The Black Halos
We Are Not Alone
By Dimitri
(SugarBuzz USA)
SugarBuzz Magazine
O my bros., and only friends...I haven't really had the surplus funds to spend on current discs since...well...shit, man. Since the Humpers put out "Positively Sick On Fourth Street". A lot of bands, and genres, and trends, and technologies have come and gone, since I was sufficiently employed enough to drop dimes on records, and magazines, books, and shiny trousers. I really fell outta the whole next big thing collector's scene, way back, when the Devil Dogs and Teengenerate were still the rage.
When I was a young man, as many of you know, I was part of the whole Flash Metal Gutter Punk subculture, and was deeply immersed in stuff like the Sea Hags, Four Horsemen, Smack, Uncle Sam, even Faster Pussycat-except for their retarded rap song:"Boy, you is ugly, and your girlfriend weighs a ton!"
Throughout the 90's, I read a lot about the next generation of glam urchins, who were steadily, rising up outta places like Sweden and Canada-Backyard Babies, Hardcore Superstar, Hellacopters, Crystal Pistol, etc., all of whom carried on the snarky traditions of the eighties Sunset Strip scene, mixed with some 70's punk, and glitter-influences.
I found it somewhat humorous how the internet made even the lamest, last-rung, clown-show, Nikki Sixx impersonators, and has been hairspray-junkies, seem so exciting and vital, to so many fun and fashion-deprived kids from every random Ghostville USA farm town, where the mandatory dresscode for sporto dorks to fit-in, without being hassled, is tacky prints and khaki shorts, or oversized unisex Nascar t-shirts. Where the closest thing to fun they'll likely ever see is, like, cutting people off on the road in their big trucks with "Git R Done" carefully lettered on the back, shopping at Wal-Mart for homicidal video games, playing "corn-hole" (bean bag toss-I can't make this shit up!) at the yeehaw bar in the rural strip-mall, domestic violence, or manufacturing meth.
This particular demographic are incessantly bombarded with hateful pro-war rat-race propaganda on talk radio all day long, at their blue collar work-sites, demanding they conform, and obediently slave for fat, bleach headed, chicken eating, Justin Timberlake adoring, redneck women, and their various big-machine, day-job pay-masters.
For relief, they get high around the fire pit, and piss and moan about the immigrants, at night, before driving down to fist-fight in the parking-lot of Arby's. Shirtlessly male-bonding, bellowing boisterous bullshit from the balcony bombed on bud, Budweiser, and their buddies' Insane Clown Posse-empowered, jackass, bullying behaviors.
What do you do with a surplus work-force who are too lazy to kill for oil company profiteers? Contract your friends to build more police state prisons, and incarcerate the uneducated classes, for escapist, desperation moves, like crack smoking. All these yokels have to ever look forward to really, is a bag of pot fulla seeds and stems, on Saturday, and the far off, hazy dream, of pissing clean, so they can get off of probation someday, with some cleanser they heard about on-line, like, "Urine Luck", and the similarly unlikely fantasy that they'll be able to hitch a ride with the beauty school drop-outs who run the tanning-bed place, to this year's Rocklahoma. All these folks love their Dokken.
In addition to all the semi-reunited, name-brand, balding, hair-bands who are only too happy to milk the past for all that middle class MILF-money, with, on an average, only two original members in each band, there is also a whole new generation of retro-sleaze punks surging forth, who cheerfully, cite both Hanoi Rocks AND Motley Crue, as influences.
More and more of these bratty, Loreal Blue/Black bandanna wearing bands are showing up on Myspace, and at their town's Hot Topic, in the mall, everyday, to eagerly purchase anything with skulls on it, to get tattoos like Tommy Lee, and wax-enthusiastic about Vains Of Jenna, Gypsy Pistoleroes, and the Black Halos, the very same way we celebrated Dogs D'Amour, and the Jacobites, back in my day.
The Black Halos (along with Stereo Junks, American Heartbreak, and The Favors-now known as Honey-Gun) are one of the very few groups to catch my attention in recent years. I think they first surfaced on some cool Jeff Dahl compilation, years and years ago, before the guitarist split to join some major-label band called, Amen.
7 or 8 years back, I had the misfortune of having to work at Urban Outfitters for about a week, and the hipster-come-lately, In-Store D.J. played their Sub-Pop album, "The Violent Years", all day long. On that record, the Halos were blasting out righteous Cheetah Chrome/MC5 solos, and clearly, had the whole Deadboys attitude down-pat, down to the patent leather sneers, and the snarling, switchblade riffs, and baying tom-cat sense of mischief.
Singer, Billy Hopeless reminded me of a male Christine Amphlett from the Divinyls. Their gang-bang choruses sometimes bring to mind, gutter-snipes like Lower Class Brats, or U.S. Bombs. I used to lurk around the same sleaze-rock msg. board as Mister Hopeless. In addition to having excellent taste in music, and slop-bucket culture, Billy's a really funny yarn-spinner. If you see him, buy him a shot, and get him started in on Zodiac Mindwarp. Hilarious.
Ya really gotta hand it to this band for their work-ethic, and determination to stay on the road forever-playing their nasty, catchy, black leather punk-metal to wide-eyed devotees, all around the world.
They've been through serious line-up, and label changes, throughout the years, and routinely, overcome the traps for troubadours that break-up all the lesser spirits from weaker-willed bands, who already chose to retreat into the lilly white suburbs, giving guitar lessons to nu metal kids, and paying to play old Poison covers, on the weekends, rather than gutting it out on the highway-eternal, Motorhead-style.
I've developed a lot of respect for the Hopeless one, cos even the loss of all his equpment and merchandise could not slow down his tireless dedication to the pure thrill of ROCK. I was a skeptic, too, cos I basically wanted his gig, but he's really bled for it, and I toast his achievement.
The vast majority of the time, the only bands that get real press in this dreary, make-a-buck world, are the obnoxious children of the idle rich, who've easy access to studio time, and their vulgar parent's show-biz Rolodex. Like the Strokes, and al ot of those current Hollywood bands.
All their unremarkable records get shoved into our conciousness by overpaid media-whores, but invariably, they fall off the radar, "later today', cos they got less-than-zero, to say. They're mostly all just goin' through the redundant motions of token adolescent consumerism.
Nick Simmons just finished "No One Here Gets Out Alive" and that sorta thing. The rich kids are everywhere. Some chubby show-biz progeny in his all-too-fuckin'-predictable, "I'll pretend I'm Genesis P. Orridge, and spook these dumb midwestern groupies with my knowledge of the arcane ("Mr.Crowley") and ouji board"-phase.
I'll break protocol, and admit that I may have mistaken the mighty Black Halos for one of those tedious trust-fund bands for a number of years, simply because, from afar, all their success seemed to fall so fluidly into place, for them.
In this time, while I remain pretty cynical about all the assembly-line bands that came and went, while I nursed a hangover that lasted twenty three years, I duff my leather-hat to anyone with the passion and fortitude to keep rocking into their forties. The Black Halos have just gotten better, as songwriters, too.
It's not like Circus, or Hit Parader, were ever that objective, or literary giants, but what passes for music criticism in the American music press, these days, is mostly always, the same twelve NYU grads praising Beck, and the Raveonettes, who slavishly quote from record company bios, and dutifully green-light anything with some money pumped into it. A lot of 'em make their real living 'writing articles for women's magazines, like, "Can A Man Ever Really Be Just Friends With A Woman", and "Your Best Friend's Boob Job".
None of them are gonna say it, so you might as well hear it from me. Black Halos are kinda like the gutter-rock underground's very own Buck Cherry--minus the groveling power ballads, and annoying Limb Bizkit influence. On this new C.D., wet cat Billy's joined by Adam Becvare, from the Lust Killers, in an unconventional, brave, and highly savvy display of cooperation, and fraternity. ONE united band of real badassa motherfuckers is ALWAYS preferable to five so-so bands of local ego-trippers only relevant to the small-pond, Manic Panic-Vampiras, of their immediate zip-codes.
All of which, brings us, now, to the only important question, really. Which is, will I play this disc more than once, before re-gifting it to some cool-as-fuck teenager I hope to save from the by-numbers, corporate-friendly, Formula-Rock of Evanessence and Avenged Sevenfold? YEAH!!!
It's like the Deadboys, with magnificent, Cheap Trick production-value. Majestic, really. You can believe the hype. Skip Crue-Fest, and go see the Black Halos, instead. Buy This CD! On Acetate Records.