It’s probably not this 7”‘s fault. Keep that in mind. But we all have our crosses to bear. When I moved to L.A. in 1996, not knowing my bearings, I walked into a version of punk rock that reveled and revolved around bar culture: Street Walkin’ Cheetahs, Texas Terri, Nashville Pussy. Some called it punk’n’roll. It was borne of excess, blues-scales, bad behavior, and on-stage flamboyance. Yep, they played their instruments pretty darn well. Behind their heads sometimes. After the initial sheen wore off pretty quickly, like the chrome coating on a cheap belt buckle, I’ve had a hard time revisiting it and not reverting back to a Ghost World-esque vision of Blues Hammer. Rubber Cushions play a very apt retelling of Stooges-era punk; one leg straddling Chuck Berry, gyrating their pelvis right into the listener’s face. Rubber Cushions are definitely talented and are expert channelers of dirty rock’n’roll, it’s just that this reviewer’s already had his fill at this particular buffet. Sorry.