The Perpetrators

Porno Rock (Rimshot)
by Chaz Thorndike

Inspired by the best rock of the ’80s, lyrics about checkin’ out chicks at strip joints, stickin’ it up chicks’ butts, peepin’ in on the chick who leaves her blinds up, lovin’ them chicks who tongue roll yer bunghole, and a bunch o’ other topics, it’d be kinda obvious to say Porno Rock is a party must-have for sick fucks. Are you the type that appreciates a flavorful belch, imagining what trippy rainbow colors woulda been emitted if only the gas was visible? How about that time ya almost puked tryin’ to yodel a belch? Or that time you singed yer ass hairs trying to light a fart at the bonfire an’ you was wearin’ too-short cut-offs? Damn, that shit was funny! This is the Party Rock album ya ain’t gonna get through a TV commercial, nor in fine stores anywhere – no sir, ya gotta get this dope shit straight from the source, Rimshot Records (PO Box 49092 Jacksonville, FL 32240). Sure a few of the songs suck (but that’s just a personal dislikin’, different folks like it stroked differently, ya know?). But one thing I gotta hand to these guys – Hugh Jorgen and Peter Fitzperfect (if ya don’t get the names, ask someone with an IQ in the triple digits then go play with your daddy’s handgun collection) – they know how to play the cheesiest of the cheesy with finger-snappin’ style. And while they get down and dirty, the production is clean and crisp. Who wants to hear rehashed Whitesnake all muddy and fumbling? The vocalist can mock a few singers, in both the timing and the song structure, and the guitarist can jam the riffs like some bastard blues bad-asses with a fifth of Jack in his gut (and baby, don’t ask where he stuck the empty bottle). What else are the bar room rock cats gonna do now that the ’80s are over? While it ain’t quite time to get them ripped jean and fringed leather jackets outta storage or mom’s attic (shouldn’t be such a hike since ya just moved back home again), but the time is comin’. (Historical Note: I hawked my leathers and hairspray for flannel and Chuck Taylors, then for face jewelry and tribal tattoos, then for a sampler and web access, and now I’m supposed to re-invest in non-aerosol hair products and animal-friendly eyeliner? What fun are the late ’90s gonna be if they’re just a pussified, revamped ’80s?) But anyway, Porno Rock is a full-on competent band of rock dudes whalin’ away on sleazed-out ditties derived from AC/DC, Van Halen, Foreigner, Pat Benetar, ZZ Top, Zeppelin, and whoever that dude was who wrote “Spirit in the Sky.” While the gosh-aren’t-we-dirty? schtick is kinda dumb, at least the songs are played well. Strap them jumper cables to Tipper Gore’s nipples and let’s ride the rollercoaster to court, jail, or the grave. It’s got diddley shit to do with this review, but I’d like to close with the immortal words of ex-Hanoi Rocker Michael Monroe, “Dead, Jail, or Rock ‘n’ Roll.”