Written by: Dave Cantrell

Before we get started, the band. They deserve top billing:

Jeff Buckland – vocals; Bill Dickson – rhythm guitar; John Hannah – bass; Tom Milmore – lead guitar; Jerid O’Connell- drums.

OK, then, off we go:

Once the Pistols and the Ramones burst up from the basement in the late-ish 70s and punched a hole in what was becoming a rather drab-colored and sagging musical ceiling, the heavens of hell were at last provided an opening through which the theretofore obscured-though-rising underground could rain down upon the desperate masses yearning to be (Alan?) freed from the Styxified overwrought bombast that had taken the mantle of rock’n’roll and melted it down into a glob of corporatized bollocks that prized paint-by-numbers predictability – and the fringe of shag haircuts meant to catch the currents of the  wind machines just so – over passion and the fervor of rebellion in which the form was founded in the first place. It was pretty much obvious to all that cared to take a look that (the original spirit of) Elvis had indeed left the building and was seemingly unable to find its way back. Thus, when the revivalist fireball blasted its way in to what had become a bloated elitist heirarchy that measured its treasure by how many framed gold records hung on the walls of its corporate offices, there was this kind of burst of cathartic relief and, almost overnight, spiky-haired and safety-pinned hordes were suddenly leaning against soon-to-break cordons and finding what they craved at the likes of Max’s and CBGB’s and dozens more long forgotten venues and from that point forward one could safely say – pun intended or not – “We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

From there came an instantly historic bedlam, punters and noisemakers alike pressing their way into the spotlights and stage fronts, thrashing and pogoing to their new-born freedom and among the crush of a thousand chancers that alllllmost made the (relatively modest, to be honest) big time but for whatever of the many reasons on the menu of missed opportunities were left in the scorched-earth/post-punk wake, that unfortunate fate, thanks to an unquenchable curiosity fed by the almost limitless possibilities of the digital age, is, if they (and we) are lucky, remedied by a decades-later rediscovery and hence do we have before us today this vital document from late-7os Manhattan-based band Rousers (the ‘The’ purely optional). And what, you ask, puts this record particularly at a kind of perversely peculiar odds with most else that fell into that none-more-marvelous of a maelstrom, thereby singling itself out as something of a turbo-charged outlier? The singular focus, to a degree far deeper and devoted than those of a similar stylistic bent (The Stray Cats, we’d reckon, would not fare so well in a musical knife fight with these guys), on the purest most undiluted strain of mid-50s rockabilly, the very same source a certain 20-year-old truck driver from Tupelo brought to Sam Phillips that unleashed the beast the aforementioned Mr. Freed would dub ‘rock and roll’ that neither the soon-to-be-King nor his producer could have possibly foreseen.

Thanks to the mastery and magic of one Ed Stasium (hit that link), every track here strikes the senses like a roaring static electricity made as clear and sharp as a bolt of midnight lightning, be it the catchy AF crunch of opener “Be My Girl,” the breathless pogo-worthy “Lonely Summer” that follows on its heels with enough punch to knock out all comers, “Ram Rod”‘s relentlessness that feels like it’s tripping all over itself but in the most orderly, together fashion imaginable and on and on this record goes. I mean, even when the pace slows for a sec, as on the lovely “Smother,” all that does is underline the pure romantic soul that animates this record no matter the tempo.

Spread across two CDs to maintain its historical context (considering them 5″ LPs is almost unavoidable and speaking of which, if, as this writer feels, a record of this sort really must be had on vinyl, well, you’re in luck – but hurry) and released by the incomparable James Reynolds-founded Left For Dead label in cahoots with Reynold’s seminal Jimboco Records, there’s simply nowhere to escape (as if you’d ever want to in the first place) the ageless invincible spell this collection unspools on one’s unprepared senses. It’s a type of wild-haired hypnosis that’s only exacerbated by the six cuts included on the bonus disc, a capper that begins with a truly genuine tearjerking take on “Baby It’s You,” wistful wo-ho‘s and all, rips like a merciless mutha through their take on the Ventures’ immortal “Pipeline,” unearths anew the Buckland-penned original “Don’t Let The Band Stop Playing” that could’ve topped the charts in 1961 if it hadn’t materialized eighteen years too late (a testament to the almost casual timelessness of this lot) and a couple other tracks we’ll leave for your discovery.

While ultimately not released on Seymour Stein’s immortal Sire imprint – one of the man’s rare miscues if your asking us; the tracks were cut for Sire in the label’s basement studio but, well, who knows – the ‘long overdueness’ of this release cannot be overstated. Yes, the songs are indeed as solid as solid gets, it’s the great unrestrained restraint that’s always bursting at the heart of the greatest rockabilly that’s the ticket here, the sound as sound as it is outright feral. This is, in short, the word ‘irresistible’ written in huge unmissable lettering to rival the HOLLYWOOD sign. Believe us, if any of the fore-written feels like something up your rockin’ alley, well, go fuckin’ jump on it right now. 

https://www.leftfordeadrecords.com/