The Frantic Flattops
Rock-n-Roll Murder (Get Hip)
by Jon Sarre
Just to remind ya that it’s never really gone away, that there’re still greasy guys with sleeve tattoos in wifebeaters, rockabilly’s doin’ one of its periodic Elvis sightings. It happens every few years, y’know. That annoying “swing” thing helped out a bit, especially since Brian Setzer’s hokey “orchestral” make-over helped generate a reprisal of the Stray Cats career beyond new wave-era novelty act (hmmm, went back and listened to Built For Speed, still sucks). Now, far be it from me to tell y’all what Glen Miller’n’Benny Goodman have to do with Gene Vincent’n’Billy Riley, but since nobody really seems to be bothered, go put on yer cat clothes, hep cat, or somethin’, daddy-o.
Get Hip, outta Pittsburgh, seems to have this obligation to push talent hailing from Pennsylvania and all points New York excluding NYC to those of us who’d probably rather have ’em just stay put (maybe so they can indeed boast the whole enchilada of the spectrum, from emo-indie to garage to hardcore to Hispanic hockey-ska and homoerotic Oi! – I think we’re still waitin’ on the last two – or it’s a convenient tax write off and an easy time killer until the next Electric Frankenstein “previously unavailable outside of Micronesia” release, I dunno). With tentacles that reach into every follicle of most of, uh, two states, you’d expect ’em to dig up a rockabilly act or two and what a surprise (!), here’s three new ‘uns to add to your collection, go ass crazy, Jackson!
Outta the three, Pittsburgh’s own Highway 13 sticks most closely to the traditional concept of slap stand-up bass, twangy guitar and skeletal, stripped drums. Their lyrical conceptualization is also what you’d call “clichés I’d probably want to hear in a rockabilly parody band”: muscle cars, cute little fillies (or Phillies), and the ubiquitous “Devil challenges Gomer Faust to a drag race.” Nah, Thrill Show ain’t gonna surprise ya, but I don’t think that’s the point anyhow.
The Frantic Flattops (who call Rochester, NY home) don’t toe the line quite so much as Highway 13. They occasionally venture into swing territory (or so we are to infer from their brass moments). On one number, “Trail of Tears,” singing Flattop Frantic Frank lets his hair down and croons a whole lot like ancient C&W cowboy Marty Robbins, on another, called “Mark of the Squealer,” they even cross into (gasp!) non-Dixieland jazz. Punk isn’t outta their repertoire either, they get all phelmy on “All I Wanna Do” and take on the Heartbreakers’ “Pirate Love.” The Flattops do sorta stumble and fall on the too-syrupy and goofy “Sugar Daddy,” but they recover to get gone, real gone for a change on psycho Elvis “Don’t Tease Me” and ride the crazy train of “Black Market Ride” (which reminds me of the Workdogs’ oddball revision of Charlie Patton’s “Moon Goin’ Down” as country-blues-hardcore and I know that means nothing to anyone but me).
Way up north in Buffalo, The Irving Klaws hit on more or less rock’n’roll, occasionally uncomfortably due to their (I’m guessin’) near prog-leanings, but their blend of surf, garage and, yeah, rockabilly lends itself to an accessibility which is probably discounted by their own personal weirdness. Purists may find their nutso bigbeat from the schizo ward not as authentic as some of their labelmates, but the Klaws rock like Torrette’s Syndrome (even when they toss in them harmonies and farfisa notes). It’s more fun (and funnier) than the straight shit, hands down, which is maybe a good idea, cuz ya may not wanna touch these clowns if ya met ’em. Just watch out for the van with the dirty panties hangin’ from the rear view mirror.
(PO Box 666 Canonsburg, PA 15317)
