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Trashies , The "Teenage Rattlesnakes" LP

Trashies , The "Teenage Rattlesnakes" LP


Side A: Future Pain, I'm A Worm, My Knife, Rat Trap Drawer, Don't Tell Me What To Do
Side B: Rock Basher, Shit Show In Shill Shoal, I Ate The Trash, I'm A Vessel, All Gunked Up


THE TRASHIES have traversed the western part of our great nation for several years now, spreading their gospel of waste and generally grossing out anyone lucky enough to enter their orbit. Burrito foil cod-pieces, Foreman-Grill Grease as cologne, cheap brew ingestion to the point of Cro-Magnon regression…their aura looms large in this dump of a scene. A recent inactive period saw members disperse to outfits like UNNATURAL HELPERS TACOCAT or UZI RASH, producing offerings infinitely more civilized than expected. The hiatus, I’m inclined to think, was a deliberate attempt to let the base ingredients of Gunk Rock™, the collective TRASHIES vision set to yelping, punkily junked rhythms, ferment. They’ve now reconvened and bottled Gunk Rock™ for consumption in the form of Teenage Rattlesnakes, a quantum leap sideways and easily the filthiest, most unnerving offering from the heap to date.

A lot goes into the rattle of Teenage Rattlesnakes. In wading through the gunk, you’ll hear psychedelic garage moderne, far enough removed from their domestic contemporaries to be mistaken for Euro gang-chanters conducting a tribal punk séance. But they’re American Men, able to see the art inherent in pink sludge sustenance. Moments of severe stomp and circus tomfoolery recall the frenzied Avant Garde Rock’n’Roll of The Monks, with further irritants injected to make it all the more jarring. Perhaps the toxicity so often associated with the band enabled them to grow extra appendages, but the performances captured here move so far past the plod that it’ll no doubt shock those familiar with the band’s early droppings. One can’t help but believe that THE TRASHIES have mutated into (gasp) a band with (gasp!) ideas and (gasp!!) the musical chops to see them through to the fullest. Of course, there are trade-offs: each album comes with a redeemable coupon for one Silkwood-shower.

While their previous efforts could be likened to the cruddy dumpsters located behind an American Gas’n’Sip or Produce-A-Rama, Teenage Rattlesnakes presents an overflowing all-purpose-bucket of rot, housing all manner of industrial, medical and organic sweating refuse. Yes, the drained, mold-encrusted tall-boy boneheadisms and bleeding red celery stalk schlock are still whiffable in the air, but THE TRASHIES’ concoction has cultured, like a stinky, expensive cheese. The band is no longer celebrating garbage life. They’ve become living, breathing trash. Teenage Rattlesnakes is the rainbow in their grease puddle. Rub it on your skin and watch it bubble.

Mitch Cardwell

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