After a period of thoughtful self-examination, I've arrived at a few uncomfortable realizations about myself. For one thing, I've come to the conclusion that I just don't know how to rock. Maybe all that self-examination has something to do with it.

This is a distressing situation. Sure, there's plenty of room in the world for people like me without being forced into squarehood. There's atmospheric pop and twee and dance and rap. All of those things are still relatively acceptable, even if they are in direct violation of a few of the Laws of Rock. But am I really ready to be put out to pasture at such a young age?

But let's talk about rock for a minute, here. And not "rock" as in the all-inclusive banner of popular culture, but real rock, with riffs and huge drums and crazed distortion. The kind that sometimes calls for the spelling R-A-W-K. Now, everytime I've used the word "rawk" in a review-- which, to my editor's chagrin, is surprisingly often-- Ryan has corrected my spelling. So I must stipulate here that I'm talking about exclusively about fucking rawk, man. Not dumb pansy rock.

For a brief but potent period in recent musical history, Sub Pop was home to some of the most respectable rawk of the moment. But over the years, their roster has gradually disbanded or signed away, and the quality level has dropped off into unchartable regions of uninspired riffage. And apparently, they're even beginning to run out of mediocre punk bands in the American northwest these days; they've now inexplicably expanded their reach to other continents in order to handpick bands as unwittingly nondescript as Oslo, Norway's Gluecifer.

Europeans who make thoroughly American-sounding music have long been able to avoid the discomforting issues raised by white musicians who make so-called "black" music. Perhaps this is due to the inherent camp value of husky Scandinavian guys wielding their guitars in ways that have been considered hilarious on this side of the Atlantic since the 1980s.

But as previously stated, I don't know how to rock. So, in all honesty, I can't expect you to trust my opinion of something so blatantly rocking as Gluecifer's Tender is the Savage. But if your will to rock has also been worn down by years of shameless experimentation and exoticism, you can probably sympathize with my handicap.

If anything can be said for Gluecifer, it's that their American punk schtick is thoroughly convincing. If not for the availability of information denoting otherwise, I'd be unquestioningly under the impression that Sub Pop swept these guys out of the usual corners of Seattle. Frontman Biff Malibu hams it up through every song with the swagger of vintage Glenn Danzig, and the band follows suit with a vigorously riffing assault. But if there's one aspect of American punk that Gluecifer haven't nailed yet, it's the economical approach. One of our power trios could easily turn out the sound Gluecifer make with five members. And Tender is the Savage wastefully spreads roughly forty minutes' worth of music over two discs for the sake of a useless multimedia feature.

Okay, someone just knocked on my door asking me to turn the music down. I actually had it on pretty loud. Maybe that means I'm on the road to recovery. But I think I need a more graceful transition album than Tender is the Savage. Who knows? Whatever the case, I'm sure that if I ever do attain full rocking status again, I'll be reaching for Back in Black, not Gluecifer.

-Al Shipley