It's not often that a band of snotty, misogynistic, arrogant Euro-trash babies can really tug at my heartstrings. I mean, what do you expect from a band who, when searching for an album title, steals a famous quotation from that egotistical, equally misogynistic pooftah Oscar Wilde?

The Twelve Caesars, God love 'em, are the sort of nasty pricks that provide prissy hags like Alanis Morissette and Ani DiFranco with plenty of fodder for their bitchy, male-bashing pop ditties. I'm picturing a scenario: the suave Swedes making their moves on Alanis and Ani at some trendy NYC dance club. Before you know it, the dainty VH-1 divas are dog-collared, leashed and on all fours in a local flophouse, pawing, snapping and begging like puppies in heat. Then, later, after a night of humiliation, bestiality, sadism, and Party of Five reruns, the sly Swedes slip away undetected. The snoozing grrls are left with another cheap, emotionless sexual experience-- an experience soon to become a cheap, emotionless feminist-lite pop anthem.

Lyrically, the Twelve Caesars offer plenty to offend the easily offended. And that's mainly why I can't stop listening to tracks like "Sort It Out." It's a song that begins as innocently as Semisonic's sunny Ivy League bar anthem "Closing Time." Then the drums kick in. The irresistible guitar hook chimes over the serrated chords, as our heroes collectively sneer: "I wanna smoke crack/ 'Cause you're never comin' back/ I wanna shoot speedballs/ Bang my head against the wall." Well, when your main squeeze comes to her senses and leaves town on your pathetic, broken-down ass, who hasn't entertained the possibilities of visiting Leon, your friendly next-door neighbor/ gang-banger, and sparkin' up the ol' crack pipe? The irony is, these fragile-looking lads in the Twelve Caesars probably do nothing but drink Evian and smoke mint cigarettes. Bleary-eyed blokes like Oasis, who are certainly the types that might smoke crack and shoot speedballs wouldn't dare mention serious drug use in a song.

After the first few tracks, things begin to get progressively flippant. On "You're My Favorite," they pay homage to their favorite elderly bedfellow and work out a few Oedipal issues in the process: "I don't care that you're older than my mother/ I don't want to hang out with those teenage freaks/ I just want someone to pester/ When I've got nothing else to do." They write about a relationship thriving on conjugal masochism, and intimidation and submission on "She's A Planet:" "When she looked me in the eye and said, I want your blood/ I will destroy you when you love me/ And I'll make you blind/ If you leave me, little girl, then I'll kill ya dead/ And if you leave me I will have to take apart your head." Ouch. Not exactly "American Pie," is it?

The Caesars only have the patience for an occasional hurried guitar solo, and allow themselves about three or four chords per song. Occasionally, they add the dementia of a loopy Farfisa into the mix. Sonically, these guys somehow remind me of the early-80's, heavy guitar-driven pop of the Hoodoo Gurus, with obvious nods to dirtier 60's garage champions Flamin' Groovies, the Standells, the Animals, and the Troggs. With a decidedly brash politically incorrect lyrical bent and snotty, fuck-you attitude solidly in place, the Twelve Caesars come to our shores via Chicago's diverse Minty Fresh label. These pompous European assholes (a compliment, I assure you) are bringing bad attitudes and bad taste back from the land of ABBA-- attitudes and tastes that oughta shake some action into more than a few deadbeat American garage-punks.

-Michael Sandlin