Lustre King attack their instruments with all the aplomb of a NASCAR pit crew. Axle grease and sweat get smeared through their hair and Hanes t-shirts. They spit swished sports quenchers on each other's neck to cool down. Fingernails bleed. Baby, the Shoot the Messenger disc sports pores and glands and aims right for your neck, knees, and crotch.

Lustre King's head maniac, Mike Lust, might be one of the few humans keeping Rock- N'- Fuckin'- Roll alive for America's sorry ass. On stage, he air- kicks, licks his fingers, thrusts his pelvis, grates his guitar strings, and begs his audience to "Come On!" with screams, crotch grabs, and come- hither hand gestures like some brain- damaged offspring of Rocket From the Crypt and Michael Jackson. Lust's the kind of guy who rolls packs of Luckys in his sleeves and slicks his hair back with petroleum jelly into the shape of a building Lake Michigan wave.

These mostly instrumental (aside from some unnecessary guest vocals from Chicago scenesters Brian Case and Tim Kinsella) tracks serve up smoking, riff- heavy rock with hot piston drumming and lumbar- pounding bass. Think of a less nerdy Don Caballero or Trans Am who'd rather huff thinner fumes in shop class than study all that Math. Shoot the Messenger also comes equipped with ass- undulating turntables, stomping piano samples, keyboards, and other juicy options. Unfortunately, these recent additions aren't featured quite enough, and getting through the entire muscular album in one sitting is like riding the rollercoaster one too many times.

Lustre King will always remain a sexy, punishing live show but their recordings still have yet to capture the all the energy. Next time they should go with their instincts and hire that full- time DJ and cram this rock down peoples' throats.

-Brent DiCrescenzo