The Radicals – “This Place Is Fucked”
So this is the part of the review where I make jokes about The Radicals name. That they’re burnouts from the sixties, in their sixties, trying to overthrow the government once again.
But I know The Radicals as a spunky, pop/punk band with more grit than polish, more spit than shine. A band that didn’t try to be punk, maybe, but just tried to write true, good songs. And their enthusiasm, live, just brought them over into hardcore territory with a contagious exuberance that couldn’t be restrained.
And I do know them as a band that got better in their live shows. I saw them get so much better they were on the same level as the best live bands I knew! The Pity Whores, The McGunks – they got to the same level.
In the last year at a show they played, Andy and I were in attendance. Andy, due to his parole constrictions, does not see as many shows as I and was astonished at what he was experiencing.
“Oh, this is how they play all the time now, “ I reassured him as he continued to loose all control of his bodily functions and was politely asked to leave the premises as his bowels were excavating at the same time.
So my point is- Hmm, does it have to do with odorous bodily functions? The great tree of life? How we all hang onto a mighty branch though we may only be a twig or a simple leaf? No, I think it is this-
The Radicals were one of the best bands on our scene and one of those bands that we all take for granted. Like when we reach in the refrigerator we always expect, and hope, a cold beer will be in reach.
And I know their demise has caused alarm, and I know their demise has caused disbelief- but life goes on and though it changes it also stays the same. And what they did in their playing, in their songs is not lost to us, it will remain in us and live on with others and remain with us. (And this ain’t no Led Zep jerk-off).
So this is their parting gift to us. Let’s unwrap it, whattaya say?
“Ninetofivers” starts as a pop/punk rave with an upbeat, upstroke guitar verging into a glorious, Clash-like melodic caffeinated chorus. “You’re rock’n’roll dreams ain’t worth the cost/ Hard to keep order when you’ve already lost.” This is an exuberant, over the top, energetic, passionate romp through lost dreams and foiled ambitions. “And all your songs about living free don’t matter anymore.” Those songs might not but this one does matter to me. And hits strong, pure and real as the best punk does especially when it accelerates towards the ending as they say, “One, two, fuck you.” But then, unfortunately, the members of the band Loverboy storm the studio and wreck proceedings.
“Basement” starts with a rock ’em sock ’em uppercut to the solar plexus, like those old red and blue plastic robots, leaving your senses disabled. All the more easy to steam roll them in a pop/punk fury of stuttering guitars, snarling vocals and smashing rhythms. This is another passionate song that perks your interest and sparks your desire as long as you still have a pulse. “And all your dreams they all come true/ It all seems funny that we somehow knew…And all those things that I said/ I’m not gonna live that way again.” This is a heart on your sleeve, a blood and guts on your sleeve, every ounce and fiber of your being on your sleeve song of power pop punk perfection.
“Party Monsters” sounds a bit like an Oi song but what it really sounds like is an old glam/glitter song from the seventies by the likes of The Sweet, Slade or Gary Glitter. And I don’t know how you’re inclined but for me this is like a dog being offered a bone. After some patty cake beats and some gigantic, “God Save The Queen” power chords bashing in, we get- “It’s all all-right for a Saturday night!” Where a clanging low riff answers the vocals as a tribal beat holds court.
This song has Eddy Cochran, The Sex Pistols, AC/DC and Suzi Quatro all battling it out in the center ring. “This is not what you want but this is what you need/ The only problem is now dividing it in three.” This isn’t hardcore or punk or whatever. This is rock’n’roll like when Elvis first swerved his hips and shot his wad into the lily white straight lace America of the fifties. “It’s all all-right on a Friday night.” Don’t matter what day it is if it sounds this right.
I think a lot of folks would listen to “Ghosts” and think, that’s the last song Slimedog would pick. It’s slow, drenched in echo and what sounds like pedal steel on the track. Slimedog’ll think this is some indi crap that smells so bad in the morning. But I’m a big fan of Tom Waits, Mazzy Star and Tom Verlaine. And if a song makes me think of them then I think you must be doing something right. “The old haunts still remain but they don’t feel the same to me/ Is this what’s left?/ Of all the blood and the rage/ things just ain’t getting any sweeter/ And we’re all bitter with age.”
This song is like a dark, dreary, melancholy rainy night going on in your brain. “I’ve been going through the history books and erasing all the names/ Of all my friends/ And all my kin/ And Jesus Christ! I let you down again.”
This is the more mature, poetic, heartfelt writing that appeared on the last album with a promise of better things to come- and this is its fruition. “It all feels like too much/ yeah we end where we start/ and I would ride it out for glory/ and it all just fell apart.”
One of the best song I’ve heard all year? I knew that about ten seconds in. The best lyrics of any song this year? Yeah, no doubt, and maybe you can make that the last ten. If you’re getting that I really, really like this song, then I think, you’re really, really getting the picture.
“But if what they say is true what’s lost can never be found…again.”
It seems a lot of folks were really sad about The Radicals demise, I must admit, I was, too. It might’ve brought tears to their eyes, I don’t know. But I do know that this song did that to me.
Art hits people different ways. Sometimes it just glances off the side of your head, sometimes it hits you straight forward, right in the guts or straight in the soul and then, maybe it collides with your heart.
This one hit me right between my eyes. That’s what beauty in art does to me.
(Slimedog)
