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The Little Killers

With the Riplets and This Moment in Black History. Friday, September 26, at the Beachland Ballroom.


For those who prefer their garage rock of the grimiest ilk, Crypt Records has always been Valhalla's gutter -- a label that throughout the '90s was flooded with bands of bile-caked four-chord crunching and piss 'n' vinegar invective. Well, after dumping a goodly amount of promo dough into the Dirties' record back in 1997, then promptly seeing it receive the usual deaf ear -- even from the burgeoning "garage scene" -- Crypt vowed never to sign a new band again.

But alas, the Crypt brain trust is giving it one more try. Have they retained that impeccable bad taste? The answer -- in the form of this two-gal/one-guy New York City group -- is a decided Yup! The Little Killers' debut is a roughshod runover of Johnny Thunders' slash 'n' burp power-pop hooks clawing to get out, and a gravelly piped goon who's tired of cheatin' dames -- mainly 'cause he's losing sleep from bedding down with them. Speaking of cheating dames, the one on drums has little interest in impressing, opting instead for bashing harder right after a slipped stick. Though they're less cracked in the warped humor department than most of the Crypt stable, who can make out lyrics in a club show anyway?

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