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Sacrificial Rock

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P.A.W.N.ing It Off: P.A.W.N.S. brings humor and
hard rocking to its new CD, 'You Talk of Sacrifice.'

P.A.W.N.S. and Robot God explore the local world of relentless rock

By Matt Koumaras

ON ITS NEW CD, You Talk of Sacrifice, P.A.W.N.S. proves that years of psychotherapy sessions have not cured a relentless hatred of everything Reagan. P.A.W.N.S.' Subhumans-meets-Blatz sarcastic jaunts are as tight as Johnny Lydon's size 42 Dockers. The opener, "P.R.A.W.N.S.?" is built by a fortress of riffs that burn as intensely as any Long John Silver's fryer.

Warren's heroic vocals share the last bit of trail mix with you in the punk-rock trenches. "P.A.I.N." offers cops a donut filled with revenge and hilarious lines like "Keep flashing the red and blue/Do I smell bacon or is that just you?" Ray whips out some ska shuffles before taking out the thrash in a big way on that song. What Eli Whitney was to the cotton gin, Little Drummer Boy is to the drums as he patents new ways to push every beat beyond full tilt. St. Anne's chimerical vocals made me flush my sea monkeys down the drain because they don't deserve to listen to such heavenly sounds.

"Poison Breed" is a kick in the arsenic laced with tempo changes galore. Ray's Gibson SG becomes a seamstress on "Threads of Life" and designs the hottest punk patterns. Varlet's robust bass on "Missionary" adds another crack to the liberty bell. Plus, the crunching, connect-the-dots-at-light-speed endings rule.

P.A.W.N.S. is receiving a lot of flack from Long Marine Lab and Dan Quayle over its acronym (Priests And Walruses Need Sex), so help this band out by purchasing this CD so you too can know the meaning of sacrifice. Write to Bad Monkey Records, 473 North St., Oakland, CA 94609.

The Robot Gods Must Be Crazy

Something more than carbon monoxide is lurking from the garage. This beast is not punk, this beast is not metal, this beast is Robot God, and it has escaped from the outlet on its new Kill Your Self CD. The band makes seductively dark tapestries, kind of like PJ Harvey accidentally going into the wrong practice space and jamming with Nine Inch Nails. Whether it's chomping down on thick Dinosaur Jr-like feedback or making a five-layer burrito out of six-string leads, Max's guitar résumé is straddled with overqualifications.

The primal "I Wanna Be Your Dog" progression on "Pocket Full of Dead Ticks" is as fiendish as the Rosie O'Donnell float that attacked the children at the Macy's Day Parade. The whiny "Compassion" is as painful as any Robin Williams flick and enough to make Van Gogh feel compassionate and take the ginsu to my ear, too.

But Violet's breathy, superb harmonies make "Feel No Pain" more fresh than a monster Mentos. The inspired, sassy rants and spunky grunge riffs of "Betty Ford" work hand-in-hand to dizzying heights. Violet's ultra-sturdy bass is a cherry on top of the experimental sundae.

Rock your robotic tacos by listening to this CD. Write Robot God, c/o Anna, P.O. Box 1224, Boulder Creek, CA 95006 or email: [email protected].


On Thursday, the What-Nots, Edaline and Los Manecas play the Aptos Club while Soba and Chaos Lounge play at the Catalyst. On Friday, Dilligaf and Blatant Ridicule play Skinny's. On Saturday, Above the Line hosts a benefit at the SC Vets Hall with Link 80, Phase 2 and Jon Benet Stranglehold.

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From the May 26-June 2, 1999 issue of Metro Santa Cruz.

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