It’s only with the knowledge that no one actually bothers reading my rantings that I feel safe in saying this: Minneapolis/St. Paul, my Siamese twin hometown, seems to be moldering in the dank armpit of Tom Hazelmeyer, even now that AmRep’s been effectively dead for years. Hazelmeyer, the man behind AmRep, already hates me for poking fun at the alt/punk bars he owns around town, so indirectly blaming him for the miasmic conditions of the local punk scene will only further foster his contempt for me. And this is a concern, as I sometimes stop into his alt-speakeasies for a draft beer or two. But, nevertheless, here’s the rub: I think Falcon Crest is a pretty cool band—but I’m too contaminated by all my years of listening to AmRep bands to not hear something here that sounds a lot like a typical ‘90s AmRep band. Don’t get me wrong, AmRep used to kick out some damn fine shit: the Cows, Hammerhead, Supernova, Helmet—even the Melvins and Nashville Pussy at one point—but much of what the label was cranking out was starting to sound the same to me. Studied punk. The stale odor of Art School and Liberal Arts College influences everywhere. What rawness was there in the music was hamstrung by an artistic self-consciousness. I think that what it comes down to, really, is that I probably shouldn’t be attempting to review this disc. My finely tuned critical equipment has been hacking up AmRep hairballs for years now and anything that even remotely reminds me of the Mog Stunt Team or Guzzard is going to set off all sorts of burglar alarms in my brain. And it’s my own fault. This all probably has more to do with the way I filter things and pigeonhole them in my head than it does with Hazelmeyer’s armpit of influence. Sorry Falcon Crest—and sorry to Tom and both his armpits. I feel like once again I’ve really let the hometown team down.
–aphid (Not Bad)