From the Nov 3 – Nov 9, 2005 issue

Music

CD Reviews

JACK ENDINO
Permanent Fatal Error
(Wondertaker)

Permanent Fatal Error is the music this town was—rightly or wrongly—once famous for. Let's call it what it is. Unapologetically grunge, like Tad and Mudhoney and Green River and the Melvins and Blood Circus once wrote. Oh, wait. Didn't the same person—one Jack Endino—produce all of those records? Grunge, as in heavy, sludgy, psychedelic rock that takes its root from the full-on metallic assault of critically scorned '70s hair bands and post-punk attitude. You were expecting flowery girly pop or jerky Franz Ferdinand new wave, maybe? Do me a fucking favor: If you're a musician reading this, you probably owe your fucking existence in this crummy town to Endino's genius way around a tight budget and a stack of chocolate cookies around the end of the '80s. This dude fucking invented grunge, and he continues to personify it. Comprehend?

His old band, Skin Yard, were grunge in its purest form. They started in 1985, splitting around the time some asshole Brit journalist came in and ruined everything with his heady words of praise... Yes, they rocked. Not that you noticed, too in thrall to fashion.

This is more of the same. Jack is hardly going to start changing now. Whether that's what you want comes down to how hardcore you feel today. The album is off to a cracking start. "Count Me Out" is like Motörhead covering the High Numbers; yes, that dense and heavy and moody and unforgiving. "Waiting," meanwhile, is as damn wrenching as prime Soundgarden-influenced Nirvana. "Swallow the Acid" is like Das Damen, given the keys to Tom Hazelmyer's toy cabinet. The rest is very old-school Seattle: deep and guttural and literate and vaguely depressed and brimming with wah-wah and energy. You want a musical education? Then pick this up. But does it rock? DOES IT ROCK? Fuck yeah. EVERETT TRUE

Jack Endino performs Sat Nov 5 at the Funhouse, 9:30 pm, $7.

THE 88
Over and Over
(EMK/Mootron)

Five guys in matching suits playing smart, shiny pop music, the 88 stand out on the strength of singer-guitarist Keith Slettedahl's magnificently screwy vocals. His delivery ranges from a swelling, note-sustaining falsetto to Freddie Mercury­–like, rock-opera-style warbling. A pleasant, laid-back piano sound anchors the music and is combined with the traditional gleaming guitar and bouncy, light drums of a power-pop band in the mold of Elvis Costello & the Attractions or the Kinks. Among Over and Over's many sweet sounding would-be singles, "All 'Cause of You" is a classic love song; only, the lyrics peak with the surprising, soaring chorus, "There ain't no blood on my hands love," making the listener completely rethink what the song is about halfway through. With their deft pop arrangements and Slettedahl's elevated vibrato cracking light bulbs, the 88 manage, in their own fairly simple way, to bedazzle. ADAM BREGMAN

The 88 perform Wed Nov 9 at the Crocodile, 9 pm, $8.

DETROIT COBRAS
Baby
(Bloodshot)

If Mick Collins and his Dirtbombs infantries led the Detroit garage scene into battle throughout the last decade, the Detroit Cobras were the house band the boys could come home to. Dispensing with any pretensions to alternative nation building, the Cobras were content to mine their considerable record collections for '50s/'60s R&B obscurities to cover. Though offhandedly hipping the kids to "where it all came from," the Cobras were basically a party band—though their parties, led by singer Rachel Nagy's vivacious voice and vicious liver, often spiraled into competing shouts of "You fucking asshole!" etc.—quickly turning this unassuming bar band into a barred band. They made doing the waddle with your favorite gal just a tad post-mo' dangerous. A few cool Sympathy for the Record Industry releases, the "big in England" tag, and trend hype did the rest, sweeping the Cobras up into slimy A&R free-lunch fallacies.

The thing is, the band—always armed with the Motor City's best players—kept having to shift members. And it seemed Nagy didn't expect to pass beyond party status, her stage presence becoming more confused and bored.

So the usual major-label backslaps/stabs ensued, and it's taken awhile for this third long-player to finally appear. Landing on Bloodshot puts them in more of the roots-rock context they probably belonged in all along—and this CD follows suit. Nagy's voice is strong as ever, but sounds subtler. They still pound out the floor-rattling stomps ("Everybody's Going Wild," "Cha Cha Twist," "Hot Dog"), but the groovy, soul-strolling ballads stick out ("Weak Spot," "I Wanna Holler," "It's Raining"). The band grind along scruffy enough, but is tentative at times, with fewer spilled-out lead licks or rusty production surprises than before. The 2004 EP, Seven Easy Pieces, added here, shows the somewhat sleazier slink from which they've moved on. Literally. Nagy fell in love, moved to San Diego, and is happier than ever. Check the song choices here and her recent all-smiles stage demeanor. It seems the Detroit Cobras are back from the front, playing for the boys again. ERIC DAVIDSON

The Detroit Cobras perform Tues Nov 8 at Chop Suey, $10 adv, 8 pm.