The Makers

Psychopathia Sexualis (Estrus)
by Jon Sarre

Since these fancy boys collect hype the way my cat collects ear mites, I’ve always regarded The Makers with a certain wariness (‘specially when the shows I’ve seen’ve been kinda unsatisfyin’). That explains my jabs at their expense when I came into possession of Psychopathia Sexualis. The full color glossy of the band sprawled out on a plush sofa just oozes decadence, but, like many other things on Earth (none of which I can think of at the moment), it’s what’s inside that counts. In this case, the record rocks, okay? There, I said it, fuck yeah! The many lines of worshipful spiel ring true when they’re tied up in Mike Maker lines like “yer skin under my fingertips.” Nah, it’s not supposed to make that much sense, but it’s great like a predatory Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs number.

The Makers run the same track the Lyres usedta (and usually just as well): blowin’ out big beat circa 1966, stuff made by and for snot-nosed burger-wolfin’, tire-squealin’ cretins only months away from tradin’ their Fender Jaguars for M-16s and paintin’ “Born to Kill” on their helmets (or just unpluggin’ and “(wearing flowers in their hair)”) – see this album’s “(Are You On the Inside Or the Outside of Your) Pants” and the “ba-ba-ba-ba”-flavored “Hotel 17” for more details. Their genre-splicin’ is also pretty great, like on “Sharp Leather Walkin’ Shoes,” which sounds like Billy Childish’s yet unformed and unnamed new wave project , or the Cramps-on-Meth-Doin’-Bowie’s-“Hang On” frankensteintude of “Sicko Sexual.” Elsewhere on Psychopathia Sexualis, the Makers just damn near knock ’em dead (“Turn Up the Century” and “Deliver Your Disease” ring all the bells there). Great stuff indeed and, if ya didn’t know already, they got a wardrobe to match.
(PO Box 2125 Bellingham, WA 98227)