LAS VEGAS — Punk Rock Museum attendee Keith Pauline admitted to being a bit confused about the origins of a pile of vomit in the corner and left wondering if it’s an interactive part of an exhibit, sources taking photos with the puke confirmed.
“I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be awe-struck, disgusted, or reminded that punk is unpredictable and puke could be anywhere. I mean, that throw-up could’ve come out of the mouth of Joey Ramone himself for all I know. But it also could have just been some guy who had too much to drink before coming here,” said Pauline. “The fact that it wasn’t behind glass didn’t help either, touching it could just be part of the experience. I did see a service dog lick some of it at one point, and none of the security guards said anything, so I’m really confused.”
Punk Rock Museum founder and NOFX frontman and bassist “Fat” Mike Burkett confirmed that he is also not sure of the vomit’s origins.
“Who’s to say where it came from. If it is part of an exhibit, someone might have approved it without me knowing. But it could have just been a random person, hell, it could’ve been me. It wouldn’t be the first time I puke in this place, it won’t be the last,” said Burkett. “I mean, NOFX is going on our farewell tour, and if anyone happened to catch me sober, I know people wouldn’t think I’m really dedicated to what our fanbase expects from us. So it’s entirely possible that I threw up there and forgot about it.”
Punk rock historians have been attempting to identify the source of the vomit since it was first found.
“Punk vomit identification is a very new concept that still has a long way to go,” said punk scholar Daniel Williams. “The world just isn’t ready for it yet. But it’s not a complicated process. I’ve been collecting samples from popular punk musicians for years now, most of them will give it to you if you give them $10, they’re pretty desperate for money. After that, it’s just a matter of comparing the unknown sample with the known ones, things like texture and taste are the best ways to determine if two samples are alike. I’m very limited by the number of samples I have though, so I may never be able to say for sure who this exact vomit belongs to.”
At press time, attendees of the museum were wondering if they would be charged extra if they accidentally stepped in any of the puddles of piss on the bathroom floor.
“Renegades” has to go last, right? I am fond of this collection of off-the-wall covers, as Rage branched out musically to take on the likes of Eric B. and Rakim (sure), Minor Threat (yup), and Devo (wait, what?). You could always hear varied funk, punk, and hip-hop influences incorporated in Rage’s music, but “Renegades” is the furthest they ever leaned away from riff-heavy rap/rock to dip into those other genres. Some tracks are pretty forgettable (“Kick Out the Jams” is just a lesser version of the original, “Street Fighting Man” whiffs), but most of the album delivers, including standouts like “Microphone Fiend,” “The Ghost of Tom Joad,” and “How I Could Just Kill a Man.”
Released when I was 12, “The Battle of Los Angeles” was my introduction to Rage. Buoyed by massive radio hits “Guerrilla Radio,” “Testify,” and “Sleep Now in the Fire,” the first half of the album is as KROQ-ready as their debut. The second half is full of B-sides in which de la Rocha’s insightful, literary verses serve as the fuse that lights Morello’s monumental riffs and eccentric solos (“Maria,” “New Millenium Homes,” and “Ashes in the Fall”). I love this album, which features some of the band’s biggest and best songs, but I have it third because there’s an element of familiarity. If the first album originated Rage’s sound and the second album evolved it, this one serves as a refinement of what came before. But it still rips.
RATM returned from the unexpected success of their debut with a classic second album attitude: “Evil Empire” is tighter and darker than its more enthusiastically pissed-off predecessor. Although it features one of their biggest hits (“Bulls on Parade”), the rest of the album is less radio-friendly (albeit still plenty accessible to the target audience of rebellious 7th graders who just learned about the concept of out-of-school suspension). Instead of simple anthemic refrains like “Fuck you, I won’t do what ya tell me!” Zack’s rallying cries on “Evil Empire” are cryptic, almost nightmarish (on “Tire Me,” he yelps, “I wanna be Jackie Onassis/I wanna wear a pair of dark sunglasses/I wanna be Jackie O/Oh, oh, oh, oh please don’t die!”). The album closes with my vote for most underrated RATM song, “Year of Tha Boomerang,” a groove-heavy track torn apart by a furious hardcore breakdown.
Ranking a band’s albums in reverse chronological order is classic old-guy nostalgia pandering, but it’s also accurate in this case. You’ve gotta admire the confidence Rage had right out of the gate: Using a famous photograph of a monk lighting himself on fire for your debut album cover is, among other things, pretty brash. Like, I bet Weezer wasn’t sitting around debating whether to use pictures of Vietnam War napalm attacks as the Blue Album cover art. Though I love the entirety of their succinct discography, RATM’s self-titled ranks first. From the bombast of opener “Bombtrack,” to the angsty rebellion of “Killing in the Name,” to the funky breakdown of “Bullet in the Head,” Rage was already conceptually focused and sonically dynamic on this album released just one year after their formation. Garth Richardson’s production is stellar, perfectly capturing each guttural growl, towering riff, and radical bassline.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: The heaviest, most pants-shittingest death metal.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Tthroat-shredding, vomitous vocals gurgling above chainsaw guitar tones, all backed with heinous blast beats.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Anime-influenced techno pop possibly with Iron Maiden-esque galloping guitars and dueling solos.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Either straight-up classical or pastoral ambient primitive folk music.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Either NYHC or some variation of slam/beatdown hardcore.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Slacker indie a la Pavement, or lazy whiteboy reggae like 311, Pepper, or Slightly Stoopid.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Anytime a musician just goes by their first and last name, I expect to hear a singer/songwriter with an acoustic guitar and a Masters Degree in English.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: The most anemic, sexless, technically impressive jazz quartet this side of the Mahavishnu Orchestra.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Either some Latin-influenced jazz, or a very throwback ’80s punk sound.
WHAT YOU EXPECT: Funk. Glorious funk so groovy that it makes you mom get up and dance at a wedding.
S-K’s most recent record is their first since the departure of long-time drummer Janet Weiss, who cited not being treated as a creative equal within the band as the reason for her exit. Her absence is felt. Those of us who have been in bands know how annoying it is to have to listen to the drummer’s ideas, but when you have one as good as Weiss, it might be worth feigning enthusiasm. “Path of Wellness” is technically a rock album, but it sounds like a rock album you’d make after your mom yelled at you to keep it down a few too many times. The guitars are oddly muted, invoking a lack of conviction more than a stylistic choice, and the drums (helmed here by Angie Boylan) seem like an afterthought. There are silver linings to the record—Tucker adds a bassy low register to her already impressive vocal range, and the mid-album highlight “Favorite Neighbor” captures a bit of the spark of their early work— but like most of 2021, “Path of Wellness” is largely dreary and skippable.
Often, when established musicians get in the control booth to produce another artist’s record, their sole instinct seems to be “Let’s make this sound exactly like one of my albums.” (Think David Bowie producing Lou Reed and Iggy Pop, or Jeff Lynne with George Harrison.) St. Vincent was no exception to this tendency when producing “The Center Won’t Hold.” For the most part, this is not necessarily a bad thing— Sleater-Kinney go full-on indie-pop on the tracks “Hurry On Home” and “Can I Go On” — and it’s great. The first half of the album is catchy as hell, and nods to a potentially fun new direction for the band. Unfortunately, the record generally fails to live up to the promise of its excellent opener/title-track, and never regains its footing after the swing-and-a-miss foray into industrial rock on its sixth track, “RUINS.” Most of “Center Won’t Hold” sounds more like growing pains than growth, but there’s a good EP in there if you’re willing to do your own editing.
From this point of the list on, they’re all great albums. Did you hear me? I’m saying their first album is great, and I want the record to reflect that. So you’re not allowed to say that we did their early work dirty, because if you do, we’ll know you didn’t read the article. It’s great, it’s great, it’s GREAT— they just got EVEN BETTER after this. This self-titled debut was recorded while Tucker and Brownstein were still in other bands and S-K was the side project, but the energy and immediacy of these ten tracks makes it easy to see why this band eclipsed their others. Tucker handles the lion’s share of the singing on this one, as her and Brownstein’s charismatic vocal interplay had yet to develop into the signature back-and-forth dynamic we now know and love, and her intentionally abrasive voice comes across raw and powerful. The somewhat amateurish production adds to the album’s charm more than it detracts, and “Sleater-Kinney” is a perfectly punk rock mission statement from the riot grrrls that spawned it.
After reaching some mainstream success with their previous two albums, Sleater-Kinney leaned back into their punk-scene roots by reminding you that you don’t own them. The band had never actually sold out their early ethos, but just in case you thought they had, “All Hands on the Bad One” serves as a stark reassertion of who you’re dealing with. It’s as overtly feminist a record as the band ever made, with much of the lyrical content addressing the sexist condescension they endured as women in rock (the opener “The Ballad of a Ladyman” is a harsh comeback to an unnamed concert promoter who referred to S-K’s rooms as “reserved for the ladymen.” “You’re No Rock n’ Roll Fun” responds to bullshit complaints from the boys club that the band is, well, no fun.) It’s pointed but not preachy, and has an in-the-room, live sound reminiscent of their first couple releases. It’s what Sleater-Kinney does best: confident, no frills rock and roll.
S-K’s second album was their first release as a full-time band, and they avoid a sophomore slump by both tightening up musically and turning up the snarling attitude and sense of political alienation introduced on their debut. The opening/title track is a vitriolic denouncement of capitalism commodifying our dreams and selling them back to us wrapped in plastic (the particularly prescient line “They want to simplify your needs and likes/to sterilize you” plays like a dire warning against the data-driven marketplace we inhabit now). Tucker’s refrain of “Damn you!” that opens and closes the thrashy highlight “Little Mouth” hits with enough venom to put at least five bucks in the swear jar. The confident swagger of “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone” is Brownstein’s pronouncement as the other formidable vocal talent of the group, and her dripping-with-sarcasm delivery on the verses perfectly set up Tucker to howl that she’s “the queen of rock n’ roll”. And just when you’re getting all moshed out, there’s a beautiful, slow eulogy for lost love in “Good Things.” “Call the Doctor” was the one to put the band on the map outside of their native Pacific Northwest, and it’s not hard to see why.
After putting out two back-to-back rockers that established them as critical darlings, Sleater-Kinney zigged and hit us with an emo one. “The Hot Rock” has the ennui of some of their former Kill Rock Stars label-mate Elliott Smith, filtered through the dissonant grunge riff-machine the band seemed to always have on hand. The personal is political on “The Hot Rock”, as S-K find themselves preoccupied with failed relationships, spirituality, and the pressures of the band life. Fans who listened closely to the previous albums wouldn’t be too surprised — “Call the Doctor” and “Dig Me Out” may have been a bit faster/louder, but S-K hadn’t exactly shied away from vulnerable content up to this point (half of “Dig Me Out” is about the break-up that took place between Tucker/Brownstein, but more on that later). Minor keys and slower tempos underline the gloomy mood on this one, making it a perfect rock record for a rainy day.
The early-aughts kicked off an experimental period for Sleater-Kinney, and the extremely confident “One Beat” showcases a band leaning away from their garage rock past, and into their rock star present. That they’re able to make this transition without sacrificing their unique sound, or turning out a shiny and overproduced dud is notable, and the record doesn’t make any apologies for its scaled-up sound. On “One Beat”, S-K add wah pedals, synthesizers, and even horns to their heretofore stripped-down arrangements. These bells and whistles are used sparingly, however, and only serve to enhance how in-the-pocket the songwriting team of Tucker and Brownstein are on this one (according to Tucker, this was their most collaboratively written record). Some fans were skeptical of this new direction and scope, but they need not have feared: some of the best work was yet to come.
Sleater-Kinney emerged from a ten-year hiatus and made it worth the wait when they dropped “No Cities to Love” in 2015. The record is a lean 32 minutes and contains some of the best guitar riffs and most energetic songwriting of the band’s career. The guitar playing is fuzzy and fast, and Weiss excitedly fills every spare beat with percussive chatter. “Price Tag” is the best opening track they’ve ever done, “Fangless” is anything but, “Surface Envy” is a fist-pumping anthem that could be considered an alt-rock “We’re Not Gonna Take It” — and that’s just the first three songs! This record doesn’t let up, and it rings with the joy of something that only exists because the band wanted it to. If this is the result of a decade off, a lot of our favorite groups should follow suit.
On “The Woods,” Sleater-Kinney continue to revel in the throw-shit-at-the-wall technique established on its precedent, and this try-anything spirit yields the band’s heaviest album to date. “The Woods” is S-K’s first record for Sub Pop, and it can go riff for riff with any grunge act to ever grace the label. Producer Dave Fridmann turns the band up loud, and Tucker in particular sounds like she’s singing for her life. “The Woods” represents the band’s only real foray into classic rock, as Tucker and Brownstein mix a heavy dose of prog into their guitar work, with Weiss hitting the toms like Bonham. This album also contains S-K’s best campfire jam, the Brownstein-penned/sung “Modern Girl.” The song is a darkly humorous satire of the endless quest for inner peace through consumption, and if you’ve only heard one song by the band, it’s probably this. “The Woods” was the last album from S-K until “No Cities to Love” would break their ten year silence. If it had been their final word, you couldn’t ask for a better swan song. Fortunately, they had more to say.
At some point between being outed as a couple by Spin Magazine (before either Tucker or Brownstein were out to their families) and recording their finest record, Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein broke up. Around the same period, Janet Weiss joined the band on drums and cemented the best Sleater-Kinney line-up before or since. Given all this change, it’s not surprising that ruminating on the start and end of things resonates all through “Dig Me Out”. Romances and romantic blowback within bands are nothing notable, but the fact that Tucker and Brownstein’s artistic collaboration thrived and proliferated as much as it did after breaking up is. On “Dig Me Out” Brownstein shares a much larger part of the vocal duties with Tucker than in their previous work. The duo’s call-and-response counter melodies would be an integral aspect of every album after. Wisely, the band has never really dished much out about the heartbreak between the two, but the songs on here make it sound rough. (“Heart Factory” is particularly seething, and I can only imagine the vibe rehearsing that one was abysmal.) Broken relationships are far from the only topic on the table in “Dig Me Out”, though — “Words and Guitar” is a joyous ode to music itself, “Little Babies” satirizes regressive gender roles, and the title song uses visceral, gory imagery to invoke the feeling of overexposure sometimes inherent to being an artist. Sonically, it’s the sweet spot of a band still in its indie phase, but in total command of what they’re doing. And unlike Fleetwood Mac’s best work, it shows you don’t have to do all the cocaine in the world to make a great break-up record.