CRUDE DUDE RECORD REVIEW #1.
Crude Dude Manifesto:
||| Scholars proclaim that the official “era of the Crude Dude” is 1989-1993. This truly is the grand finale and last hurrah of the feel-good-party-metal scene. During this five year span, there was a distinct image that people seldom discuss. Gone was most of the make-up and spandex of previous years and in came Baja sweatshirts, extra-large holes in the knees of jeans, babes with longer butts and California-muscle tank tops (see Vince Neil in the first years after he left the Crüe for exact representation). For reasons unknown, this beach-bum-party-dude attitude took over but didn’t last long. Much like Cro-Magnon man, they ruled the land but unfortunately were facing an expiration date. It was only a matter of time before MTV, radio and record company pigs would turn their backs on these bands in favor of a moody and dreary alt-rock scene.
In the wake of their critically acclaimed mixtapes Two Crude Dudes and Two Crude Dudes: Part Deux!, TNUC & Mike Ballermann have started a series of Crude Dude album reviews to celebrate the most overlooked record releases of the most overlooked and misunderstood era. Our quest is not to talk about the bands that changed their sound during this time and tried to “adapt” to what were the present humdrum stylings, because we all know there were plenty of bands that went that route. Our mission is to spotlight the bands that sharpened their sound and took it to the edge…the pier…the brink. The bands that stayed true to what originally made them the appealing, roaring, Crude Dudes of rock that we witnessed from the get-go. By the time grunge hit, many bands were just preparing to hit their peak and missed their chance to reach the masses. What some people don’t realize is that many of these bands were improving during these years, fine-tuning musically and perfecting their craft as Crude Dudes in society. In all seriousness, while the vast majority were turning to alt-rock, there were still a number of talented bands making killer records that even to this day people don’t talk about. We’re here to rocket these records out of the crypt in a series we’d like to call…CRUDE DUDE RECORD REVIEWS |||
Take off your shades slowly, wipe your eyes and look again closely. The cover artwork for Danger Danger’s massively overlooked 1991 opus Screw It! portrays a giant, bad ass heavy metal chimp, rope-swingin’ in the jungle with his tongue flapping in the wind. Obviously he’s carrying a busty, sparsely-clad blonde who happens to be sucking on a banana. When you flip to the backside of the record, if you do happen have reading capabilities, you’ll find song titles such as “Slipped Her the Big One”, “Get Your Shit Together”, “Crazy Nites”, “Everybody Wants Some” and “Horny S.O.B.” This is right around the time when you realize you’re in the right place! Before we continue, a little about the band itself. With the reckless, yet happy-go-lucky, all day sunshine sound that they produce, one would immediately swear to the Gods of rock that these Crude Dudes hail from Los Angeles, when in fact they’re actually based out of New York.
First off, a serious warning. Kids….this is the type of album that once it begins spinning at your party, the girls are likely to rip off their shirts and bang their hair in the wind without restrain. The dudes on the other hand will start jumping around like chimps hopped up on Peruvian white. Last but not least, the nerds will throw their glasses on the ground to scrunch’ em, and drink hard liquor straight from the bottle for the first time ever in their sheltered lives. The promise-to-party instinct will arise like never before.
As we take our first dive into this wicked necronomicon, we begin with some wild jungle beats and monkey screams, featuring original moans and groans by porn goddess Ginger Lynn (pictured). This introduces the album properly and sets you in the correct neanderthalic mood of what is to come. Suddenly, the ultra-hymn “Monkey Business” begins, with a refrain that proclaims “Climb up on my tree, monkey around with me”. You need to let your hair down immediately on this one. “Slip Her the Big One” is next, complete with heavy drums and keyboards that set the sound for riding your chopper through foggy alleyways at night, to arrive at the local neon-lit rock & pool bar where upon entering, you discover that sleeveless denim vests, ripped jeans, snakeskin boots, denim hotpants and white leather/studded neckbands are the standards for the dress code for boys and girls alike. “Everybody Wants Some” hits exactly the same vein, so feel free to sing along with a clenched fist in the air.
The build up to the slick, emotional guitar solo in “Beat the Bullet” creates the ideal vibe for overlooking the city lights from your apartment in a moment of mediation. When the heavy guitar work and pummeling drums set in, you’ll want to pedal to the metal and face any fight. “Get Your Shit Together” is the 100% Crude Dude Approved track on the album. Upbeat drums combine with pile-driving guitars and lyrics that lay down the law for any smartass who dares walk into your territory wearing a Pearl Jam shirt. Two power ballads, “I Still Think About You” and “Comin’ Home” grace the album and give the ladies something to loosen up to. Then it’s time for the relentless, ultimate party anthem, “Horny S.O.B.”. Crank this one to its maximum potential because this is more than a song. This one features an uber-cheery main riff matched with possibly the most sincere vocals in the history of the recording industry. This little number is an invitation (or perhaps a warning?) to any fun-loving hardbody to drop everything and party with the Crude Dudes. Whether they be working in the bikini shop or at the local galleria, hanging out at a Danger Danger concert or grabbing a drink and picking a fight at the Double Deuce. This album is the cure to any bookworm or wallflower who needs a release.
Mike Ballermann’s advice: “Listen to this album at least once a day to get your mind irreversibly stone-aged!”
CRUDE DUDE RICHTER SCALE = 5/5 PERSONAL PAN PIZZAS