Grand Mal
Maledictions
[Slash/London]
Rating: 4.7
NYC's Grand Mal is another of those increasingly common semi- alternative
"supergroups" consisting of aging journeymen boasting resumes packed with
street credibility: they've paid their dues in bands like St. Johnny,
Agit-pop, and the Meices. The drummer alone can claim past membership in
Sixteen Deluxe, Crown Heights, Emma Peel, and Starfish. But on Maledictions,
these too- cool- for- school indie veterans attempt to give junkie street- punk
posturing a sparkly glitter- pop sheen. And what's with the fifty- cent
titular wordplay, anyway? I mean, are these twelve songs afflicted or
shadowed by some curse or similar mystical misgiving? We shall see.
Local print media fumble with typically thumb- tongued assessments: "Grand
Mal are trying to be '90s Brits trying to sound like T. Rex glam punks
trying to sound like Lou Reed talking out his ass filtered through a
bullhorn, yadda yadda yadda." Yeah, sure there's the obvious Glam- rock
T. Rex-ian angle. But in the case of Grand Mal, at least, it's much, much
simpler than all that. It's all about Johnny Thunders, stupid.
And believe me, singer/ guitarist Bill Whitten's got ol' Johnny Boy down
pat. He's got the unruly grease- rock hair, slings Thunders' favorite model
Gibson, and throws down on the same three or four big barre chords in every
song. Whitten's also perfected those nasal- toned smack- addict vocals,
while being hooked on good 'ol punk phonics, too. Y'know, he's got that
deliberately dumbed- down thug- speak happenin': "I feel bad/ I feel cut to
the bone/ If this is pleasure/ I don't want none never," he declares on the
opener, "Superstars."
For Whitten, making a studio album like Maledictions is probably more
a pain in the ass than a passion. He seems a lot more comfortable with
getting up on stage and belting out X's "Were Desperate" and the Ramones'
"Chinese Rocks" than fashioning salable studio- recorded "product" from the
street debris of his influences. With that, I'll propose that the real
malediction for Whitten and Grand Mal is their yearning to retain gutterpunk
authenticity in the face of major- label pressure to conform: "Hey,
fellas, you can be nasty punks if you like, but if you don't appeal to the
lucrative ecstasy- dropping techno- kiddie demographic, then prepare to say
'Hello, again' to your old pal, Mr. Day Job."
Problem is, onstage and on disc, the tape loop trickery and programmed sound
bytes just don't seem to be a fully assimilated, integral part of their
overall sound. It's almost as if this techno- age gloss is just an empty
concession to some producer twerp's notion of what Y2K product is supposed
to sound like. When these boys decide to go strictly barroom on us, as in "Fun, Fun, Fun"
and "Out on Bail" (dig the "Personality Crisis" barrelhouse piano), they
rock out with much the same fun- lovin' sass and grit as the New York Dolls
or the Heartbreakers. But just when you begin to pay attention, they'll pull
up lame, as on the miasmic electronica mix of "Whizz Kid."
"Stay In Bed" could, I suppose, pass for a good imitation of a catastrophic
Oasis or Supergrass (is there a difference?) outtake. But then they'll counter
with an irresistable dose of pure pop sweetness like "You Gotta Be Kidding."
On "Sucker's Bet," they decide to tinker with dynamics a bit. The sleepy
Ny-Quil verses are such a downer, though, that not even the noisy racket of
the too- loud choruses can shake you awake. The crafty guitar figure on "I'm
in Trouble" can't quite save a song that limps along on too many tired,
overused power- pop motifs. "Picture You," is just flat and tuneless,
lacking a standout hook (or anything else) to break up it's insistent
plodding. There's also the final 20+ minutes of slow, trip-hop death,
ushering us into the ninth circle of tape loop hell, but we won't get
into that.
Admittedly, though, I'm rubbed in strange and not- so- uncomfortable ways
by Grand Mal's Maledictions. Of course, that doesn't stop me from
ejecting the CD, yelling "assholes!" and malevolently slinging the disc
across the room.
-Michael Sandlin