By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Taylor M. Clark at www.pitchforkmedia.com says, "You know that guy nobody likes who absolutely has to chatter for hours about the wild, crazy-ass party he went to the other night? The very same guy who was always totally getting checked out by this hot chick but he couldn't talk to her because they totally had to bounce right away to go to this other intense party? He's the lead singer in Lifter Puller now." Clark finds the whole thing repellent, but I really like it, and I'd say simply that the words succeed in pretending not to be poetry, hence their immediacy. The music is grindingly melodic guitar, heave-up-the-Hefty-bag bass, etc. My favorite song here has a '60s organa Paul Revere style of riffand in the din you hear Craig raving away: "I want everybody who's been eyeing my girl to slowly close their eyes and think about what you've got, compare it to what I've got, and ask yourself what do you think my girl wants."
My friend Charles says that Lifter Puller remind him more of the "verbose babbling of the Fall" than of Springsteen, though (he also says) it's not as if the Fall babblement and the early Springsteen babblement have nothing in common. I wasn't initially referring to the sounds of Craig's/Bruce's voices but to subject matter: local boys trying to be someone who cou-ou-ounts in the hick-city night. But I do hear a similar sound in Springsteen and Lifter Puller: Both are passionately oververbose, as opposed to the Fall's Mark E. Smith, who's pugnaciously oververbose. Anyway, both Bruce and Craig write dialogue songs. Craig: "We mixed the Ripple and the champagne, and then things got kinda strange. She said, 'My name is Juanita, but the guys call me L.L. Cool J, 'cause I've been here for years. And you can't call it a comeback if you never even been away, and I ain't ever been no place." That reminds me of Springsteen: the conversation, the young woman with the Spanish name, the setting (seaside town after Labor Day).
The band name "Lifter Puller" makes me think it's from the punch line of some jokelike "Dead Milkmen"except no one's told me the joke. The statement "Lifter, puller, throw 'er on the floor" keeps popping up in my brain, I don't know from where. (Well, from my brain, obviously . . . ) I like the promo sheet, too. "The City Pages also recently quoted Joe Strummer as saying 'It's Lifter Puller's world . . . We just live in it,' in a story about the Clash. Of course, that same evening he was overheard saying to Craig, 'You guys are going to be bigger than Blur, or Pavement . . . [pause] . . . or Blur,' so take that in mind. With Fiestas + Fiascos I fully expect to get more press than Blur or Pavement. Or even Blur!" Well, I'm trying to do my part. (The rock critic came out of the bar, walking carefully. Everything was a blur. He rubbed his eyes, looked down at the pavement. The pavement was a blur.)
The promo sheet for the Distillers' first album says, "Don't try to make the pigeon hole for the Distillers smaller than 'punk.' " They're asking for it, aren't they? OK: There's more variety in 30 seconds of the first Pere Ubu album than in all of The Distillers. Blondie, the Contortions, the MC5, the Raincoatsthey represented an ocean of possibilities, while this, this, this little barnacle, this seaweed, this discarded shell, this straitjacketed pigeon . . . actually, I like this record a lot. It's a sliver of a flake of a stereotyped version of a sound that was born a decade before lead singer Brody Armstrong was, but she's good, being young enough to do this old thing as if it had spit forth from her cranium this morning. As if she didn't know she was singing a closed world. (And maybe that means it's not a closed world.) A nice, tuneful screamer. "Hey, ah-ah-yeah! Hey. Fuck you. And I'll fuck you. Fuck you." But tunefully. Hey, big guy, want a nice tuneful fuck? Want some nice Jett-Courtney throat-retch? I'm functional, like a wall-bed (what are they called?) clanking down on your skull. (Not really; I just felt the need for a simile.) Squalling vocals. Stormy vocals? That seems so quaint, to have vocals that one could describe as "stormy." His beautiful but stormy wife, Isabella . . .