Doo Doo

OK, my listening laziness around the homefront is breeding an endless cycle of the twenty newest records stacked nearest the turntable. It's time to reacquaint myself with the collection, so here's the gambit- blindly pick a record from the dusty stacks, listen to it and then comment on it. Corny and unoriginal, but as that describes me perfectly in this haunted year, fuck you.

Richmond Sluts- S/t- my these boys are shagalicious, with doos Paul Weller would shank a man for. I remember some less than flattering chatter back in the day (from whom I can't recall, but memory is a tricky beast and I'm going with vague, general impressions), and I'm betting those Ian McCullough bobs might have had something to do with it. The music isn't terrible, but nothing really stands out. The production is muddy, as every tired riff and recycled bass line and every other old thing they threw in there got, well, thrown in there. This came out in 2001, but my memory places it mid-90s, which means seeing them at the Vegas Shakedown weeks after 9/11 seems a lot longer ago than I remember, which means time is moving more slowly in my conception of it, which flies in the face of all we know about ageing and our conception of time. I'm going to credit my rigid discipline of Omega-3 Triple Strength fish oil horse pills and a steady diet of FRS energy drinks for what looks clearly like an extended life span, all booze aside. In the illuminating song title department, "Junkie Queen" ought to do it, as smack fashion appears to be the aesthetic and driving force of this band. The New York Dolls and The Rolling Stones, bands whose posters must have graced the bathroom walls of several Sluts, wrote memorable songs, which is why we regularly pull their records out for pleasure and why this one only sees the light of day due to blind chance. I actually like my bands dressed up and peacocked out, and presentation goes a long way on a slow Wednesday night at The Stork. Sadly, for these one-offs, they forgot the tunes, so perhaps it's only fitting that they end their debut opus with the inspired title of "Yea, Allright." You can almost see them practicing cockney accents in broken Mission mirrors. Where are the birds? You know who was barking up this same Johnny Thunders tree? The Joneses, way back in the LA eighties, and a few questionable decisions aside, they made it move. Let's put it this way- ain't nothing from the Sluts approaches "Pillbox," so leave this in the dollar bin and save your wadded up bills for that Joneses collection on Sympathy.