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Rocket From The Crypt Live From Camp X-ray Blogspot
I did actually write this out last night on my phone while in bed (and I can tell you that was a pain in the ass), then I had problems sending it, and I reset my phone, and then the fucker was gone. But, I will recall as much as I can, and just write again. So, I have had this record for some time, close to 3 months probably, but I have not posted it because I actually bought it for my Wife. My Wife doesn't actually collect records, but in an effort to involve her, I bought her this LP. Now, she supports my habit as much as she can, she doesn't go off her head when I spend a little more than I probably should, in fact she supports me in everything that I do ever. That's just how fucking awesome she is.
But then I thought 'Fuck it!' She isn't ever going to chill in the study, sit in the easy chair, drop the needle on this and listen to it, and I listen to it at least once a week, and it still blows me away every time! So here it is, in all it's glory: Rocket From The Crypt's 'Live from Camp X-Ray'. I don't have a story to go with this one like I normally do. To be honest, I really missed the boat on this band, and only got into them after they broke up, and even then I only own this LP of theirs.
I just can't get behind the others as much as I want to. I Don't know how I missed this for so long though. With lyrics like 'So peel back those dirty sheets/let's see that wet spot now', and the horns. I must have been a deadset moron.
The artwork of this record & the plain Black vinyl just capture the mood. I'm fucking into it.
As a fan of music and of a band, nothing can be more frustrating than seeing a great band make a fantastic album or albums and then flat line. Rocket From the Crypt would be such a band.
After a few solid albums, culminating in the release of their classic Scream, Dracula, Scream! Album on Interscope, the band seems to have been trudging over the same ground for the past few albums. Yeah, they survived that horrible ska ordeal where they were lumped among many ska bands just because they had horns, and they're still alive and kicking, yet it seems that they haven't truly ROCKED for many years.
And with this album containing song titles such as 'Bucket of Piss,' 'Dumb Blind Horny,' and 'Too Many Balls,' it's hard not to feel as though this is some poor excuse for a jock's idea of a 'punk rock' album. What's located on Live From Camp X-Ray is what has unfortunately become a tired routine for RFTC: proficiently crazy guitars, Speedo's contagious party vocals, and the horns thrown intelligently in to the mix. Yeah, it may sound good, and the strings on 'I Wanna Know What I Wanna Know' are a step in the right direction as far as creativity, but the problem is that it's been done before and the ability to differentiate between RFTC albums is becoming harder and harder. Die-hard fans of the band will dig this as they have been digging these boys for years now. The rest will buy Scream, Dracula, Scream!, party hard to songs like 'On a Rope' and 'Born in '69,' and leave it at that. Kurt Morris.
Glastonbury Festival, June 1998: A torrential downpour has turned the fields into an ocean of E. Coli, flooding the festival grounds to the point where even Nick Cave can be seen milling about in standard-issue Welly rain boots. But up on the Other Stage, Rocket From the Crypt are looking like a million bucks (or, roughly £500,000). Halfway through their set, John 'Speedo' Reis parts the crowd and challenges the more daring members of the audience to use the empty space as a mud slide; after five minutes of watching inebriated Englishmen hurtle themselves face down into the brown, Reis stops mid-song, flashes a shit-eating grin a mile wide, and announces, 'Ladies and gentlemen, if we have learned anything here today, it's that you can dive face first into pig shit, and still not be famous.' Sadly, for Rocket From the Crypt, you could haul ass for 15 years, release 11 albums, and even get Interscope to pay for two of them, and still be only slightly more famous than a bunch of British knuckleheads swimming in mud. But then Rocket From the Crypt were early 1990s punks who operated much like an indie rock band circa now, releasing a seemingly inexhaustible supply of quality singles and EPs at a clip that hearkened the current post-blog de-emphasis on the album, while their atomic fusion of Springsteen and the Stooges foreshadowed indie rock's now-perfunctory Boss worship.
But where so many contemporary indie rock bands pay lip-service to Bruce's all-American authenticity, RFTC were more proponents of the E Street big-band theory, favoring breathless, soul-revue-styled set lists, titanic blasts of brass, and only the most self-aggrandizing stage banter. So it's fitting that when the San Diego sextet announced their final show on Oct. 31 2005- as per their tradition of Halloween homecoming shows- the venue of choice was not a local punk-rock landmark like the Casbah, but rather the ballroom in the Westin Horton Plaza Hotel. However, as last-show documents go, the CD/DVD package R.I.P.- arriving perhaps two years too late, but just in time to herald the arrival of Reis' new band, the Night Marchers- is determinedly low on sentimentality. It's hard to get too choked up when you've got El Vez reading your eulogy ('they were so young!' ), and Reis taking the stage dressed as Screaming Jay Hawkins- complete with nose bone- to warm up with a goofy riff on 'I Put a Spell On You'.
But after this awkwardly stagy intro- Reis admits himself it's 'long, boring and goes nowhere' in the entertainingly no-bullshit liner notes- it's all business. 'We invented this type of music,' Reis declares six songs in, 'it's called rock'n'roll.' He's half right: What RFTC really do is rock'n'roar- you don't so much listen to songs like 'Boychucker' and 'Don't Darlene' as brace yourself for their rib-bruising onslaught of sax and violence. The chain-fight menace is reinforced by the fact that R.I.P.' Ezvid movie maker offline installer.
S career-spanning set-list is stacked with one-two punches pulled sequentially from the original albums: 'I'm Not Invisible'/'Get Down' (from 2002's Live From Camp X-Ray), 'Light Me'/'A+ in Arson Class' (1995's The State of Art Is on Fire EP), 'Middle'/'Born in '69' (1995's Scream, Dracula, Scream!). Like all great prizefighters, Rocket give you nary a second to figure out what hit you before hitting again. The 51-minute CD portion of R.I.P. Features only part of the full 95-minute set documented in grainy digital video on the DVD, and with good reason: this chaotic concert is marked by the sort of intrusions- a tossed plastic gun to Reis' head during 'Jumper K. Apogee duet support.
Balls,' an over-eager stage diver derailing 'Carne Voodoo' mid-song- that make for more interesting viewing than listening. But you still have to question some of the editing choices: a meat-slab-tough version of Hot Charity's 'My Arrow's Aim' doesn't make the album cut at the expense of momentum-curbing selections like 'Shy Boy' and 'Velvet Touch' (both from 1991's Paint as a Fragrance), and while the CD omission of RFTC's one alt-rock semi-hit, 'On a Rope' suits the band's contrarian attitude (says Reis in the liners, 'it's the song that will forever be our piss stain on the footnotes of underground 90s rock lore.I still get checks for $13.92 every year. In some parts of the world I can buy an ox and fuck it for that price.'
Feels less like a definitive career-capper as a result. But such quibbles are forgotten by the time we hit the late-set airing of Circa: Now!' S triumphant grunge waltz 'Ditch Digger', where, even without the benefit of a DVD, you can just picture the costumed crowd raising their arms to valiantly brandish those RFTC tattoos that can no longer be used to get into shows for free. Even in its dying moments, a Rocket From the Crypt show is no place to get all emotional, but if only for a few minutes, you just might confuse all that sweat for tears.