Let’s just get all the nameless thugs out of the way. No matter which millionaire they work for, whether or not they practice nihilism, and even if they are in the film so briefly that they don’t merit being considered as individual characters, we’re not interested in any of their bullshit being brought into our house. These two merely perpetuate the ongoing problem of rug violence in The Dude’s life.
What kind of response was that? Your fare asked you to change the radio station and you physically threw him from the cab? Over the Eagles? This aggression will not stand. That’s why this cab driver is the lowest ranked character who isn’t a hired goon or pederast. We need a roommate who won’t try to fight us while blasting “Hotel California” when we get home from a long day. We hate the fuckinâ Eagles, man.
With behavior like this, the Chief of Police might as well be another thug working for Treehorn. The Dude begins their interaction by asking for a lawyer. We’ve seen enough “Law & Order: SVU” to know that the conversation that ensues would be inadmissible in court if the chief had wanted to arrest The Dude rather than beat the shit out of him at the station. This NiMBY police chief needs to worry more about his own behavior than the beach community he claims to protect if he wants to rent from us.
We don’t really know much about this guy except that he’s willing to ignore The Jesus’s sex crimes to stay competitive in their bowling league. Maybe he also has a backstory in âThe Jesus Rollsâ that would help us make a more informed decision about his worthiness of renting out our extra room. But we still haven’t watched it because our friend Trevor called it a shitty attempt to cash in on the original movie’s cult appeal.
This seemingly carefree woman is the connection between every character in “The Big Lebowski.” It was her debt that led Jackie Treehorne to send thugs after the wrong Jeffrey Lebowski in the first place. We don’t want a roommate that has to fake her kidnapping to get ransom money from her own husband just to pay the rent. We’ve got enough of our own problems to deal with.
What a compassionless prick. Our expectations are low for the personality of an LAPD detective investigating the theft of a stoner’s car, and this guy still wouldn’t meet them. If this stoic cop moved in with us, there would be nothing but judgmental looks from him across the room. Ok, maybe we should have put away that bowling pin-shaped pipe before the cops came over, but weed isn’t illegal anymore, man. Doesn’t he have some real crime to worry about? There’s been a kidnapping!
To simply call this man a chauffeur would be to ignore the fact that he’s willing to resort to violence and, ironically, kidnapping on behalf of his employer, the fake millionaire Jeffrey Lebowski. We don’t want a roommate that will throw us into a car and drive off while we’re interrogated in the back just because he was too impatient to stop and ask WHY we got high and ate the leftover pizza he was going to take for lunch.
We don’t have room for an iron lung in our living room. Even if he wrote the bulk of the series âBranded,â of which we’re enormous fans, it just wouldn’t work with our aesthetic to have a comatose man hooked up to a machine in here. While we’re on the subject, how does this man have a teenage son? We’re to assume he’s been in this iron lung for decades. Is Arthur even Larry’s real father? This man needs to get his own life in order before we’d consider sharing a house with all that drama.
The only positive about the millionaire Jeffrey Lebowski as a potential roommate would be his wealth. But even that was all a farce. His mansion and all of his plaques and trophies conceal he fact that his daughter controls the family trust. The Big Lebowski would just be another old capitalist screaming about how the working class deserves to be poor for not working harder. And he’s not above having you kidnapped if you don’t return his calls.
We get it, it’s a thankless job hunting down the owner of a stolen car and meeting him at the junkyard to fill out paperwork. But at least wait until after the car’s owner leaves to make jokes about his poor car being used as a toilet. The Dude asked a serious question, are there any leads in this case? And this cop’s response was to laugh in his face? This man would not be an ideal addition to our house, but at least he’s not violent.
While we think Jackie Treehorn would throw one hell of a party, this is probably going to be a pass from us. He’s rich, but he’ll drug your drink and throw you out of the house if he doesn’t like you. He’ll lend you money, but he’ll send thugs to piss in your house if he doesn’t get it back. How this man makes his money is none of our concern, but this pornographer’s lifestyle is more than we can handle.
Walter is too out of control for our liking. He’s a loyal friend but he escalates every situation he’s involved in, or invents his own problems when he can’t find them organically. We acknowledge the severe PTSD that Walter suffers from as a result of his time in Vietnam, but we’ve got enough trouble keeping the peace around here without a lunatic trying to win an argument by threatening to shoot a man over a bowling match, even if it is a league game.
Sure, he’s a good man, and thorough, but there is a limit to what we will tolerate from a tenant in our house. It’s not just that he colluded with Maude to surreptitiously determine if The Dude was a good candidate to have a child with. It’s this doctor’s violation of privacy that bothers us so much. Has this man not heard of HIPAA? This flagrant dissemination of The Dude’s protected health information goes against a number of laws.
The Wright Brothers attempted to fly onto the scene with this album in 1982, and while it ainât lacking in musicianship (specifically with regards to John Wright, your drumming is as intoxicating as your Punk Rauch Stout would be years later), songwriting, or any of the traditional Nomeanso trademarks, it definitely drags in some places. Sometimes sounding like a not-terrible version of âThe Process of Weeding Out ” by Black Flag, âMamaâ proved that even at their worst, Nomeansno are better than most bands at their best, or whatever Marilyn Monroe said.
The only reason this isnât ranked higher is because despite what the album title will tell you, the bourgeoisie still have their heads intact and are dancing on our dime. Going further there are no bad, mediocre, average, good, or great records, so weâre really at a loss for words here. While this record sounds like a speed-fueled Primus, is there anything wrong with that? Of course not, if Primus had some edge on them, they wouldnât suck so bad, no back talk!
Another day, another perfect record. Or so went the career of Nomeansno. But seriously, how did these guys just go sooooo hard? Itâs a question that will be pondered by philosophers and musicians for all eternity.. For sure it will stir up discourse that will hopefully be just as profound as Robâs lyrics, and maybe as memorable? Time may tell you later how impactful this band was, but we can tell you âNowâ that this band will go down in the annals of history and may ignite a Canadian coast battle of the bass between Geddy Lee and Rob Wright, both resurrected as cyborgs, creating some of the best rockânâroll of the 24th Century, proving the thesis of one Neil Young that RockânâRoll will never die.
Nomeansnoâs final record, it’s a truly fitting swan song to the band. After MORE than thirty years together, Nomeanso were just as unique and fun as ever before. So high-powered that it kept the band touring for almost the next decade before a well-earned retirement. Anyone needing a road map to the land of beer and rockânâroll need not look any further, for here is the map to flawlessly reach your destination.
The first record to feature Tom Holliston on guitar, the lesser Nomeansno guitarist if weâre being honest. But that doesnât mean thereâs anything wrong with his records, or any Nomeansno record for that matter. But you came here for a ranking and to laugh at some dumb jokes about the punk scene, nor for actual serious discussion of these albumsâ merits. Itâs been challenging to rank these records since they rule, and frankly, Iâve been on a bender for a couple of weeks, or so I tell my editor when Iâm late for my article. Heâs too stupid to notice anyway, and probably doesnât even read these things.
The first and only album since their debut to be recorded as a two-piece, but you wouldnât have been able to tell without us telling you right now. The only complaint there is with this album is that it takes forever to tell us why this fellow from the cover is called âMr. Happyâ, especially after some of the most propulsive material of their career had just been recorded. But the payoff is worth it with the âFaith No Moreâ sampling album closer, âCats, Sex, and Nazisâ providing some of the funkiest punk that ever funked, and thatâs the truth. And the truth must reign us in, since lies can often get you power.
The first album recorded as a three-piece, released four years after their first outing, âSex Madâ is the sound of a band going through a metamorphosis, from a punky jazz band turning into a jazzy punk band, and arguably the first real post-hardcore record. While lead single âDadâ definitely doesnât hold up to modern sensibilities, the album was transgressive, dark, and propulsive, expanding minds by way of split skulls (more room for brain growth amirite?), Nomeansno sealed their legendary legacy with this album.
A bold plan, drawn up by assholes to screw morons. A strange, nonsensical equation that makes very little sense, and our number two pick for Nomeansno Record, their last with semi-original guitarist/best guitarist Andy Kerr, who moved to Amsterdam for âgreener pasturesâ we assume. Not as good as âWrong,â but it’s right up there with all the best Nomeansno works, taking aim at everything everywhere all at once, with all the focus you have come to expect with those mathematically precise drumming. Just a shame they couldnât solve that simple equation on the album title.
While not as propulsive as its predecessor or as iconic as âWrongâ in music circles, âSmall Partsâ marinates you in its greatness, really zeroing in on those smaller musical parts, perfecting the interplay and chemistry of Nommeansnoâs strongest lineup ever, bombarding the listener with pure musical destruction and deconstruction. We would try to make some jokes about this album, but that would be wrong of us since this album is from start to finish, so âWrightâ in every way. But seriously, roll up a fattie, fire up your record player or youtube and give this a spin, making your day a win and ensuring âVictory,â not defeat
Canada Day Came one month early this year when âWrongâ was finally added to Spotify, along with a healthy break from our otherwise year-long winters with some of the sunniest weather to date (thank the Alberta Oil Fields for that). Equal parts invigorating and nihilistic without either losing balance, and the healing of his vocal cords brings Rob Wright back as the bandâs primary lead vocalist, and one of the living legends of Canadian Punk, this album really has it all. Great musicianship, songwriting, and experimentation that propelled the growing Post-Hardcore movement confidently into the â90s, one year ahead of schedule. Take note dear reader, lest anyone get âTired of Waitingâ.
While they never put out a bad album, the first two SF albums are a portrait of a band coming to terms with their genius. The poetically named âBalls Deep,â while rough around the edges, juxtaposes the limitations of bucolic New England existence with the pervasive hypermasculine archetypes prevalent at the close of the 20th century. Concordantly the results of their sophomore effort are mixed as the abrasive but exciting feel of their debut was no longer a novelty. The album has some classics, but in the end, shows a portrait of artists still in search of their Sistine Chapell. Left with the question of what is truly âdeepâ the band landed on âballsâ which while not always true, can sometimes, in fact, be deep.
Before the advent of this gargantuan auditory triumph, the state of New Hampshire languished in obscurity, perceived merely as an expanse of âterra incognitaâ nestled betwixt a maritime crustacean haven and a dairy-producing mountainous region. However, with the release of “Guaranteed Kill,” New Hampshire was catapulted into prominence, incontrovertibly solidifying its status as an integral entity within the fifty United States. Artfully crafted with now-classic tracks such as âSuper Virgin Vs. Death Machineâ or the concupiscent âPlanet of Assâ, Scissorfight makes choices that even today would be considered cutting edge, but in 1996 was so beyond its age, it practically stopped time. With a chorus of âAss. Ass. Ass. Planet of Ass.â The bandâs enigmatic original singer, Ironlung, asks the question: what if an entire planet was made of buttocks? At least we think thatâs what the song is about. Itâs very loud and kind of hard to understand.
Achieving resurgence sans the complete original ensemble is invariably an arduous endeavor for a band. Substituting an iconic figure such as Ironlung, whose countenance verges on the mythological, might be deemed quixotic by many. Nevertheless, the realm of art is boundless, and with a revamped lineup and, most astonishingly, a novel frontman, Scissorfight accomplished the herculean feat: they unveiled an album of new material that transcended even some of their earlier oeuvres. While the years in between albums may not have been kind to the world, they were seemingly overflowing with a creativity so vibrant for the band as to stop naysayers in their tracks. New vocalist Doug Aubin neither apes Ironlungâs distinctive sound and essence nor disregards the substantial and robust historical legacy. Rather, the band seamlessly amalgamates the new and the traditional in an enchantingly delightful manner that is poised to both attract new admirers and satisfy longstanding devotees. Huzzah!
The final full-length album with Ironlung, artfully dances on the line between profundity and bourgeois apathy towards societal norms. The vociferation of the ultra-masc mountain man persists, yet it is interwoven with instrumentation that whimsically tantalizes the auditory senses with the pastoral charm of all things sylvan. A pinnacle of this auditory odyssey is the exquisitely titled âVictory Over Horseshit,â which offers the listener an almost oneiric experience of accompanying Ironlung in a car, careening down the highway. He then asks the audience, or perhaps even God Herself, âWhat does it take to get a riot out of me?â Encouraging the listener to truly consider what lines must be crossed for they themselves to stand up to injustice. #Brave
Itâs never quite explained what the album title means, but for many âNew Hampshireâ is the bandâs high point. The album opens with the agitprop lines âWeed, guns and axes. We donât pay our taxes. Because we donât exist on any government list.â From there, the bandâs sedulous efforts portray a hinterland-ish epic covering all things âsurvivalistâ. The popular âBallad of Jacco Macaccoâ uses the analogy of a knife-fighting monkey to represent the struggle of the working class to both stay afloat in late-stage capitalism but also not become tropes of rural communities themselves, to be crassly puppeted by politicians. Finally, a true highlight âOutmotherfucker the Man,â which was added to later pressings of the album, encourages the listener to actualize their frustration with the Stateâs hand-holding of criminal corporations and push beyond the gauche trappings of modern protest. A galvanizing anthem indeed!
A great addition to the bandâs discography, âAmerican Cloven Hoof Bluesâ is left out of this list on a technicality: it is a rerecording of previously released tracks, originally collected for the European market. Ironic, considering the album’s intricate exploration of rugged individualism, an inherently American ethos, undoubtedly would elude the aesthetic appreciation of European audiences, whose cultural predilections and collectivist proclivities render them ill-equipped to fully grasp the profundity and nuance of such an audacious manifesto. But despite the ostensibly prosaic nature of its antecedent compositions, this album emerges as yet another paragon of excellence from a band who seem to make excellence routine.
The bandâs best album is a bellicose collection of everything they have done successfully throughout their career. Violence and freedom fight each other on a battlefield of sex, nature, and monster trucks. The band also reminds us they are not averse to fashioning a good hook, and, to use an analogy the artists themselves might use, reeling us in with it. The album culminates with a song that stands as the apotheosis of the band’s grandiloquent mission statement. Encapsulating their quintessential ethos in an aurally transcendental opus with its labyrinthine composition and sonorous intricacies, Ironlung triumphantly bellows to all within earshot: âThe most dangerous animal is me!â