by John Bear
Daily Lobo
And the award for most creative band name in the last week or so goes to - The Kola Koca Death Squad.
Really, that is the best band name since John Cougar Concentration Camp, whoever they are. The name sounds like a not-so-subtle diss on a certain soft drink company, the words transposed to avoid any legal repercussions. With a name like that, not to mention song titles such as "Out of Tune with the World," one is expecting some Dead Kennedys-style punk rock - dissonant, grating guitar riffs coupled with vitriolic lyrics denouncing everything. It should sound like a transcript of "Democracy Now" set to music, right?
Wrong. So, so wrong. The band, itself a two-piece, comes off like a two-bit White Stripes cover band on its self-titled debut. For that matter, they sound like every stripped-down blues rock, emo, garage band of the last couple years. If I forgot any vague adjectives, I apologize.
They do have a moment or two on the album when they pull something mildly original out of their seemingly endless repertoire of three-chord trash. "Trying to Remember" is nearly five minutes of reverb-heavy improvisation - slow, surfy guitar play and cymbal-driven drum work. They seem to have stumbled upon a little bit of jazz.
Unfortunately, they stumble right back into the garage rock algorithm that began with the White Stripes, and by the end, the album morphs into, not surprisingly, the Rolling Stones.
The band is also lacking in the lyrics department. Once again, a band records an album on which 90 percent of the words spoken are, yes, about girls and how rotten they are. This is the stuff that forms the foundation of rock lyrics and pretty much everything else in the history of written word. Ever since the first literate drunken misogynist penned the Book of Genesis, the ladies have been getting a bad rap. Maybe they deserve this, maybe not.
In any case, this opinion is out in the open now, so rock musicians everywhere can refrain from writing one more trite song about how "she" did them wrong, whoever she happens to be. In fact, it may be prudent to track this person down and throw her a machete party, in effect stopping her from ruining the lives of any more poor, starving musicians.
On the other hand, musicians pull more girls than anyone except armored tuxedo-wearing individuals with double zeros in their job titles.
Quit whining. If someone is going to lament his evil woman, that person should be 80 years old, blind, and wear a wide-brimmed hat. Spoiled white boys churned out by art schools have nothing to complain about.
Get content from The Daily Lobo delivered to your inbox
At the risk of sounding clichÇ - oh well, clichÇ is forthcoming - the Kola Koca Death Squad belongs playing to the drunken masses in some smoky bar and not on a $15 CD.
If I still spent weekends varnishing my liver - and I may resume this activity because I really want to like this band, such a great name - I could see myself standing at a slight tilt, front row center. I would either be screaming, "I love you guys. You rock," or possibly "I hate you guys. You suck."
Then I would probably stagger over to my ex-girlfriend's house and assassinate her front door. Trust me, she had it coming. The lyrics told me so.
