July 16–23, 1998

critic pick|rock/pop

Rocket From The Crypt

Every time somebody says, "Hey, have you heard the NEW Rocket From The Crypt record?" my first thought is, "They're still around?" Yet the Rockets continue to do discs, play shows and acquire fans. Using more hip-shaking blues-raunch than The Black Crowes, more growly heft than Mojo Nixon and Mike Watt combined, and more shake-yer-ass rock 'n' roll than The Cramps, the Rockets go Vegas on their new disc RFTC (Interscope), with fabulous results.

Speed limit-breaking drums, cheaply produced Memphis horns, testosterone-driven lyrics, and loud, shouting girls pound the pavement on RFTC. Fronted by hootenanny homeboy John Reis, the Rockets get countrified and showbizzy on "Eye On You" (with the rather Cindy Wilson-esque yowl of Holly Golightly) the same way Elvis Presley did on his '68 comeback special. The preening rave-up of "Break It Up" is more bitchy than anything Marc Bolan could've done had he not hit that tree. And hitting a tree is what this record's all about. Rocket From the Crypt, for better or worse, never EVER let up. From the thrash 'n' burn of "Panic Scam," the tasteless sax-y sex acting of "Dick On a Dog," RFTC is a runaway train looking for that final in-tunnel entendre. But it's a great ride while it lasts.

Opening the big shoe is Creeper Lagoon, who played the Pontiac mere weeks ago. On their debut full-length, I Become Small And Go (Nickel Bag), they capture laconic passion with the same bliss that RFTC does. Only Creeper do it with a lithium rush that hides a stringent melodicism in a morass of gauzy Floyd-ian psychedelia.

Rocket From The Crypt with Creeper Lagoon, Tue., July 21, Theater Of The Living Arts, 334 South St., 922-1011

-a.d. amorosi