Upon first listen, Doc Hopper seems like just another mediocre punk band whose unconscious misconception of punk is to gleefully indulge in what could, in reality, easily pass for all of Foghat's greatest hits played at 78 rpm.

I wouldn't say these confused gents are exactly mediocre, but Zigs, Yaws and Zags feels like a half- baked effort. Doc Hopper seem to inhabit a kind of critical grey area. And, of course, frazzle- brained rock crits like me constantly expend hundreds of superfluous adjectives explaining to the public whether this kinda shit "rocks" or "sucks," right? Well, if Zigs, Yaws and Zags is any indication, these guys are capable of both "rocking" and "sucking" at the drop of a dime. Which can sometimes make for interesting listening.

Go Kart Records prides itself on keeping the hallowed NYC hardcore sound alive, but Doc Hopper is hardly what I'd deem "hardcore," although the band's certainly capable of more than mere Motorhead- worship. However, they still have a substantial identity crisis. These boys sure as shit can't hide those refined Guitar Player magazine- influenced chops. Check out songs like "Crash Course in Sleeping Alone" and "Assplant," where they'll do something screwy like reel off a ridiculously showy Yes riff every so often. And maybe they'll throw in some uncalled- for off- kilter time signatures just for a hoot. The humor in songs like "Sometimes I Wish I Was a Ninja" completely bombs and "Ceremony for a Fat Lip" may as well be an early outtake from Metallica's Kill 'Em All. The sonic imbalance the guys achieve may create the illusion of diversity, but for me, this schizoid element just becomes annoying as hell.

Luckily, "Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed" and "Einstein Married His Cousin" add a much- needed dosage of sunshiny Let It Be- era Replacements trash- pop. Still, though, both numbers also indulge in too much cloudy introspection and tiring existential self- query. I mean, try grappling with lines like, "Time to rethink now a lesson is a lesson not soon forgotten a reason to believe again." Whatever, dude. Sounds honest, I guess.

I mean, ultimately, it isn't as if these guys are so off- the- charts bad-- they've got potential like Tennessee's got trailer parks. But I'll be damned if they can't suppress that kooky neo-metal/ prog side of themselves. They take care to close the album with the awful "Trouble in Doggyland," a song marked by muscular dystrophic extended soloing that sounds like Robert Fripp- meets- Jerry's Kids.

Of course, the sensitive punks in Doc Hopper are looking for meaning in their lives just like everyone else. They're fumbling for direction in their music. They're constantly asking themselves if it's better to hang on to the precarious rocker's life on the road-- sleepin' 'til 3pm, fumbling around in a daze until the next night's gig-- or just surrender to conventional societal mores, get a real job and be another boring, responsible citizen.

Maybe by the time they cut their next album, they'll have all these petty psychological dilemmas worked out. Maybe they'll also get wise and stomp their guitarist's prized vinyl copies of Blizzard of Ozz and King Crimson's Beat into microscopic dust particles. Then they oughta force that tablature- readin' sumbitch to listen to the Heartbreakers' Live at Max's and Wire's Pink Flag for a few days on end.

-Michael Sandlin