By Lauren Wise
By Anthony Sandoval
By New Times Staff
By Chris Parker
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Lauren Wise
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Chase Kamp
Twees may be a godless bonehead hooked on porn, whack and tweak, but it ain't the schlong comparisons he's concerned with, hell no. Twees, as unlettered as he is, believes that the only good Nazi is a dead Nazi.
See, when Twees was a boy, his mother was raped and murdered by a group of skinheads who spouted Hitler rhetoric and listened to punk nothings like Skrewdriver.
No Nazi is going to schtupp Twees' dream girl.
Twees quits his shite band -- unbeknownst to him is the fact that he's already been kicked out of it. Then he robs his grandmother's bank account, steals her mint-condition Ford LTD and heads out to L.A. -- Van Nuys, specifically. Twees knows that the Van Nuys/Chatsworth area is where 90 percent of all porn in this country is produced.
Once in Van Nuys, Twees finds a weekly room off Victory Boulevard and settles in. The sunny California life suits him well, and, almost immediately, he knows his way around the Valley. A meth connection is made next.
Soon he's mastered the simple ins and outs of the jizz biz and is surprised at how easily you can enter the world of porn. At some point, Twees enters a porn production house posing as a director. He's learned enough to know that he'll be readily accepted because that is precisely how 99 percent of all porn directors get work. Being doughy, tattooed and white, and looking all rap/metal, doesn't hurt, either. His dark shades, the Vandyke, the simulated cool -- it's like the wood grain of the cheap paneled offices in the porn warehouses. Just window dressing to hide the ugliness underneath.
Twees eventually gets his hands on both Tiffany and Hammer's real names and addresses. The next day he starts stalking them. Then he buys a gun.
His plans are to first kill that Nazi punk-ass Hammer, then marry Tiffany.
Here's where I'm lost. Before I can write this thing, I need an ending. Maybe you can help.
Will Twees succeed in blowing away Hammer, then wind up on Death Row to question life and green things like the little Algerian dude in the end of The Stranger? Or will he bungle the whole thing and get blown away by the cocksure porn stud?
And what about Tiffany? If Twees eliminates Hammer, will he get Tiffany as his prize? And if so, will they live forever in a waterfall of porn and meth somewhere in the Valley?
Lemme know, okay?
When was the last great London rock 'n' roll sound? If you're thinking Blur or Oasis or the once-brilliant Pulp, fergetit, you're wallowing in that low insight begat from an immoderation of mediocrity, cowboy.
In the '60s and '70s, London either produced its own great bands (the Pretty Things, the Kinks, the Small Faces, the Who) or drew the best work from those who moved there (the Beatles).
For the whole of 1976, the Sex Pistols could've been considered a great U.K. band. Now, the limeys can't even give birth to what they were once synonymous with -- great pop music. And why else would Glimmer move from London to L.A.? And why L.A.? Jesus only knows.
First, never trust a record bucking for hip-pop cred when the sleeve includes a thank you to a member of L.A. Guns.
Second, a crumpled remain from Faces vaudevillians the London Quireboys (Guy Griffen) should be a dead stinkin' giveaway; and third, the band contains three other stone-faced blokes with only borderline Ron Wood hair.
And the best post-hard-rock-pop tricks are here, like any Enuff Z'nuff record: the fabricated "gruff" vocal sound that occasionally resolves a note in a falsetto swoon; the try-too-hard-at-cool song titles ("Velveteen," "Silver Zone"); the relentless acoustic guitars blaring open chords aimlessly with the old "Ticket to Ride"/"Tomorrow Never Knows" beat ("Make It Real"); the ready-made arched and (dare we say it) backward guitar notes, fazing vocal and weak, mod-centric drug references ("5 Miles High"); the cleverly intended-but-instead-wallowing-in-red-faced-self-consciousness turn-of-the-phrase ("Confusion makes no sound/It's too late for a showdown"); and, of course, the Wembley-size guitars are all perfectly placed and recorded with L.A. stoner ease ("Push Me Too Hard," etc.).
Glimmer magnifies the pointlessness of bands like the Candyskins or Kinky Machine, while giving the very idea of pop songwriting a righteous pummeling, and not in a good way, either. And this considering the A&R man involved, former David Johansen skinner Frankie La Rocka; what's he thinking?
Where's the boozed-up and ill-natured guit-wielding fawner of rock 'n' roll? All the shag-magnet mattress-backed boys? The kick-up-yer-glitter boots sick-of-woe inspiration? I mean, gosh, the bio does exasperatingly name-drop Bowie, the Who, Cheap Trick, the Kinks, T. Rex, the Pretenders and so on.
Glimmer, glimmer, glimmer gone.
Sounds like a hammer smashing a Tal Bachman record and being dragged through your dog's summertime Skippy vomit. It's as breezy as an afternoon spent glue-sniffing and reflecting on the undeflectable Stone Temple Pilots/Buckcherry likenesses, 25 years after Thin Lizzy chest-beat the Billboard Hot 100.
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