Dollar Binge 666: Going For The Obvious
Saying it, not spraying it since 2003.
By Keith Bergman

Far be it from this humble rag to suggest that other, more august publications are watching the every move of this modest Bay Area upstart. We’re certain that when our interview questions appear word-for-word in other media outlets, it’s just a case of great, great minds thinking alike. And while we were a little surprised – pleasantly so – to see several dollar-bin-related features in a recent issue of Alternative Press, our legal department advised us that the line between gloating and libel is a fine one. One best not walked by a company whose entire staff, freelancers and all, could fit into a kiddie pool (and do we ever!). So we’ll just graciously welcome any and all comers to the exciting world of dollar-bin reportage, and leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to decide who’s keepin’ shit real in the dizzle bizzle, fo’ rizzle.


Meat Puppets - Too High To Die
London, 1994

You know it, you love it, if you’re over 25 you probably sold a copy of it back to Amoeba. Easily the biggest beneficiaries of Kurt Cobain’s affection next to Courtney Love, the Meat Puppets would’ve been a bigger music-nerd inside joke than the Minutemen if not for the Nirvana frontman’s championing. And don’t let anyone tell you any different – their old stuff was pretty hit-or-miss, full of crappy vocals, country-punk raving and forgettable songs. The ‘Pups were a band that benefited from trying to sell out – streamlining their indulgent tendencies and making them write some damn hooks, for a change. “Backwater” was a hit for a reason – it’s a great song that sticks to your head like the gum you went to sleep chewing. The stilted shuffle of “Never To Be Found” and the reedy blues of “Roof With a Hole” give the record dynamic, and anchor their Butthole Surfers-ish tendencies to be snarky and weird with solid, memorable songwriting. Go pick a copy up – who knows, maybe the one you stuck that “property of” sticker onto in eighth grade will still be there, like a puppy at the pound, awaiting your return.
Actual worth: There are enough in the cheap bin to build modular homes for a small Third World nation out of the jewel cases.


El Flaco - Thub
Sector 2, 1995

It was released about a year after the sell-by date for extra grunge-inspired don’t-give-a-shittedness, but towns like Austin are always good for bands like this. Their band pix are from one of those “photo phunnies” booths, the lyrics are all handwritten inside, and the music is shambling, drunk-funk power trio shamble through blown out PAs, fuzz bass, and hoarsely-screamed last-call whiskey vocals. Like a less-hip biker-friendly Mudhoney, El Flaco strikes a pretty good balance between ham-fisted booger rock and self-aware irony, and their grooves are sloppy and amiable enough that they don’t irritate in that funk-metal way. Slacker rock, straight from the source, that went absolutely nowhere (a second album, with some of these songs and new tracks, supposedly surfaced three or four years later).
Actual worth: $8.99, or the current market value of a six-pack of Shiner Bock longnecks.


Earth Eighteen - Butterfly
Medicine, 1995

Would you trust a man named Bubba Dupree to give you glammed-up, breathless space-pop? Like Love and Rockets, Marilyn Manson, and Cheap Trick swapping candy from their Jetsons lunch boxes, this DC band was all Pixi Stix dust and eyeliner, hooky as hell, the guiltiest of guilty pleasures (“glam-grunge” if you want the shorthand). Dupree busts out the Bowie-isms just enough to let you know he’s done his homework (the end of “Maximum Teenage Overdrive” is pretty blatant), and Jeff Lynne of ELO would be proud of the vocoder chorus on “Blood Revival 99” – all the studio trickery and candy-coating adds that much more gaudy decadence to this rhinestone birthday cake of an album. Fun, sleazy stuff, definitely the CD to take along the next time you travel to a party via time machine.
Actual worth: Eight dollars, or 9.4 Galactic Credits.


Holy Barbarians - Cream
Island, 1995

Until the “Doors of the Twenty-First Century” came along, Holy Barbarians was number one on the Bad Ian Astbury Career Moves chart. Following the disastrous Cult album Ceremony, the man bailed on his longtime outfit to go play… well… music that sounded like The Cult, only wimpier and hippie-r. There’s only so far you can really go from your roots when you sound like Astbury, though, so it’s not too much of a Cult-ure shock hearing him wax shamanic on songs like “Dolly Bird,” “Bodhisattva” and “Magick Christian.” Decent, but forgettable – record stores could bundle this with that Talk Show album that ¾ of Stone Temple Pilots did, and call it the “Lightning Doesn’t Strike Twice, Dumbasses, $1.99 Twin-Pak.”
Actual worth: Swap ya two Holy Barbarians for a Blind Melon?

Brutal Juice - Mutilation Makes Identification Difficult
Interscope, 1995

Culter than cult, this oddball Texas outfit somehow ended up on a major label for one off-the-wall album. Strange, almost proggy thrash/punk with bizarre time signatures, and seriously weird vocals – three- and four-part harmonies crooning lines like “I don’t want those hips / I don’t want those tits / I don’t want that fat ass / You’re ugly on the inside where it counts” like damn Boy Scout choir. “Nationwide” is a hardcore anthem with an arena-rock chorus to die for, “Kathy Rigby” is psychedelic Swedish rock with a potty-mouthed rant for a lyric, and “Humus Tahini” is a rollicking shanty that disintegrates into a hardcore raveup. What the hell is going on here? Even when the songs flag a little, toward the end, the album is bound together by intensity, and an off-the-rails sense that this just shouldn’t be happening. Abrasive like Angel Dust, melodic like Jawbreaker, and streetwise like Sick of It All, with weird dashes of geek-rock and Tesco Vee-styled offensiveness, all thrown into the blender and set on puree. You just gotta hear it.
Actual worth: Way more than what it cost to clean up the bloody toilet on the back cover.

Keith Bergman hasn’t had eight solid hours of sleep since 1993.