Punk never lacked for brash in-your-face aggression. It was everywhere, that was the point. Them thar bastards warn't happy with their lot, Yohombine. They saw the way things were going, and weren't shy about damning everything. How prescient that was, we're now seeing in a succession of post-Kennedy scumbag corporatist presidents, lunatic Republican Supreme Court (in)justices, shark lawyers, a flesh-eating business class, and of course religionist zombies. Well, the Meatmen weren't deceived when they emerged in 1979 (Wiki sez '81 but fuck 'em, they're usually wrong), and they ain't fooled now neither nohow, so, most expectedly, Savage Sagas from the Meatman is wicked, nasty, blasphemous, ballistic, balls-rockin', and fucking hilarious.
Take, for instance, the first stanza to Kill Kunt Koulter:
She is such a stupid twat
Gee, I wonder who they're referring to? I don't think Ted Nugent and Charlie Daniels are band members, though. More like MC5 meets The Stooges at a Destructo Derby. If you're from the era, then you already know these hi-energy irreverent sonsabitches were and have been, for 35 long sweaty years, a vanguard punker outfit much admired, Debbie Harry and Stephen King among their big time fans, especially of lead madman Tesco Vee. 35 years??? Yeah, and if you think they're past their prime, you don't know yer ass from a hole in the ground, Sparky. They're tighter than ever, more intense, and frankly one of the most interesting bands around.
Shecky Presents will not only split your sides but goes where even Sam Kinison, Bill Hicks, George Carlin, and Rick Overton won't, don't, and didn't, though I can hear Saint Lenny and Root Boy Slim already chortling their tuchases off above the clouds and chem trails. Getting ever more metallic, you'd think Gwar was riding on the Meatmen's trailer hitch here, fierce power chords and psych lead lines flying all over the place. Adding to the irreverences, artist Craig Herky horks Bill Stout's art style on the liner outer leaves and then Charles Burns, Bob Fingerman, and Paul Mavrides inside. Cool stuff. And true to the punk ethos, everything's short and to the point, no 30 minute extravaganzas about flying pigs or hobbits fucking orcs in Perelandra. If yer loins ain't girded, then you ain't ready for 'em and best you retire to the boudoir with your Barry Manilow snapshots.
Edited by: David N. Pyles
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