RELEASES
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Joachim Kearns - Guitar, Bass, Singing, Sarod
Avik Goswami - Tabla
Sougata - Drums and Percussion
Diptangshu "Zubin" Chakrabarty - Lap Steel, Keys, Accordion and Synth
Brad Swiniarksi - Organ, Synth, Guitar, Zither, Singing
Recorded by Tirthankar Ray at Blue Monk Studios, Kolkata, India, and by Joachim in his sitting room at 16 Southern Avenue, Kolkata. Additional recording by Brad Swiniarski in Athens, OH. Mixed and mastered by Kris Poulin at Go-Home Studios, San Diego, CA.
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Some lyrics belong solely to the person who wrote them. They're non-transferrable. They belong to that one writer and are theirs alone. So when Jason Frederick nonchalantly hits us with "love oughta feel like getting caught in a lie," in the opening to "Perfect", on Love Story In Blood Red (s/t debut), it's immediately clear we're not in for the standard highs and lows of love songs immemorial. Instead, he's giving us a kind of warning. As if to say, what's coming next may not be pretty, but it's certainly from the heart; something that is Jason's, and his alone.
Over the course of LSIBR's ouvre, Jason's songwriting feels continuously free from inhibition, as though the thought that someone might someday hear these songs barely occurred to him. The songs are about obsession, love, adoration, lust, devotion, kink, stubbornness, loss, and jealousy, among other things, but they don't necessarily carry any great universality. We don't need to see ourselves in them in order to inhabit them, and if we do wind up relating in some way it feels almost superfluous. There's so much of Jason in the songs that there's no need to see or feel for anything else.
LSIBR probably wouldn't have existed if not for a young Chicago-based filmmaker named Maria, Jason's girlfriend at the time and now wife of 20 years. Much of the first batch of songs exist solely for her. The fact that Jason let the rest of us hear them is probably only owing to the idea that making them public would heighten their impact on his true intended audience of one. They're the kind of songs that muses the world over wish had been written for them, but they're not mere vessels of longing or devotion. They travel from dirty and crass, to comic and playful, to frustrated and bewildered, and lots of other places in between, becoming all the more intimate each step of the way.
At the time, this turn toward writing songs for Maria marked an unexpected departure for Jason, who was known mostly in music circles as the frontman for the Spiveys and The Means, both blistering, amazing, super aggro bands, but not exactly purveyors of love songs. Everyone knew he could scream with the best of them, but we had yet to learn that he could croon too. Listening to LSIBR again, however, it's more clear now that the brashness and depravity of Jason's earlier bands also found its way into the often quieter, more pop world of LSIBR in subtle, yet very important ways, adding depth where other bands would've quickly bottomed out on hooks or charm alone. In other words, LSIBR had bite, and lots of it. And as time went on, the focus of Jason's writing expanded to include things outside his world with Maria, but the creative bar for the band could always be traced back to that first handful of songs.
LSIBR played their first show on April 5, 2004 at the Empty Bottle in Chicago, and their last show on May 3, 2008 at The Royal Oaks in Youngstown, Ohio. In between they released three cherished albums, as well as a handful of live recordings and singles. It would be unforgivable to focus solely on Jason, even though he was certainly LSIBR's creative leader. There were many contributors over the band's four year span, but the core group of Nick Meiers on bass, Jim Duffy on drums, Kris Poulin on guitar, and Casey Meehan on organ, was hugely responsible for bringing the songs to life. Each left their unique mark on LSIBR's distinctive feel and arrangements, and each knew just when to let loose and breathe a little fire. It should also be noted that in addition to his guitar work, Kris Poulin's mastery as producer of the three studio albums is as much a work of art as the songs or performances themselves.
Anything else I could say about Love Story In Blood Red would be better said by the songs themselves, so I'll leave it here.
To the uninitiated, welcome. You're in for a treat.
- Joachim Kearns
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Ohio is in the Midwest, but it’s also pulled to the east coast (Cleveland) and to Appalachia (Cincinnati). Growing up in the Columbus area therefore means you’re living in a bit of a schizophrenic place. Ugly Stick is reckless, yearning and pounding but it’s not mindless.
A lot of the late ‘80s indie/alt rock was connected to garage and punk music. But it had its raunch and its power pop too. Ugly Stick came from all that, instead of adding the extra element of wanting to be heavy metal, these guys held firmly to rock-a-billy music. That in turn leads the ear to a country sound. And so we find ourselves back at the “cow-punk” label. Whether you like labeling bands or not, we have a country sound in this album. Sometimes it is bending out of a guitar solo intentionally and other times we hear a country twist in the vocals that are seemingly not intentional at all. It’s just them being themselves, which is what makes this band great. There is a sort of double catharsis to this music. So much of this is tales from their lives, things connected to what was happening to them. The step of writing the initial song must’ve served as one form of catharsis. I believe you can even hear that here. So many bands lose that feel when they go to record. But in this case, we get almost a live feeling. I hear a group of friends going through a second catharsis as they slam into fleshing the track out and putting it down.
Over and over we hear the group enthusiasm is what propels this music. Every instrument is jumping in to do its part not waiting to be led by one member or one element. With the vocals we get a range of emotions. No, there is not a soft ballad, but who needs that when you can have various extremes and when you can have genuine laughter? The combined energy and the group dynamic come out in that communal laughter, just like it does in the playing. At times you have tempos that pull at each other. Just like how you have individual members’ styles pulling at each other. One might lean toward X while one leans toward Chuck Berry and suddenly a moment later the Kinks are toying with Husker Du. This makes for tension. This makes for complexity. This makes excellent rock and roll.
-Andrew Hunter
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Frankie Traandruppel (Frankie Teardrop in Flemish) has been a major contributor in the Belgian underground scene and is now presenting his sophomore album ‘Translation Is Key’. 2 mini-LP’s (“Tact” and “Schizo-Disco”) combined as one full album. Intimate lo-fi pop/folk songs with a high level of authenticity direly needed in these times in which AI and conformity seem to be the norm. Enter the deeply personal world of Frankie’s psyche and let it guide you into a more connected society.
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Box of Wine is a collection of curated selections that are so sexy you might need protection. Yes indeed, a fine listening experience for your Mom on Mother's Day while tripping at the Carson County Speedway.
Don’t be a fool - you will be Forever Swimming through some hammy harmonica riffs while eating Donuts at Dawn when the bass from the kick drum hits. Get your friends and family to join you for 3 BBQ Nights and gulp down a Box of Wine when the time is right, which is always. But don’t bother inviting Will Moss, he’s too busy being dead.
Maybe you should relax and chill or, better yet, rule the night with your Zombie Lover for an apocalyptic thrill. Listen up as The Bastard Son of The Grateful Dead yells Me Me Me with no rock & roll distortion, sitting on the john in your bathroom having a Donut Abortion.
These songs are smoking so many cigarettes your speakers may need a Nicotine Patch, and look you got No Balls At All… so there’s no catch. Although this Jason Drenik guy is no Romeo, he’s smart enough for a Temp Job and he’s the type of guy you could get Together to Pass The Stone and listen to Box of Wine again when you get home. You Get The Gun if someone tries to disturb your groove. But instead of bullets, hit them with Spoons and Moons. Hit me up.
Tyquion Fisher
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I met Zach Fuller in 2003, just a slight, grinning coyote of a lad, washing dishes behind the counter of the Union when they still served food. After a chili dog, I watched local legends We March launch into their set with a vacant mic set up like a tribute to a fallen friend. Then Zach barreled through the door, his shift over, stripped off his cook’s whites mid-stride, and hit the stage a full-on howling hyena. I have loved him without pause since that moment. But then hardcore singers and addicts are easy to love from a distance.
20 years later, a Weird Science CD showed up in my mailbox. I threw it in the stereo of my ’95 Jeep Cherokee with no expectations. It’s still in there. I can’t believe how fucking good it is.
“You’re Gonna Miss the Long Days” is like massive glistening black rat snake hanging out in the tall grass, neither evil nor benign, just something your mind latches onto and won’t let go. The out of time organ tremolo worms its way under your skin. The guitars shiver like they’re still drying out, still coming down. The songs are at turns sinister, comforting, menacing, alarming, welcoming, and eerie. They keep breaking my heart in the most rewarding way. Sometimes, the only thing tethering you to this world is crappy CVS milk chocolate and the cold comfort it provides.
The record sounds like the humid quagmire of an Appalachian college town hollowed out in August, hippies and burnouts and rednecks and dropouts and punks and queers and drifters and hangers-on slowly consuming themselves and each other out of boredom, dread, and anxiety. It feels a little like discovering a pristine old Choose Your Adventure book in the waterlogged basement of a shattered, abandoned house and making the decision to just sit down and give it a read. The possibilities yawn open.
There’s something tremulous in Zach’s voice that’s incredibly compelling. No, he was never some golden-piped preacher’s son and the years of screaming at drunks in bars have hardly sweetened it. It’s the sound of someone trying, or maybe just trying to try. It’s the sound of an old friend who has survived a profoundly lonely journey. It’s the sound of damage, weakness, vulnerability, the ravages of addiction, but also resilience: after all that, I’m still here.
- Mishka Shubaly
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Nobody ever wanted to go on after We March. Minds and ears toasted, it would be like playing to a lobotomy ward. I always came out the other side of a We March show drenched in sweat and bruised below the knees, where the stage at The Union would cap me as I headbanged so hard I probably gave myself CTE. After moving to the city, I remember eavesdropping on a local band that was playing a show with them. They were arguing about the lineup order. One of them wanted to play last, and in an instant someone jumped in to save themselves the embarrassment: “You don’t wanna play after We March.” Even the big bad city kids were afraid to go on after Athens’ crown jewel. And really, how could you expect to outdo them? We March had a mean, misanthropic sound that combined LA punk and DC hardcore with what I swear was a vein of Lynyrd Skynyrd running through the middle. Their wildman lead singer spent as much time in the crowd and hanging from the ceiling (or that weird vertical support beam in the middle of The Union) as he was on stage. I’ve seen a lot of confrontational fake-Iggys in my life, but this man was different — maybe because it didn’t feel put-on or pretentious, but joyful. Even as a small guy, he was intimidating, but also funny: I saw the band play at a record shop and while it ripped through its set, he sang and shopped, purchasing a couple of LPs by the end of the song.
The rest of the band was scarier: a guitarist with IDIOT burned into his arm and scabbed over. A bass player sneaking away from his pizza job to make the set, looking like a demented butcher in his dirty apron and probably returning to flip dough with some blood mixed in with the sauce. A charismatic drummer just murdering his silver kit. That’s my classic lineup, but there were many and they all had their charms.
One of my favorite We March legends, which unfortunately I was not around to experience firsthand so it could very well be apocryphal, came from a show they played to a rough and rowdy crowd at Skatopia. With skaters running riot all around them, the boys flew through their set with appropriate abandon. After their last song, the crowd pleaded for an encore. Well, “pleaded” might not be the right word — demanded is probably more accurate. But We March didn’t have any other songs, and the mood in the crowd was curdling. This would get ugly sooner than later. So they improvised, and simply played their set again. The band so nice you had to hear ‘em twice.
I’ve been kicked, pushed, punched, spit on, and other piss-related shit I won’t go into at We March shows. I’ve probably even cried. Their albums were on repeat in my car for years. I still love them — the tunes and the dudes. I found bliss in the energy bomb released during We March sets. Listening to this album, I know it won’t be long before you find yourself dangling upside down from the ceiling too, screaming with glee and not quite sure how you got there...
- Mark Karges
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2004 was a heady time in Athens. The first iPhone was still three years away. City infrastructure was such that Napster access fully depended on the weather, which generally wasn’t great most of the time. And drugs were cheap, if my addled memory is to be trusted. Athens was still a place, tucked all by itself into the Southeastern Ohio hills, where the doors-at-9-show-starts-whenever social circle relied on the record collection, with many a twelve pack fueled argument about said collection, to gauge worth.
And what a record collection these guys had. The charging rhythms of MC5-era Detroit, the ripping harmonic alchemy of every Thin Lizzy period, a filthy punk thrust that was inherently Athens, and whatever you’d call the swarthy magic Johnny himself conjured out of the damp, smoky air. The roar of a Makebelieves show all but guaranteed you’d be worthless at work the next day, shaky from bomb shots with a brain blanket full of exquisite ringing.
There’s a reason people flock back to Athens when these guys pull their shit back together. Nostalgia plays a role in that, to be fair, as anyone in Athens while the Makebelieves were an active band were certain to be living a pre-real job existence, partaking in all that Lou’s often lawless Union had to offer. More than that, though, these are simply good goddamn songs. The confluence of such blistering, raw Rock & Roll dirtbags like these doesn’t occur very often. Twenty years later, these fellas still manage to hold you in their sweaty palms, most certainly with some kind of smell you can feel.
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Cheap beer. Cheap rent. Indian mounds. On a muggy summer night in 2001, Guinea Worms descended into the basement of 2338 Adams Avenue with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a carton of Winston Lights, and a framed photo of George Jones. A few months later they emerged, hungover but otherwise unscathed, and presented the world with Duct Tape You.
The people who made music in Columbus, Ohio at the turn of the millennium were bartenders, graduate students, record store clerks, performance artists, and gas station attendants. Practice spaces were abundant and affordable. Musical influences came from used LPs found at thrift stores and record shops along High Street. Bands played nightly in dive bars, art galleries, and backyards. Hard-core drinkers went to places like Walt’s Lounge, where the jukebox was packed with country 45’s and a $10 bill could buy a head-splitting hangover. Last call was 2 a.m., but there was always an after party.
Within this “scene,” Guinea Worms members Will Foster (guitar, vocals, keyboards), Bill Wagner (guitar), Angela Dancey (bass, vocals), and Jenny Mullin (drums) played and recorded music that defied description. Experimental country? Post-punk pop rock with (occasional) synthesizers? High lonesome heavy metal?
Twenty-two years later, Duct Tape You still refuses to be categorized. Bouncing rocker “Nothin’ to Say” suggests that you turn up the volume of your dance, but not so loud that the neighbors call the cops. The whispered vocals and fuzzed-out bass in “Till You Hear Me” recreate the feeling of staying up too late reading 1980s horror novels and drinking Royal Crown Cola. The woozy ballad “Jenny Jones” uses aching reverb and Bill’s soaring guitar solos to make a country-fried plea to heal the singer’s hangover. The interstate hit “Hello from Ohio” is a scribbled pop-punk postcard from the Heart of It All. Hello! Hello! Children of all ages love to pump their fists to “Spring Rage,” a galloping ditty which may or may not be about the aftermath of a bitchin’ frat party.
Duct tape me? Duct Tape You! - Hester Fangs
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I first saw Jason Drenik play music at a gallery/boutique in Echo Park around the summer of 2000. He was calling himself ‘Roll with Jason’ at the time and was the opening act for a new wave two-piece group that most everyone had come to see (I can’t remember their name). Jason brought a “stand-up comedian” with him to do a quick five minute set. The guy totally bombed with lame off-color jokes and poor delivery which pretty much confused and annoyed the crowd. By the time Jason took over there was a weird, awkward energy in the air and I remember thinking, what the hell is up with this dude? For the next twenty minutes he ripped the place, barreling through songs like I’m So Angry, Hoboken Joe, and Jack’s Bar with a sarcastic growl and reckless indifference. There was even an attempt at a Grateful Dead song (couldn’t tell you which one) where he forgot the words and ended it with a clank and apology, something like, “Sorry about that, I liked it” (smattering of applause). After the show he was selling homemade cassettes for “two dollars or free” and I got one, along with his phone number. We pretended we would start a band together off and on for the next few months but it was not meant to be. I think both of us had more fun talking about it than actually trying to make it happen for real.
I never saw Jason’s Ohio band (Hairy Patt) but their CD was on the jukebox at a coffee shop I frequented (courtesy of his girlfriend who worked there) and it got the occasional play. It was mostly noisy and sardonic with plenty of banging and clanging but I remember the last song being quiet and haunting, barely a whisper. I really liked that one, it seemed oddly out of place but perfectly placed at the same time. I saw him play again about a year later at some bar in the Valley, I think it was called the Blue Saloon. The crowd was talking so loudly over the music I could barely hear, but there was one guy at the side of the small stage who yelled, “Pizza subs!” and I knew he was waiting to take a trip to Jack’s Bar with me. There was something about the song that made me smile. After the show I said hello and Jason gave me a CD called Rock Star Party. It was hilarious. I remember listening to it later that night and thinking, why the hell is OJ Simpson in this song before settling on, why the hell not?
Flash forward about ten years and I get an email from Jason out the blue. He moved out of town and we fell out of touch but he had some new songs to share. His brother sent him an older 8-track recorder with effects and it was a “hit machine” he said. There were some MP3s attached and he asked me to listen, if I had time of course. I listened alright and there it was again, that sarcastic growl and reckless indifference, only this time a little older and more cracked. Parade of drugs was the first one, followed by Hand in Hand, and then the warbling, low fidelity wall of sound in Soufflé. The songs sounded like Vic Chesnutt meets Frank Zappa with a little bit of a Zoogz Rift thrown in. There was a casual flow and looseness to them I really liked and the electronic bits were cool. The lyrics were still bent but maybe a bit darker, more forlorn. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or both and that was the best part of it all.
Flash forward again to about a week ago and I get another email from Jason. It starts out, “Hey, long time no talk…” and now he tells me that a label is putting out some of his old material and is asking for a blurb - do I have time to put something together? Maybe share some history? Remember the gig in Echo Park? Well, I sure do and…here it is, the blurbiest blurb I could come up with. What else is there to say? Run don’t walk to get this record, you won’t regret it. Be the few, the proud, the uhhh… - Chris Thompson
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The Boneheads, who were part of the 70s Philadelphia punk/new wave scene, along with the Sic Kidz, Stickmen, Warm Jets, Autistics, King of Siam, Pure Hell, and others. They played regularly at the Hot Club in Philly, and New York; including CBGBs, Max's Kansas City and Tier 3. They opened shows for Richard Hell and the Voidoids, B-52's, Wreckless Eric, The Lurkers, Mission of Burma, Nico, The Feelies, Madness, Necessaries (Chris Spedding), and others. In the summer of 1979, the band entered Starr Recording Studio in Philadelphia, and recorded 4 songs; ‘New Jersey‘, ‘Surfing UFO‘, ‘Adam & Eve‘ and ‘Yesterday‘. Unfortunately, the masters were lost and the tracks never released. Luckily, a cassette of the original recordings was recently discovered. The Boneheads disbanded shortly after morphing into the prolific Philly band, Bunnydrums.
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I discovered the music of Mike Elliott in the early 2000s obsessing over his numerous lo-fi folk records, which would oscillate between surreal and homegrown sounds. While I loved those records, I also imagined the possibilities of Mike going into a proper studio with a band. I suspect Mike got curious too. Supernobody’s Checkered Pastures sounds like a band discovering a whole new artistic landscape to explore for years to come. I’m reminded of Jason Molina turning from his solo work toward Magnolia Electric Co. or Neil Young working with Crazy Horse. Not only did Mike’s instincts prove fruitful, but he also employed some of the best players in Athens, Ohio. Their combined personalities coalesce on Checkered Pastures in a sort of big-bang event that’s propelled them to make many more records. There’s always something beautiful about hearing the magic when it started, and Checkered Pastures is a perfect example.
Adam Remnant - of Southeast Engine and Adam Remnant
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When it comes to the world of music, whatever the genre or tradition - bluegrass, funk, jazz, rock - Dayton, Ohio has always been a place that punches well above its weight. And among those packing their share of that punch was Robthebank, a band of musical veterans whose arrival upon the Dayton rock scene marked a kind of culmination of much of what was happening in our music-drenched city throughout the 90’s.
The band was very much a product of the kind of creativity going on among the Dayton scene at the time, which was (and remains to this day) a notably cooperative and collaborative affair. It was not uncommon for people to be playing in multiple bands, and/or to be helping other neighboring artists and musicians promote their events and their work, etc. Robthebank was no different in that regard, with Nate doing double duty in Guided By Voices, as well as the band contributing to the fundraising efforts to help the ailing and beloved fellow Daytonian musician Gregg Spence.
For unlike some scenes, Dayton’s was animated by a more domestically cooperative spirit, reserving much of its competitive energy for outside the friendly confines of the Gem City. “Fuck Y’all, We’re From Dayton,” as the brashly tongue-in-cheek, but still a little bit actually meant slogan emblazoned on the first Brainiac t-shirts declared.
And you could feel that brash confidence, along with its share of self-effacing humor, every time Robthebank took the stage and cranked the rock up to 11. You knew this was no ordinary rock band as soon as singer Heather Newkirk would grab hold of the microphone and unleash, as her performances in RTB (as well as with her later outfit Shesus) were a thing of unbridled rock and roll power and beauty.
Now, decades later, as we’re in a future where Robthebank is history, and it feels increasingly like we’re starting to reach the end of, if not time, the end of..something - may our opportunity to once again re-amplify this music energize and inspire us into a new future, to make new history that we’ll one day want to revisit as well.
—Andy Valeri, Big Beef Productions
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Don’t ask me about details. The late nineties remain cloudy at best. The bar (Bernie’s) was between my job (a pizza joint) and my apartment (above another - thankfully quieter - bar); most days I left work around five-ish and got sidetracked into subterranea until two or three. Sometimes six. The bassplayer in “my” band was dating the bassplayer of some other bands. He had a new one. "We should go." So there we went. Of course. Black Labels in hand, Jim Beam burnin’ cold under our chestbones. Breastbones. Whatever. Front o' the six-inch-high “stage”. No expectations. Then it hit. Dual/dueling Gibsons, dual/dueling Marshalls. Like a fucken train or some horseshit, but this time it ain’t. (Horseshit, that is. My brain's pummeled like a pinball just from the memory of it. A better vocab is outta reach.) Their songs lurched around, in and outta sync with their swaying singer. Man the bands in this town have always been good but this was somethin’ else. People just didn't bother like this anymore, ‘cept in between the grooves of some dollarland seventies wax. But even that was hardly ever like this. Sinister bordering on actually evil. Once, I took the fully-cranked headphones off while Jeremy was recording vocals and he was actually LOUDER out in the room. No amplification. Terrifying.
The riffs they dicked around with while they were tuning were better than your band. Rumors that they’d climbed outta the sludge left moldering after a band called Porn On The Cob (fer chrissakes) kicked the holey bucket could not be corroborated. They had this song “Bridgewater” that fucken leveled entire blocks but they’d feign ignorance when anybody wanted ‘em to play it, then do “Am I Evil?” instead. A goddam cover of a cover. Ridiculous. But how couldja be mad? All the normal rules didn’t fucken apply. The level they were operating at made even The Godz - who are rock and roll machines, lest ye forget - look like little plastic wind-up toys.
People talk (and talk, and talk) about great “rock‘n’roll” but they’re just playin’' a reprehensible little game of suck-off-the-aging-and-or-dead-popstar under a nigh-on meaningless banner that crumbled into a rancid pile decades prior. And capital-R Rock itself was just the loud, slow blues. Who the fuck needs that? Bob City didn’t play the goddam blues. Their depravity didn’t hafta have a punchline. Hell, I don’t need to tell you that. No one buyin’ this record is new to this shit. That said - and all so brutally beside-the-point questions of “authenticity” aside - this is the REAL GOD-DAMNED DEAL. And we badly need this little document to remind us that it can be done. Maybe it ain’t easy, it sure don’t happen too often, maybe it dusts past most of us on its way to give fading away the finger, first time around. But indeed the sweet, sticky, spoiled-beer stench of basement barrooms belches out indescribable genius every great once in a while, kids. Revel in it, while ya still can.
-Nick Action, for Creem Magazine
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“Alright! All the way from Columbus, Ohio - Deny, Disrupt, Destroy, The Means!”
I was a friend and I was there for a lot of it. I was there when The Means played Cherry Blossom Clinic and delivered a furious set that made good on the giddy anticipation intimated in Terre T’s band-scripted intro. We’d all heard the soundcheck and a rush of excitement was abound before a single note went out over the air. I’m sure for Terre this was the whole reason to have your very own punk show on WFMU in the first place - with the hope that there’ll be days when a young band that nobody knows shows up and sets the place on fire. On this particularly unassuming Friday afternoon, all involved would have been more aptly surrounded by burned out cars and smashed windows than a cramped radio studio. The Means made music for bedlam that day, like so many other days before and after.
They were a family band; the husband (Brad Swiniarski- drums), the wife (Emily Allen - Bass), the brother (Dave Allen - Guitar), and the friend (Jason Frederick -Guitar/Vocals). Their beginnings went back to Athens, Ohio where Jason and Brad met during college and shared a lot of the kind of stuff that can make people close, like houses burning down and DUI’s. The Meanswere a tight knit bunch in every sense. There was a fifth Mean too, Kris Poulin, who thankfully recorded the three proper albums we are left with today. His love for the band and ability to get that love onto tape allowed them to make records of a caliber that similarly broke bands only dreamt, including a few I played in myself.
This record you’re holding now, some 20 years later, is heavy, heavy stuff. The Means were a vicious band, plain and simple, with a charmer of a frontman to guide them. Jason is the rare bird that can scream and croon in the same breath, and with all the psychic power of the band’s familial ESP creating nutso avant metal behind him, the result was table flipping anthem after table flipping anthem, without any of the off-putting bravado or self righteousness often imbued in similarly aggressive music. While not necessarily a band that defied categorization; if you like Sabbath, Jesus Lizard or The Melvins you would probably like The Means, these comparisons leave out too much to be fair. On top of their explosive energy, and probably a bit obscured by it at times, The Means were also great songwriters. It’s this aspect of their sound that I’m still most in awe of.
Today there’s only one way to share in a little bit of that riotous glee burned into my mind from that Fall afternoon at WFMU so long ago, and that’s to put on this record and play it loud as fuck. Damn I miss this band.
—Joachim Kearns
That guy from that band you’ve probably never heard that might even be on this record label
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BKO’s (Bradman Kerner Overdrive) debut, Awesome City Limits, was recorded in a Holiday Inn hotel room in Missoula, Montana over several days in late November of 2004. The making of the album was an unforeseen creative high point in an otherwise bleak Fall of touring by Brad Swinairski and Joachim Kearns as supporting players in the Brooklyn-based indie rock outfit, The Natural History. The songs herein embody a self-proclaimed “long reflective wheeze” in the annals of American folk music. To quote Kearns, Awesome City Limits marks “an attempt at self-preservation in the face of the daily absurdity of traveling from state to state in search of ever elusive validation from an unimpressed public and bandmates alike.”
With little more than a couple of guitars and the inspired harmonies of true camaraderie, Awesome City Limits is a journey through the American landscape of the early aughts from a dirty van window on a road to nowhere. These are the musings of a life spent eating cold soup out of a can, playing hours of flip-phone bowling, stuffing pockets with gas station condiments, and cooking rice and beans in an electric frying pan in club parking lots. The tragic resignation heard in songs like “Another day, Another Dollar” and “Hard and Mean” is the result of too little money and too much time.
Long celebrated by a handful of devoted admirers who were lucky enough to get their hands on one of the original cdr's, this new vinyl edition promises to give Awesome City Limits a long overdue introduction to a new audience. Simply put, this overlooked gem of a record is food for the soul, or maybe better yet, our daily bread. As Swiniarki put it in his timeless lyric, “bread is meat when you have no cheese,” eighteen years later we can finally rejoice that it's chow time; bread, meat, and cheese.
Brad Swiniarski - Vocals, Guitar, Bass, Suitcase, Organ
Joachim Kearns - Vocals, Guitar
Recorded on cassette 4 track and digital 8 track. All songs written by Brad, except for, Young Life, and, A Good Run, written by Joachim
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The 1990's were a bit of a heyday for the Columbus music scene. Various outlets considered it one of the top underground music cities in the USA - if not the world. It was often on those "Next Seattle" lists. At the same time Columbus was embracing the initially belittling and inaccurate moniker of "Cowtown." I mean, I'm pretty sure there are more cows (and less rain) in Seattle than in Columbus. Oh, and let's face it, the next Seattle was the Internet.
One of the bands in the middle of that Cowtown scene - yet maybe also an outlier - was the Hairy Patt Band. A seedy Cincinnati transplant made up of Jason Drenik (acoustic guitar, vocals) and Joe Patt (percussion, vocals), Hairy Patt played a version of folk for the back alley, red light district stoner punk. An acoustic 2-piece amid the largely 4-piece electric guitar, bass and drum driven bands of the day was just part of Hairy Patt's "fuck convention" attitude, charm and curiosity.
Keep in mind, Jason's "acoustic" guitar was amplified and overdriven, mutating simple folk to anything from a twangy buzz to full-on Crazy Horse dissonance and noise. The caveman percussion included gospel hand claps, hoedown stomps, metallic kitchen clankers and whatever Joe felt like banging on. The vocals and lyrics channelled a nasty Tom Waits, a pissed off Arlo Guthrie, and the drunken pervert next to you at the bar. With all that maybe it's not so surprising that many a Hairy Patt live show climaxed multiple times on the verge of pure chaos. This from a single acoustic guitarist and a single drummer?!
While seeing the Hairy Patt Band live hasn't been possible in about 25 years, the duo's last full-length is getting the 'ol remix, reissue bonus track treatment. "The Hairy Patt Band Music" album was originally released on CD in 1997 on Burnt Sienna Records. Unfortunately, the band broke up just a few weeks after its release.
The vinyl-only reissue is backed by Justin Tesa (of Bob City) and GTRR. All tracks have been remixed by "Red Hot" Scotty Waters of Red Hour Recordings. It will also include the bonus track "Split Personality".
Jason Drenik - Vocals, Guitar
Joe Patt - Vocals, Drums
Engineered & recorded by “Red Hot” Scott Waters at the Recording Workshop in Chillicothe, Ohio. Kris Poulin Mastered for vinyl.
Photos by Lee Ann McGuire & Chris Lockhart (insert) Drawing by Kime Busselli (insert)
Originally released in 1997 on Burnt Sienna Records
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White, Pink, Green & Yellow paper covers available
Fun Time Objects emerged from a project started by Famous Logs in History’s bass player Ben Mancell with the sole purpose of releasing a set of 2 minute songs on his label Fuzzy Warbles Cassettes. He recruited his brother Josh who resides in LA to play drums and FLIH’s guitarist Clare and drummer Linda to provide a dual vocal attack. This culminated in a 10 song C30 cassette called “2 Minute Songs For 3 Minute Heroes” (FW07). The “band” played a one-off show performing the cassette in its entirety karaoke style with Clare and Linda singing and Ben on synth. Fast forward a year or so later Ben started playing with former bandmates Tom Dash (Imaginary Icons, Shop Fronts) and Hambone (Pepper Kings, Lone Wolves). They asked Clare to sing and play guitar. With Clare back on vocals FTO MKII was born. We are pleased to now offer this epic album on vinyl.
Fun Time Objects:
Clare Mckeen - Vox/guitar
Benzoil P - Bass
Hambone - Guitar
Tom Dash - Drums
Recorded & Mixed by Matt Vanec February 2020
Released: January 12, 2021
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SIDE 1:
Moving Objects, “I Wanna Be Your Man”
SIDE 2:
+Actor, “(When I Make My) Millions”
Moving Objects
Recorded by Joachim Kearns at OB2 in Brooklyn, NY
Mixed & mastered by Kris Poulin, special thanks to Jon Chinn
+Actor
Jason Frederick & Kris Poulin
Recorded & mixed in northeastern Ohio and Southern California
+Actor EP available on the world wide web
Released 11.09.19
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Side 1:
The Down-Fi, “You Won’t Like It”
Side 2:
Toeheads, “Jane Does #59”
The DOWN-FI
Craig Bell - bass/vocal
Samuel C Murphy - guitar
Blane Slaven - drums
Recorded 04.19.14 at Cavetone Studios, Charleston, IL,
in glorious Mono by Scott Walus.
TOEHEADS
Jake Toehead, Joey Toehead, & Derek Toehead
Recorded January 2020 at Animal House
Released 07.04.20
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SIDE 1:
Fun Time Objects, “Hey! Joey'“
SIDE 2:
Carlitos Güey, “Drive You Wyld”
NYC’s Fun Time Objects formed as a one-off project with the sole purpose of releasing a set of 2 minute punk songs. After the success of their 2 Minute Songs For 3 Minute Heroes release on Fuzzy Warbles Cassettes the band soldiered on. Their song “Hey! Joey” off their latest release C20/20 GO-GO! pays tribute to the last true saviors of Rock’N’Roll.
Fun Time Objects:
Clare Mckeen - Vox/guitar
Benzoil P - Bass
Hambone - Guitar
Tom Dash - Drums
Hand screen-printed covers and inserts by crownprintsnyc.com
Cover design by carterreddy.com
Recorded & Mixed by Matt Vanec February 2020
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Well, well, well, what do we have here? The Wellies, you say? As in an underground well from which an overflowing chalice of the holiest of holy water in all the kingdoms of rock may be drawn? A holy water flung in thy face to convince even the most ardent non believers that a higher calling awaits? A sublime state where guitar clad warriors soar to the stars on the pounding beats and hallowed screams of their ancestors? Yes, yes, yes, and yes! How long must we wait for such an ear splitting, face melting and bone crushing elixir? That my friends, depends on how long it takes you to drop the needle. For those who'd stop the rock, we refute you!
Ted Schenck- bass
Justin Tesa - vocals & guitar
Joachim Kearns - lead guitar
Ben McGuire - drums
Recorded by Ron Laakso at Mexican Summer Brooklyn NY, Sept 2015
Released 11.03.22
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Australia's, LANDLORDS, burst onto the scene with this sizzling 5 song debut 7” EP. Their self described "boy-style" rock and roll will have you dancing in no time.
Front cover and labels designed by LANDLORDS
Back cover designed by @crownprintsnyc
Released 10.11.21
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The weirdest three days of my life were spent on the road with Columbus, Ohio’s Them Wranch. In Morgantown, WV, I awoke and found a notched bullet left on the windowsill beside my groggy noggin’.
Danger: Check.
Confessional love letter left on the van: Check.
Side trip to Jerry’s Records in PA: Check.
Youngstown gig. WTF?! Check.
Rock ‘n’ roll: Check.
Back to Columbus.
As a college town, Columbus had a backsplash of loitering creative types—an existence enabled by inexpensive housing, cheap beer, world-class record stores with exploding dollar bins, and music venues—a canvas for creativity. Along High Street, you might find Them Wranch playing at local dives Bernie’s Bagels, the High 5, or Stache’s. Every town has a scene with band cliques and genres. Them Wranch never really fit into one of them specifically. You could dig them for what they weren’t as much as for what they were. Their songs are a witches’ brew of noise: psych, rock, garage stomp, R&B, and an occasional tinge of twang. You only have to look at the cover art for “Big Noise from East Maynard” to know that the band had a range of influences—but they didn’t act or sound derivative. Them Wranch escaped the standard “garage rock” classification that many bands were striving to claim and never took themselves too seriously. They put out music to have a good time.
In their five years before calling it quits, Them Wranch managed to squeeze in two US tours, including Southwest dates (SXSW) and West Coast tours, as well as some East Coast dates with The Country Teasers, including the Knitting Factory (NYC). These five years also saw the band release two full-length LPs and a handful of 45s. This here new waxy offering comes from Good Times Rock ‘N’ Roll Club as part of their Ohio Archive Series—and is the first Them Wranch release in many, many years.
Side A: “My Friend” (1999) is a tune from the first album, “Big Noise from East Maynard.” This earlier version is more stripped down and gritty, bluesier, and fuzzier. Less polish, equal charm. Undiluted, this is cask-strength rock.
The B-side: “You’re Too Much” (2001) was recorded live in Houston, TX, and clocks in at nearly a minute shorter than the original 1966 release by The Eyes. Only the second cover song that Them Wranch has released, this version is a bit more Stonesy than modsy.
Kick back, turn up, and enjoy - Bill Randt