Guaranteed Ugly - The Ugly Ones

(Sympathy For The Record Industry, 1995)

The Guaranteed Ugly – featuring Natty “Mr. Ugly” Brooker – is the most obscure and least likely of all Spacemen 3 spinoffs, a garage-stomp nastyparty that careens in a way that few English “rock” bands are able to manage, enamored with posturing over sound as our Brit-buddies typically are. Cuz instead of focusing on haircuts and press, the Guaranteed Ugly is all shouty, anonymous, fuzzfuck in-the-red-isms that manage to sound effortlessly and legitimately like mid-’60s USA teen freakout, minus any cheap winks and condescension. Amazing throat-shred vocals, hot guitars, pounding toms, crackling organ, brief runtimes, Billy Childish production… it’s all here, DUM as you want it to be and FUN as it needs to be. Perfect shitpop. Tastemakers should push these guys HARD and gain ’em the attention they deserve, a decade after the fact or not. And note ye well that A-side “The Ugly Ones” is far dirtier and screwed on this 7” than it is on the otherwise crackin’ It’s an Ugly! Ugly! World CD. Blown OUT! Yum – hotcha!

So anyway.

Yeah. Today I am sick. I slept on a friend’s couch last night, and I suspect that his cat, Charlie, trod upon my prone being as I snoozed, shedding his fur all over me. So I’ve spent the morning and afternoon sneezing, coughing, and rubbing my swollen eyes, experiencing ever-increasing discomfort in all of my face-holes. Why can’t all cats simply devote themselves to hilarity the way Garfield has?? Seriously, guys: Cut it out with the allergen nonsense and focus instead on joking about your species-wide hatred of Mondays. And lasagna? Hey, I love it too! There’s a compromise to be had, maybe.

Child Molesters - Surfing With The Child Molesters

(Sympathy For The Record Industry, 1994)

Awright, here’s one I’m not too crazy about. “Pray For Surf” is a twangy midtempo surf number laced with mildly dirty double entendres (spoken not sung) that fail to bust any guts on the strength of delivery or wit. It’s a snoozer, a groaner. Why the label decided to pluck this weakling from the so-so Legendary Brown Album LP – a record whose recording date, like that of this single, is unclear – and release it as a 7” is a mystery for the ages… thing just doesn’t do right by the Child Molester legacy. Nor does the exclusive cover of “Muscle Beach Party” on the B; while it’s entertaining to hear the band take on those high backing vocals, the recording is respectful enough of the saccharine original to effectively reduce the group to a bunch of competent hacks fronted by a guy who sings in a funny voice. None of the confrontational verve or expectations-trashing musical creativity of which the Child Molesters were quite capable is in evidence on “Surfing With,” and it’s fair to wonder if this is the sound of the barrel being scraped. Skip ’er.

Child Molesters - So Fucked Up

(Sympathy For The Record Industry, 1989)

SFTRI blesses us with a blue-vinyl double-set of four (count ’em) hotfuzz Child Molester recordings from 1978, plus a chained nudie on the cover as an extra bonus. It’s extreme anti-social goofing across the board on danceable punk-bop hits like “I’m So (Fucked Up)” and “13 is My Lucky Number,” the latter probably taking the crown for being r-n-r’s all-time catchiest and least-subtle ode to statutory get-down. Disc two was actually released as the second CM single in 1979, and despite its lyrical focus on violence (songs: “I’m Gonna Punch You (in the Face)” and “(I Wanna See Some) Wholesale Murder”), there’s surprisingly less musical muscle here – especially on “Punch” – as the lyrics and melodies carry the songs to a greater extent than usual; heavy rhythms and weird guitar queasiness aren’t lugging the load they normally do. The songwriting is thumbs-up strong, though, so don’t fret (& the solos are nice). All four sides are crazed, hooky, distorted, funny, and inappropriate, just as they should be… The aim is to shock and piss off, but these swastika-wearing perverts make music that’s just too doggone lovably entertaining to cold-shoulder, like a rougher, artier Ramones that couldn’t care less about the charts. Won’t you invite this record into your home today, and set a place of honor for it at your ear-table? Please?