Rocket From The Crypt sure aren't afraid of vampires - even the Count himself must be quaking in his cape. Scream, Dracula, Scream is the title (If the third album by this hot San Diego combo, and its monster mash of punked up riffs and souled out hooks is big and scary enough to make ol' Drac flee in terror.
But don't be fooled by the B schlock horror film moniker: Rocket From The Crypt are not a bunch of psychobilly zombies peddling dumb ditties about flying saucers and swamp creatures. They're a powerhouse of guitars, drums, bass and brass, and they're out to exhume the rotting corpse of rock'n'roll and shove a million volts right through it.
Led by the manic Elvis driving a truck alike lead singer, Speedo, and boasting such catchy, crunching songs as Born In 69, Drop Out and Ball Lightning, Rocket are the biggest cult band in America right now, and their true devotees proudly display their tattooed rocket logo, and loudly proclaim their undying loyalty at gigs. In the current US climate of safe, stumble bum FM rock as exemplified by the likes of Spin Doctors and Hootie & The Blowfish, Rocket From The Crypt are an explosion of exuberance in a morass of bluesy complacency and post grunge defeatism.
In the hands of groups like Green Day, Rancid and The Offspring, punk has become a two dimensional cartoon version, but in Rocket's sweaty palms, punk is just the launching pad for the band's mad swirl of sound which mixes the snottiness of The Stones with the raw soul of Graham Parker. Speedo's cohorts include N.D. on guitar, Petey X on bass, Atom on drums, Apollo 9 on sax and newest member J.C. 2000 on trumpet, and between them they whip up a primal soup of throbbing beats, tumbling licks and thunderous horns. They've put the spit and the spirit back into punk while avoiding the parody.
For Rocket and their fans, it's all about authenticity. Short of carving `4-real' on their forearms, the six guys in the band walk it like they talk it and they play their rockin' roles to the hilt. Onstage, they dress in classic 1950s chic, becoming a true gang in the tradition of The Wild Ones. Like few of today's bands, Rocket inspire a sense of community in their fans, and their highly sought after limited edition vinyl releases are like secret passports to an exclusive club. Just to thank their growing army of fans, the band played an entire US tour for free, and had to flog their van to cover their costs.
HOWEVER, even the most closely guarded secret must eventually be revealed to the world, and Scream, Dracula, Scream will thrust Rocket From The Crypt into a different stratosphere altogether. They've already been hailed as the best thing to come out of America since Nirvana, and when you take stock of the dross which has been pouring out of the States since 1991, that's not hard to believe. What's hard to believe is that Rocket From The Crypt have never played a gig in this neck of the woods before, so when they crash onstage at The Mean Fiddler on Monday night, you can bet it'll outdo the Roswell Incident for sheer alien zombie mayhem. But this is no hoax visit: this is the real sweat'n'gristle'n'grind, and it's probably your last chance to catch Speedo and the boys before someone signs them up for their own badass TV series. Be afraid, Dracula, be very, very afraid.
