Boy, there just aren't many new and interesting ways to say "fuck you" nowadays, y'know? And Road Rage's, Nothin' to Declare can stand as proof: these guys are basically more boring old fuddy- duddies unable to manifest the deceptively simple kiss-off of "fuck you" into something transcendent-- something at least halfway compelling. To be sure, it's a lot easier for a pissed- off punk band to slip into unintentional comedic mode with all that unfocused hissyfit anger. In punk's past, insult connoisseurs like Darby Crash, Jello Biafra, Lee Ving, Iggy Pop, and John Lydon explored and expanded the range of expressive possibilities that "fuck you" offers. Sound like bullshit? Well, maybe it is. Sorry to say, though, Road Rage lead singer Mad Dog's empty "fuck you's," "fuck it's," "bolloxes," and "Oi! Oi!'s" just won't cut the mustard anymore.

It's all kind of sad, really. Take Mad Dog, for instance. He's probably like 45, and been at this thankless shit for a quarter century now. Yeah, he still reluctantly answers to that old punk alias, although his former Christian name, Bob St. John Smythe, seems somehow more appropriate these days. Most of his friends from '77 are probably incapacitated, married and working boring day jobs, or dead. His vocabulary's down to a few monosyllabic words, a few scatological terms, and maybe some grunts here and there. He just wants to kick a little more ass and gob on a few more fuckin' rotters before he croaks. Mad Dog's trusty axeman, affectionately known as Gaz, is most certainly pushin' 40, has yet to weed out the spandex from his long unlaundered wardrobe, and still hasn't weaned himself off Judas Priest's British Steel. The life of a superannuated punk just ain't all shits and giggles, see?

You've heard a thousand punk bands like this and, lucky you, you'll probably hear a thousand more. Road Rage would have you believe they're tasteless, rotten and just don't give a fuck. But the joke's on them: they're too thick to come off as truly tasteless; and too conventionally- minded to make us puke in disgust. They're not even witty or imaginative enough to come off as inadvertent Sex Pistols parodies-- the reluctant Rutles of punk, if you please.

Heck, these decrepit windbags are still intimidated by the ambiguous sexuality they observe on the telly. And yeah, they especially curse those durn "gay monkey bastards" in "What Gender." There doesn't even appear to be anything calculated or deliberate about this sort of naïve anti-PC mouthing off. They seem honestly threatened by androgynes and nancy boys. "Fuck Off House" is about the frivolous antics of the idle rich being naughty in their large pastoral estates. "DDP" is their Nancy Reagan anti- drug opus. And surprise! Married life doesn't appeal to 'em either, as evidenced by "Matrimony." Yeah, to hell with the missus, boys! Lucky our right hands haven't been completely stymied by arthritis yet! "Smarmy Martin" is about an irresponsible, sexually- liberated swinger named Martin, who'll be "coming around your place/ And coming in your face/ Old Martin what a cool geezer/ NOT!" Some sensa yuma, eh?

So, we know the sensitive fellows in Road Rage don't care much for sexual deviancy, marriage, or skirt chasing. Things get worse, though. "When We Were the Boys," is self- referential, nostalgic male- bonding music at its worst. It's a tune that does, in fact, make a declaration: hey, we certainly are not over the hill punks on the verge of death! And Mad Pup's affected snarl on "Last One Off" is pure Pistols pilfering. Then, of course, there's guitarist Gaz and his completely uninformed '70s time- capsule guitar work. Nothing more to say about him.

If you think about it, the chaps in Road Rage have a lot in common with your average high school football coach. You could even say they're kind of moralistic and conservative. These are the sort of English goons that get sloshed at soccer games and bust each other's skulls with bricks-- just for sport, y'know? Think of the grimy working stiffs in "The Full Monty" if they'd formed a hard rock band instead of a male burlesque ensemble. In short, Road Rage has nothing constructive nor destructive to add to the long- overflowed punk melting pot. Oh, and they also enjoy ending songs with that cliched burping and lugie- hacking verite. Just where do these fookin' wankers get off, anyway? Bluuuurrrp!!

-Michael Sandlin