If you own a Fugazi shirt you did not buy it from them.
But grandstanding aside, Repeater is a great, great protest album. Consumerism, abuse (both of and by the self), xenophobia, and everything else that made America the biggest dick in the world were at the front of the line and Fugazi wanted them all recognized. I came up through a punk rock scene I couldn't really relate to, so I kicked myself pretty hard for waiting until college to really dig into Fugazi's no-bullshit punk funk. They brought the original spirit of Gang of Four to house shows instead of dance floors. You could literarilly cut a rug at a Fugazi performance, and maybe afterward sign up for a zine subscription or two.
"Merchandise", "Shut the Door", and the fancy dancing title track beat more than just brows. Hell, even the instrumentation has a chip on its shoulder. Ian MacKaye and Guy Picciotto put their pedal-jumping contemporaries to shame with only two Marshall half-stacks, and Joe Lally and Brendan Canty fill the pocket like James Brown's loose chain.
As a musician, my sensibilities lie somewhere between Jimi Hendrix and Ian MacKaye - I prefer to have an arrangement of helpful devices to brighten my pallet, but when it comes to throwing down the hard stuff, you've either got the right tool for the job or you don't. Albums like Repeater remind me that three chords and the truth is still the best way to spell 'rock-and-roll'. "We owe you nothing" is a mantra throughout Repeater, but Fugazi certainly are generous in their delivery in many ways.
As a musician, my sensibilities lie somewhere between Jimi Hendrix and Ian MacKaye - I prefer to have an arrangement of helpful devices to brighten my pallet, but when it comes to throwing down the hard stuff, you've either got the right tool for the job or you don't. Albums like Repeater remind me that three chords and the truth is still the best way to spell 'rock-and-roll'. "We owe you nothing" is a mantra throughout Repeater, but Fugazi certainly are generous in their delivery in many ways.
182. Dead Kennedys - Frankenchrist (1985)
Yes, all the hits are on the first two records. Yes, Jello was getting didactic. But Frankenchrist was the most logical final phase for the Dead Kennedys before personal politics would turn them into a neutered mess of nostalgia.
My first DK experience was picking up Plastic Surgery Disasters (1982) at the annual Decatur Public Library book sale. I recognized the band name, had two American dollars, and got the seal of approval from my dad, who is way more awesome than your dad (although he did take away my Everlast and Kid Rock CDs a few months later, but we'll get there when we get there). It would take me a few years to appreciate what I had, I'll admit. I wasn't used to East Bay Ray's buzzsaw Stratocaster, nor Jello's Tweety Bird narratives. It took a few years, and another visit to the Decatur Public Library, to find the taste-making Shriners you see before you.
The stories Biafra had been telling were short bursts of terror, headlines slapped across faces at breakneck speeds. Frankenchrist was a novel made of taut, elaborate chapters of context, pomp and circumstance. With the exception of "MTV Get Off the Air", the topical nature of the material (unfortunately) avoids tedium.
The real secret weapons the Dead Kennedys possessed was their familiarity. East Bay Ray's canvas of Morricone guitar provides ample space for Jello's brutal broad strokes. He lures in listeners, naming streets and locations, maybe someone's cousin. Then the fangs and claws come out of seemingly nowhere. But it's not a monster by moonlight that's ripping your head off, it's the police. The G-Men hid in the shadows, not the Boogey Man. There is no haunted castle, just a contemptuous society suffocating anybody who raises their head above the sedentary shit cloud.
The darkness is there, and the threat is real, but so is the light. Until that bulb hanging over our heads flickers to life, the Dead Kennedys will have to keep their strobe set on stun.
Recommended Listening: This Could Be Anywhere, A Growing Boy Needs His Lunchh, Jock-O-Rama (Invasion of the Beef Patrol)
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