The Strokes and the White Stripes will NOT save Rock “n’ roll. It’s embarrassing that every time I open a magazine or talk to some limp-dicked “hip” record store employee, they call these bands, “The Return Of The Rock”. The record industry has become such a joke—no artists with any staying power have been signed in what seems like eons. Do the fat cat execs at the major labels honestly believe that we’ll be clamouring for Brittany Spears or Avril Lavigne reissues in 2025?! Meanwhile, classic Lps like the first May Blitz album lay in limbo, apparently available only to record collector scum who are willing to shell out $1300 for a copy. It’s unfortunate that real rock fans have no access to records they would actually listen to, as opposed to some jerkoff who is merely collecting trophies.
Being perpetually at loose ends, struggling to keep the wolves at bay, real rock ‘n’ roll is one of the few places I find solace. Thank Christ there’s a Black Halos, a Buckcherry and especially a Robin Black. This hell-for-leather, rude-itude, ass-kickin’ kamikaze and his band, the Intergalactic Rock Stars may be the most important band you’ve never heard of—but believe me, you will. Their album, “Planet Fame” has become a daily soundtrack of my life. All the elements that get the ‘ol dick hard are present: the bigger than life image, the Cheap Trick-esque pop thrills, the Johnny Thunders swagger and especially the SONGS.
And what glorious songs they are! The first time I heard the opener, “T.V. Trash”, I couldn’t believe how perfect it was/is. The shrill, Thundersy guitar lick that kicks the song into gear still gives me butterflies a year later—no mean feat considering what a jaded mofo I am. “Every boy wants a sportscar/And every girl wants a rockstar” may be one of the finest couplets ever written, I mean didn’t the moneybag man, Gene Simmons say: “If I were a girl, I’d rather fuck a rock star than a plumber”? Maybe this doesn’t make any sense to you—I’ll try to explain. I’m obsessed with r ‘n’ r mythology, and when someone taps into it, conjures images of wonders past, my heart immediately responds. I’m not really sure where the connections I make come from, I just know they fill my brain with a flood of adolescent joy. Thus, I’m only about a minute into this record, and there’s already a myth in the making. How fucking great is that!?
Y’see, I grew up on Cheap Trick’s first three masterpieces. Power pop in general is something that I live and breathe. There’s something about bubblegummy hooks punctuated by fearsome guitar crunch that I’ll never get outta my system. So, Robin Fuckin’ Black and co. have added some colour to a rapidly graying musical spectrum. True power pop in the fine tradition of the ‘Trick, Plimsouls, Romantics, 20/20 and the Shoes. Toss in some Dolls, Guns ‘N’ Roses and the Crue, and you’re getting the idea.
As a kid, I listened to equal doses of punk, glam, metal and pop. Apparently so did RFB and the boys. Their distillation of all of these sounds into one devastating record is nothing short of miraculous. I’ve been waiting for this hybrid to emerge for years. Being a rudimentary musician myself, I certainly couldn’t have pulled it off—luckily, these guys do. It’s like listening to the record inside my head, the one I could never make.
“Suburban Sci-Fi” is another near-perfect blend of sexy guitar slop, androgynous yet sneering vocals and all around r ‘n’ r knowhow. It seems like a century since I’ve heard tunesmiths of this magnitude. It’s next to impossible for me to express just how deeply this record has affected me. I’m reminded of hearing “Appetite For Destruction” oh so long ago. There just ain’t a bum track on here. Another nice touch is the seemingly lost art of the “la la la”. Remember when nearly every rocker would throw in the damn things; Sung usually in harmony, for maximum catchiness? RFB and the boys use ‘em excessively, and goddammit, that IS NOT a bad thing. Some clichés are worth preserving.
Producers Moe Berg (ex-Pursuit of Happiness) and Gggarth Richardson (Melvins, Rage Against The Machine) give the songs plenty of punch, while still emphasizing the sugary choruses that make glam rock so great. Don’t believe the lukewarm “too slick” bullshit seminal know-nothings the All Music Guide provided. Remember Sweet? Lotsa Big Guitars and slick harmonies; it’s the hallmark of all that glitters.
I guess I should point out that they’re Canadian, being a fellow Canuck; although I’m certainly not pointing this out as a patriotic gesture. That shit doesn’t play here in the Great White North. As far as geographical bullshit goes, I’ll once again quote Mr. Bill Hicks: “I didn’t have much to do with it… my parents fucked here.”
But I digress. Just buy the fucking album—and for a taste of what they’re like live, check the Litterbox. |
