Over the years, untold oceans of praise have raged from many a harried hack's pen concerning the Mekons' stellar body of work. In fact, not since, possibly, the Velvet Underground or the Modern Lovers has a rock band been met with such rampant critical kudos. In fact, here's that lovable Keith Richards of rock critics, the late Lester Bangs, gushing a lude- fueled Niagara Falls of hyperbole on the Mekons' behalf: "The Mekons are the most revolutionary group in the history of rock 'n' roll. They are also the finest artists ever to have graced this admittedly somewhat degenerate form with the grace of their aesthetic sensibilities, rarefied as a glimpse through a butterfly's wing..."

But the Mekons are one of the few bands that have, over the years, earned most of the press corps' amorous ass- smooching. Always barely squeaking by on constant touring and modest record sales, the Mekons never had much tolerance for major labels, or even permanent band members for that matter. And considering they're one of the few holdovers left from that heralded class of '77, it's a minor miracle they're still functioning at all.

Just as in the late 1960s when Fairport Convention electrified traditional Irish jigs, reels, and pennywhistle into English folk-rock, the Mekons drew from British Isles folk in their own equally innovative fashion. Aided by plenty of cheap lager and fuck- all attitude, they recast these traditional elements into a formidable folk- punk hybrid. But they also proved they could reel off filthy punkabilly with the best of their American contemporaries.

If you're merely looking for a simple introduction and overview of the Mekons' body of work, this compilation may be worth picking up. But if you're conversant with the band's 20- year legacy, you're probably not going to find much revelation here. Not that it doesn't have it's moments, though. I mean, after all, it's the fuckin' Mekons were talking about here, mates.

On the first few tracks we find the band in tip-top form. On the title track, in particular, we get the classic Mekons' gutbucket guitar- grind rubbing up against the fiddle and accordion. They make their passion for the once- great Rod Stewart evident on their cover of "You Wear it Well," as it exudes an appropriate Mekons raggedness. There's also an alternate take of Retreat From Memphis' "Lucky Devil" (here entitled "Lucky Star") and pared down to a deathly- spare acoustic version.

Jon Langford's vocals, evincing some sort of demented Ian McCullough, are still a twisted anomaly in rock, to be sure. It sounds like he's always singing, literally, as if his life depended on it, sounding off in his last living breaths before he's shot at sundown. Contrast that with Sally Timms' unaffected, and almost diffident vocals. The rapport between Timms and Langford always makes for compelling vocal interchange, particularly on the raunchy blues- rocker "Orpheus." But the beautifully- written "The Ballad of Sally," is a Timms highlight, with its languid fiddle over a staccato reggae- tinged rhythm.

Sadly, after the first thirteen or so tracks (at which point you've only just reached the album's halfway mark), the listener has to rummage through a junkyard sale of Stones-y liquor- soaked marginalia, alternate takes, and other meandering half- formed stuff. There's some less- than- inspired techno- tinkering and programmed beats (they even sample Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" on one track) played off the violin and accordion arrangements.

My advice is to take out the shot glass and bottle of Old Grand Dad, get out your copies of Honky Tonkin', As Good As It Gets, and Retreat From Memphis and start from there. That's as probably as good a Mekons retrospective as any.

-Michael Sandlin