RANCID VAT VESUS
THE REST OF THE WORLD - 25 YEARS OF RULE BREAKING - Rancid Vat (Steel
Cage)
Rancid Vat is a good name for a rock’n’roll band with transparent
punk overtones. It’s a close cousin of one of my favourite band names,
the beautifully revolting and extremely apt Pungent Stench (not surprisingly
many of the venues 
played by this band are, in fact, permanently discoloured
by the pungent stench of beer, sweat, vomit and other bodily secretions) and
is sufficient to either ward off anyone with a strict aversion to punk or attract
those purporting to be touched by the hand of punk rock.
Rancid Vat are either a very nasty, evil, disgusting punk band – a description
that is either harsh or flattering, depending on your sense of irony – or
a band that illustrates the importance of the DIY punk aesthetic to contemporary
rock’n’roll. To the extent The Sex Pistols (the band, not the anarcho-capitalist
Malcolm McLaren) carried with them a philosophy (as opposed to liberal amounts
of various legal and illegal substances used to propel their public image) it
was to remind the masses that despite the Emerson, Lake and Palmer entourage
and Electric Light Orchestra stage shows (that cost the equivalent of the annual
GDP of a medium sized African country) that anyone can pick up an instrument,
thrash it to hell and back and call the resulting hailstorm of noise a punk band.
These days the Rancid Vat personnel includes the Cosmic Commander, boisterous
wrestling aficionado, tattooist and occasional front man for the excellent Johnny
Casino’s Easy Action. The list of other cast members reads like a rogues’ gallery
from a suburban theme restaurant – Thee Whiskey Rebel (whose recollections
of the band’s history are transcribed as the liner notes) Elvis Rotten,
King Kong Bundy Jr and Jimmy Satan. The liner notes provide an amusing, profane
and illuminating insight into the Rancid Vat world – the whereabouts of
original lead singer Steve Lewis is unknown and it’s assumed that “he
hates us” (though anyone who spots Lewis is encouraged to slap him on the
back).
This double CD compilation celebrates Rancid Vat’s 25 years playing (and
I use that word advisably in places) music. It’s been a tough 25 years
for the guys – the liner notes give “A big “FUCK YOU to the
maggot distributors who tried to screw us over along the way” – but
the band is still here, still in the eyes, ears and faces of the punk rock community.
Disc 1 opens with a 1984 cut (produced by The Wipers’ Greg Sag) “It’s
Lonely At the Bottom”, the fuzzy brilliance of the music only improved
by Lewis’ monotonic moaning vocals. “Low Blow” reminds me
seriously of Adelaide punk legends The Iron Sheiks while “Trouble” is
a 50s style nasty lounging rocker which sees Sage guesting on guitar. “Premature
Ejaculator” seems to have a Batman inspired bass run loitering in the background – but
damned if I can work out what the song is actually trying to say about the contemporary
state of manhood. The band’s earliest recordings are arguably their most
obnoxious – the Mormon religion gets some well directed commentary in country
punk “The Ballad of Brigham Young” while “Puke On My Face” – with
a guitar lick so grating it could be deemed an offensive weapon – is about
as self-explantatory as you’ll get. “Apathy” is a quintessential
stoner/slacker anthem with a guitar riff that owes more than a sniff to Wings’ “Live
and Let Die”. The disc concludes with a spiralling 8 minute industrially
flavoured opus “Destroy Nature” which might just be the band’s
response to the environmental movement frequently sighted in Portland, Oregon
(where a large amount of the band’s music was recorded).
Disc 2 opens with a video message from Thee Whiskey Rebel, celebrating the band’s
continued existence despite the nay-saying of others before a meandering space-like
introduction mutates via some grating noise and definitive Cosmo self-referential
ranting into something resembling a song called “Cosmic Astro Boogie”. “Hostile
City USA” is a brutal punk rock tune – the full frontal assault of
Dead Kennedys with a turbo injection. “Loser Leave Town” has something
approaching a melody lying dormant in there, “Rulebreakers Rule” uses
a combination of metallic edge guitar and horns to celebrate the cult of the
law breaker and “Rock’n’roll Fraud” takes aim at anyone
purporting to be a punk rock band with suspect credentials and credibility – with
a kick-arse track that surely must have scared some college boys back under their
comfortable middle class rocks. “Tears and Heartbreak” might sound
like a touching love song but from the moment the narrator describes the scene
of anal sex (possibly one of the songs inspired by Johnny ‘The Wad’ Holmes)
it’s clear this is the love that Mills & Boon dare not speaketh about.
The band’s cover versions are spread across each disc: Disc 1 includes
a barely recognisable rendition of Johnny Thunder’s self-deprecating “Born
to Lose”, Bowie’s “Cracked Actor” and the Lieber-Stoller
penned Elvis tune “Trouble”. On Disc 2 we get an absolute punk interpretation
of “Why Don’t You Love Me” by Hank Williams Snr, Alice Cooper’s “Dead
Babies”, The Sonics’ “Strychnine” and “Eat Hot
Lead” by the charming Puke Spit & Guts.
Rancid Vat won’t be for everyone – like Melbourne punk institution
Fred Negro’s various obnoxious forays into pub rock extreme non-conformity
is an essential part of the artistic schtick. As it’s noted in the liner
notes “The difference between Rancid Vat and your band is that you’re
as stale and dated as last week’s sushi; whereas we’re so far ahead
of our time, we won’t peak for at least several years from now.” Time – and
more self-indulgent punk rock hyperbole – will only tell on that score,
but in the meantime it’s worth taking a moment, a phlegmatic spit and a
large volume swill of bear and celebrating the Rancid Vat Silver Jubilee. - Patrick
Emery
3/4
WE
HATE YOU ALL THE WAY FROM TEXAS - Rancid Vat (Steel
Cage)
SINS OF SAINTS - The Insaints (Disaster)
The smell of urine in a truck stop bathroom (complete with condom machine
on the wall, of course - ribbed for her pleasure!), barbed wire wrestling
matches, heavily tattooed strippers with stretch marks, warm beer, cold coffee,
and fresh roadkill entrails festering in the mid-day sun. If the next line
that comes to mind is "these are
a few of my favorite things," Rancid Vat may be reason for celebration.
On the other hand, if your idea of a party is fresh underwear, steer clear.
Fouling the air like contestants in a karaoke contest/battle of the bands
emceed by the Goat Lord way down south, these Texans make no pretense of
striving to be politically correct. For that reason alone, I say they deserve
respect if not outright admiration. As they loudly proclaim in the title
track,"...the
only thing you need to know about us/Is we hate you all the way from Texas."
Fair enough.
In
the grand tradition of G.G. Allin and The Mentors, and appearing to exist
in a vacuum, Rancid Vat traffic in basic, thrashy, three-chord punk and attempt
to see who will rise to the bait with songs running a gamut of subjects from
basic hatred ("Crybaby" and "Hatred Is Sacred") to daycare
center massacre ("Austin Bloodbath") to cancer and cryogenics ("The
Frozen Dead") to professional wrestling ("The Nature Boy" and
"Portrait Of A True American Hero (The Bruiser Brody Story)").
The guitars of Marla Vee and Kingkong Bundy Jr. snarl like rabid pit bulls
with kittens smeared in hamburger dangled in front of them, The Texas Stud
sings like he's on the verge of coughing up a hairball, and the rhythm section
of Thee Whiskey Rebel (bass) and Bobo (drums) is nothing if not ham fisted.
Rancid Vat is, and has always been, the chew toy of Rebel and Vee, the two
co-founding the band 23 years ago in Portland, Oregon. Based on lyrics alone,
it's easy to write Rebel off as suffering from an advanced state of dementia,
but a quick peek at his on-line diary reveals a deep thinker as comfortable
discussing chess and politics as drinking, wrestling and, uh,
scatology. Something tells me his tongue is usually parked somewhere in close
proximity to his cheek.
Since it's hard for me to imagine a combination of words anyone could possibly
string together that I'd find offensive, I found "We Hate You All The
Way From Texas" brimming with crude, greasy charm as well as loads of
laughs. Your results may vary.
Call me a "prude," but I've never been able to figure out what's
so damn titillating about the world of bondage/domination/submission. People
dressing up in leather and accessorizing with whips, chains, and gloves always
bring to mind those dipshit members of my high school drama clique taking
a walk on the wild side, all grown up with no other outlet for their need
to be in the spotlight and practically screaming for attention.
Attempting to fashion some sort of punk rock hybrid by throwing guitars and
amplifiers into the mix just seems like a bad idea from the start, which
probably explains why I never quite "got" the Plasmatics. Led by
the late fetish model/dominatrix Marian Anderson, who gave up her oxygen
habit three years ago with the assist of a spikeful of heroin, San Francisco's
Insaints apparently felt they knew better and, if you believe Dinah Cancer's
(45 Grave) liner notes to this compilation of studio sessions, demos, and
live material, caused quite a ruckus with their onstage antics which, at
various times, usually included Anderson, bananas, and the fists of some
friends.
Maybe you just had to "be there," but take away the visuals and
what you're left with on "Sins Of Saints" is about 45 minutes worth
of what sounds like two feral cats locked together in coitus under a full
moon. Anyone have a hose?
Clearly, Anderson's partner-in-crime, guitarist and co-founder Daniel deLeon,
was a man with a vision, porn flick guitar set on "decimate" for
most of the 20 tracks included here, although to my ears, which admittedly
never quite warmed up to hardcore punk, it's all sort of samey. Check out
deLeon's current band, The Deep Eynde, for further evidence that the guy
knows his way around a fretboard.
Cancer may be painting with broad strokes when she refers to Anderson as
a
"performance artist," but it's inarguable that Anderson's, uh, body
of work is every bit as irritating as performance art. Songs like "Whore"
and "Good Girl, Bad Girl" are nothing short of excruciating, Anderson's
atonal squall and Tourette's attack the ideal auditory aid for a Lamaze class.
And you say you've never heard a bad cover of The Stooges' "1969"?
There's a first time for everything - see Track 14.
It's tough to imagine someone actually sitting down and listening to "Sins
Of Saints" for kicks in the comfort of their own living room, but photos
of a semi-nude Anderson (she was sure easy on the eyes - what a waste!) in
the CD booklet may distract you from what's coming out of the speakers for
a few minutes. For masochists only. - Clark
Paull
Rancid Vat:
Insaints:
1/2