Recently a co-worker of mine, who moonlights as an egghead- variety rock critic, expounded upon the inherent futility in writing about rock music. As we all know, it's like "dancing about architecture." He then quoted the wisdom of a particular semi- famous fellow egghead crit: (and I'm paraphrasing) "Before one can possibly hope to form the basis of an effective critique, the music has to hit you on a visceral level, as opposed to a purely intellectual level."

Well, Dr. Phibes, I couldn't agree more. Because the Peechees' Life, a collection of the band's EPs and seven- inches, has just given me the sonic equivalent of a knee to the groin. As I gather myself and catch my wind, I'm suddenly inspired and viscerally- satisfied enough to begin this review. The songs on Life-- each a nasty little lo-fi revelation in itself-- feature some clever augmentations to your basic three- chord romp. These kids come up with some deceptively simple figures and changes that somehow defy and subvert every subconscious expectation.

The Peechees prove that it's still possible to move simple garage- punk a step closer to high art. It's inexplicable, I suppose. Although, as your friendly neighborhood egghead rock crit may tell you, the Peechees' rare gift for forging beauty from base ugliness certainly could have a Freudian explanation: refer, if you will, to Freud's essay concerning the artist's ability to tap into the pure, uninhibited childhood creativity that most of us regular schmoes experience only fleetingly as tots. And, of course, it helps to have a totally non- self- conscious brat for a singer who casts spit n' derision as few of today's self- styled brats can.

As we speak, I'm entering "Peechees" into the CD Now- inspired E-Z Critique referencing and advisory system recently installed in my skull. Here we go. The computer chip in my brain stem works it's magic, and presto! My brain- screen flashes Funhouse- era Stooges, the Germs, the Halo Benders, the Violent Femmes, "Wart Hog" from the Ramones' Too Tough to Die and Billy Joel's "Big Shot." Wait, Billy Joel? Something's awry here. Must check circuitry for malfunction.

Anyway, lead singer Christopher Appelgren is as close as you'll get to a legitimate '90s return- to- the- garage renaissance boy. He's a true antagonist-- an agitator, if you will-- possessing a nasal adolescent whine that's somehow equally as charming as it is absolutely fucking nerve- wracking. It makes Jello Biafra sound like one of the three tenors. Guitarist Carlos Canedo's playing is obviously well- versed in the punk vernacular: a hybridization of James Williamson and East Bay Ray comes immediately to mind. And drummer Molly Neuman is no slouch either, tearing into a song and beating it back as if being physically attacked by the feisty bass and serrated- edge power chords.

With unbridled energy like this, it doesn't really matter that most of the lyrics are indecipherable-- muddied by the rag tag anti- production and deformed by Appelgren's rabid- Dachshund vocal slurs. Every once in a while, you'll catch the odd phrase like, "Don't wake me up/ 'Cause I don't wanna know..." and "What about those tater tots/ Are you gonna eat them?" I'd certainly pay hard- earned money to uncover the meaning of songs like "Sing Like Me" (a well- executed Elliott Smith cover) and "Tea Biscuit to Show." Make no mistake, students and scholars of Garage U., the Peechees'll hit you on a visceral level, and how. Oh, and they fuckin' rock, too.

-Michael Sandlin