We all love Slim Jims, the intensely salted tubular meat snack promoted by the dearly departed Macho Man Randy Savage and very much not by our cardiologist. I, for one, know that I love Slim Jims a little bit too much, considering how much I have compromised my once-thriving career as an executive for Anderson Bevel Smith, the third-largest advertising firm in Idaho, for even just a bite of those savory, delicious, incredibly addictive pieces of mechanically-separated chicken and miscellaneous beef.
1. The first terrifying, career-destroying incident happened one previously ordinary afternoon. My healthy lunch of a chef salad with low-calorie French dressing on the side had not sustained the necessary energy for a hard day of pitching risky ad concepts to my boss, ABS Vice President Oliver Bevel. Thinking quickly, I pulled a Slim Jim out of my emergency snack drawer and snapped into it. Before I know it, a grotesque figure reminiscent of a giant Slim Jim slammed open the door of my office, slapped me twice, hard, threw the papers off my desk, and screamed “EAT ME” before leaving as quickly as he had come.
Unfortunately, he apparently also slapped ABS Vice President Oliver Bevel on the way out, which was blamed on me.
2. The next time, I had a big presentation for Grover Bits, Sesame Street’s latest hit branded breakfast, and I was nailing it. I could see it in the eyes of those fat cats from the Children’s Television Workshop, I had them. To punctuate my closing line of “those kids won’t know what Grovered them,” I pulled out a Slim Jim and snapped into it. Immediately, that grotesque figure smashed through the boardroom window, raining glass everywhere across the clients, many of whom suffered minor injuries, and landed on the table. After he kicked the President of the Children’s Television Workshop in the balls, he rappelled out the window, screaming “EAT ME.”
3. After my inevitable demotion, I was understandably depressed and indulged in a number of vices. Eventually, my near-constant huffing of model airplane glue drove my wife and children to leave me; when I was informed that Jake’s Hobby Depot would no longer be seeling me glue, the fumes finally cleared and I knew I had to get them back. But before I could do that, I indulged in a little Slim Jim snap, and wouldn’t you know it, that motherfucker popped out of a garbage can behind Jake’s Hobby Depot and stabbed me with a Bic pen.
4. This one was a dream, so I don’t know if it counts. But I was in the office, but it wasn’t really the office, you know? Anyway, I snapped into a Slim Jim, and then the Slim Jim became him and he became everything around me and I was in Hell and I woke up screaming “EAT ME.”
5. At this point, I had fallen apart. I was wandering the halls of my office at Anderson Bevel Smith like a ghost, reduced to delivering the interoffice mail, like an animal. People avoided me. Slim Jims were my only friend. Snapping into them was my only respite. At my lowest, I snapped into one and he smashed through a wall and I burst into tears just at the thought that at least he was there for me. But when he saw me sobbing, he slowly backed out of the room without a word. Even he was freaked out.
6. However, I’m happy to report things have improved. The last time I snapped into a Slim Jim, I was ready. He burst through the ceiling tile of Anderson Bevel Smith and was about to scream in my face, his eyes filled with the malicious fire of the damned. I grabbed him and snapped his neck with the strength of a thousand righteous men. I may never be the same and I will never be welcome in the offices of Anderson Bevel Smith again, not least of which because I am currently scheduled to be executed by the State of Idaho in three days.
But I did what I had to, and I pray God has mercy on me for the Slim Jims I have snapped.
One of two albums of theirs that clocks in at over 30 minutes, and you know what they say: if a Circle Jerks record lasts longer than a half hour, consult a physician immediately. Though it’s got some fun stuff going on at various points – the Seven Dwarfs-esque whistling on the hook of the title track, and that magnificent country-fried guitar solo on “Mrs. Jones” come to mind – it just isn’t up to the snotty, rabid standard we know these fellas are capable of. At the end of the day, Wönderful is a tad ünderwhelming.
Known as the only major label release from our boys, we’re going to dub this “not the worst” due to the sheer experimentation. After almost a decade of not recording, these fellows could have gone full dad-reunion mode and gone through the motions, but hell, they let Zander Schloss play the sitar on this thing, so who are we to rank it last? They’re throwing everything against the wall, and some of it even sticks (this is the Circle Jerks we’re talking about here, so those walls are pretty sticky to begin with.)
A considerable step up from Wönderful, VI may slow the tempos a tad, but it certainly doesn’t ease up on the energy! A lot of the time, they sound akin to a stimulant-affected Psychedelic Furs, which is pretty cool. The kickoff track “Beat Me Senseless” toggles a “Crazy Train”-like riff into something undeniably sick. Also, they keep their penchant for revving up ‘60s classics alive by snarling through a rendition of “Fortunate Son” that rips pretty hard.
Wild in the Streets doesn’t quite reach the inept catharsis of their debut, but it’s lightyears away from anything approaching a sophomore slump. Tiptoeing deftly across the tightrope strung up over a pit full of “same ol’, same ol’,” Wild in the Streets deserves to be firmly in the top three. Hetson’s guitar work is especially in the spotlight here, elevating songs like “Leave Me Alone” and their cover of “Just Like Me” to total essentials.
The type of album you have to yell “Fire in the hole!” before putting on, so the folks in your general vicinity are aware of what’s about to happen. The Circle Jerks’ debut is brash, bratty and beguilingly brief. It even gives us a “Beverly Hills” song that we actually want to listen to (Sorry, Rivers Cuomo.) Cementing their juvenile sense of humor and flagrant disregard for anything requiring an attention span, “Group Sex” plants the flag for SoCal hardcore…just don’t expect any flowers to grow anywhere near it. Too much beer and urine in that soil.
Speaking of the yellow stuff…Here we have the culmination of everything the Circle Jerks are all about. Blistering chainsaw riffs, croaked-throat vocals from Keith Morris in his prime, and a hefty dose of toilet jokes. From the door-kicking-down “In Your Eyes” to the tongue-in-cheek closing medley of soft-rock radio hits, and everything crammed in between, there’s a reason it’s not called “Silver or Bronze Shower of Hits”…this one takes the gold.
Sophomore albums are always difficult to pull off. Joyce Manor could’ve been the exception to that rule had our fact-checkers not reminded us that “Never Hungover Again” was actually their third album. We didn’t forget about this one entirely — it’s just hard to remember that this is a canonical Joyce Manor album and not just a 13-minute compilation of promising demos. For what it’s worth, there are some great tracks here. They just don’t feel like they’re part of anything bigger than themselves. Even Napalm Death songs make better use of their brief runtimes.
Now this is a great compilation of promising demos. Featuring rough drafts of fan favorites like “Constant Nothing” and “Leather Jacket” alongside fast-paced punk tracks that would have felt out of place on a proper studio album, it’s an insightful look into the band’s early years. Every track radiates charmingly chaotic energy, from frenetic acoustic opener “House Warning Party” to the freshly remastered “Constant Nothing” EP songs that close this out. Most importantly, it reminds fans that Joyce Manor formed in Torrance, California, so you can gently correct anyone who calls them midwest emo.
This is still a good album — a fun album, even — but something holds it back from being a great Joyce Manor album. Maybe it’s the missed opportunity of naming the title track after a Travis Barker quote, knowing damn well your band needs a drummer, and nevertheless getting somebody else for the job. Or maybe the band held back on punkier tracks due to their stance against stage diving. Whatever the deal is, it’s decent enough to replay with a drink or two.
Clocking in at 24 minutes, this is Joyce Manor’s most bloated release to date. Who do these guys think they are? Sleep? It’s technically even longer considering how many times you have to pause tracks when your friends can’t hear the gentle production over your pathetic cries. Luckily, saccharine-sweet melodies and gentle acoustic performances justify every second of this album’s length. Just don’t expect the mellower sound to distract you from your own existential dread.
Opening your first album in four years with two covers is a risky move, but it pays off here thanks to Joyce Manor’s renditions of O.M.D. classic “Souvenir” and obscure Joyce Manor single “NBTSA.” The original material is just as exciting thanks to the anthemic choruses and rapid pacing reminiscent of the band’s first three records. Each track makes the most of its brief runtime with euphoric production and joyful energy. Joyce Manor is back and they still haven’t made a bad song.
This is Joyce Manor’s greatest hits album. It’s not a compilation, but almost all of their most essential songs are here. Play the CD in your car for a friend and they’ll become a fan within 20 minutes. If you’re lucky enough to get stuck in traffic, move on to the other albums and roll the windows down. Or just play this for the whole ride and pretend you’re in a coming-of-age indie film. Either way, you can never go wrong with “Falling In Love Again” or “Catalina Fight Song,” even if you scream the wrong lyrics.
The band’s self-titled debut is an emo masterpiece. It would’ve been a solid legacy on its own had they pulled an Operation Ivy and dipped after one album, but we’re lucky enough to live in a society where Joyce Manor continues blessing everyone with new music every few years — good music, even! That being said, Barry Johnson’s raw vocals and heartwrenching narratives still make this album a cut above the rest. A good debut feels like the beginning of something great. Joyce Manor skipped straight to legendary territory.