GRABASS CHARLESTONS / TOYS THAT KILL: Split: LP

Nov 02, 2010

“Hey Will, how’s it going?” “Not good, Todd. Not having a good time.” That’s pretty much summed up my conversations with Will, the drummer and singer of Grabass, the past several years. It may be that he’s on tour and grumpy. Or that he’s at Fest in his hometown, and that just means more jackasses, long days of work, then dealing with ultra-drunk jackasses who don’t want to talk to him about R. Kelly’s magnum opus. But I really like and admire Will. He has the ability to write poetic songs about a discarded, pink-tired kid’s bike and it’s sad, beautiful, and meaningful. Ah, fuck it. I like not being lied to, either personally or musically, and Grabass have always delivered honest news in their own humble way. Peej still has secret hands playing notes simultaneously on two guitars that glimmer, sparkle, crackle, and fade like fireworks. Replay keeps the bottom end flexible, bubbling, and locked in place. He’s like a less menacing, more cut-off shorts, sleeveless-shirt, postal code-savvy Lemmy. Grabass are my Betsy Ross. I wanna wrap myself up in the flag they’ve been stitching together for years and years, then fly that flag like freedom itself. Toys That Kill: I say this without equivocation. Toys That Kill are my Black Flag, except they haven’t put out a bad record yet, their love of cats isn’t completely batshit crazy, and their fans don’t pine for the days when punching strangers in the face was “punk.” Rise above, my ‘80s-locked friends, and come into the current decade of DIY.

 –todd (No Idea)

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