REVIEWS

We Did Not Know The Forest Spirit Made The Flowers Grow :
The follow up to the band's 2003 debut, The Black Lips!, We..wallows in the same glorious mud of reverb and gothic tales (gothic as in "mutant kid chained to the wall in the basement", not the "I dress in black and pretend I'm undead" Paxil-driven pant-load.) Truly creepy cuts like "Time of the Scab" and "Stranger" prove that their debut record was no joke, and that singer Cory Alexander and company are truly taking us on an ILL ride into their world. Ghetto Cross" and "Juvenille" extend their sonic growth. Though garage is a limited and retro genre that is usually more one of tribute than originality, The black Lips seem to be using and expending its possibilities to their own sinister (and inspired) ends. They don't see the world as a very happy place, a place where madness and perversion are waiting in the next handshake. What makes the title of the record then, both ironic and thought provoking, is the fact that they can even notice the flowers growing. Shit also brings flowers; are they hinting that there is some light they're after? Watch Black Lips, even when it is asking a lot to watch.

Black Lips! :
Oh, there is something sinister in this here garage! Most bands that have attempted to make a go of it as a garage or rockabilly act, at least since the late 60's, have seemed to have overlooked the one main ingredient that made those genres so durable: MENACE!. Bands like Music Machine, Sonics, Seeds were not joking around with that farfisa (hell, the Seed's Sky Saxon even became a cult leader for awhile). The Black Lips, much more so that label mates Coffin Lids, The Gories, or going back a bit, Lyres and Phantom Creepers, the Black Lips are implying something dirty and maybe even downright socio-pathic with their distorto-holler. I got chills on listening, not only for the barely controlled insanity of tunes like, but also for having discovered a band I knew was going to be on at my house all the time for months. Hope in music is made of that. Hope progressively declines on the record, however. The early wild ranting of "Freakout" and "Ain't No Big Deal" starts to sink with "I've Got A Knife", toppling over the mental edge with the incestuous "Sweet Kin" and "Everybody Loves a Cocksucker", which sounds like a demo made by Brian Jones while underwater in the pool. There's your menace. The last two, especially "Sweet Kin" have caused some to question whether or not Black Lips are a con. Do I think they look with wanton come-hither at real relatives? No. Do I think that this is a band that has some ugly ideas and some appropriate tunes in their heads to back them up? Yep. At least for a debut record, they're for real. - Mike Wood / Musicmissions

Now here's a rock record for you skinny, drunk miscreants from the Deep South making straightforward rock music. It's tough to go wrong with that combo. Listening to this record actually reminds me of the first time I heard "Let it Bleed by the Rolling Stones; there's a similar kind of feeling that you get with records like this... it is kind of like looking at really dirty but good pornography. It makes me want to break into my parents' liquor cabinet, get whiskey-drunk, and play with myself in the basement. This album is unique because it retains its youthful edge and energy, which is tough to sustain once a producer gets hold of a band like this. It's really raw and gritty, and wants really bad to be a punk record, but it's not. This is what those fruity bands like the Stokes and the Vines wish they could be: uninhibited, loud, and raucous, all the while retaining a sense of melody, style, and originality. A delicately shitty recording and loose instrumentation actually make this record that much better. I love a disc on which you can hear the amps buzzing before and after each track. Yee haw.The Village Voice 7/16/03

"Everybody Loves a Cocksucker," the best three minutes on Black Lips!, is a slow, slurry, curiously affectionate-even tender-muckpile of a song. Its narrative is too fucked to make real sense of, but offers repeated lines of teenage-boy circumstance: "Living at home is such a drag," "Your mama [or maybe 'Aunt Jemima'??] told me not to love her," and, of course, "Every man loves a cocksucker"-which somewhere in there rhymes, I think, with "live pucker." It's impossible to tell what the lustrously adolescent Atlantan Cole Alexander is ever really singing, though in varying shades of inebriated baby talk, his emotional tenor always comes through. "Cocksucker" is a happy track: There are chortles and giggles as he delivers (gender-bending?) observations about how "it's hard to be feminine when you're not a fag." The underlying feeling is that he does fuck the mom and get his own cock sucked all the time-probably in his parents' den or basement. The Black Lips' debut is a grimy record, something like Creedence crossed with gauze-wrapped early-'90s garagists the Mummies. The Southeast Performer remarked that "Can't Get Me Down"-one of those grubby, loose, harmonica blues songs about some such "little woman"-"has the production value of two boom boxes." (It also ends with depraved, cute gibberish, something like "JAY CAIN TEE TEE CAW CAW.") The key to the Lips, though, isn't just their thrown-together garage-band production values (actually, they hail from no suburban garage, but a post-high-school domicile and DIY venue near Georgia Tech named Die Slaughterhaus), or Alexander's commanding, sometimes mournful, sometimes exuberant garble. (Funniest thing ever written about his voice: Matt Davies's observation that "The Caucasian singer ends up sounding like Anthony Michael Hall during his whitey-black blues impression in The Breakfast Club.") There's also the urgency, beyond posturing, one hears through the album's 13 tracks, suggesting the Lips only give a fuck about the basics: namely, being in a fuck-all band. Live, they do unremarkable shit like pulling their pants down onstage, and trying to light themselves on fire-but then they also do weirder, funner stuff: Alexander hits his guitar strings hard, reportedly with his cock, repeatedly. Ouch! Bassist and budding psychologist Jared Swilley sees it this way: "We're good-bad, not evil. A lot of club owners say they don't like us, but deep down, I think they do." Many of the songs-some of which converge on themes like incest ("Sweet Kin": "My mama's sister's baby's daddy don't know but all it took was 23 chromosomes to make my heart sing kin") -disintegrate at the edges, often into a nice mess of screaming, distortion, slop. But the Black Lips (allegedly known too as Labia Negros) also know how to write those at once clean and dirty teenage-desire numbers that would have been on Nuggets, like "Freakout," "Stone Cold," and "Ain't No Deal," about "just a little boy" and a girl "about 17." A good soundtrack, say, for a hot dry-humping session. They can do nasty or slightly nice, or both at the same time. Which connects to the paradox Phil Elvrum-whose own band, the Microphones, toured with the Lips-recently reported about Alexander: "He peed into his own mouth and then spit it on the crowd. But he really is a sweet guy." --Hillary Chute / Too Much Coffee Man

Primo Back from the Grave/Teenage Shutdown pound 'n' thud from these out-rage-ous Atlantan teens, and they ain't the one-trick ponies their 45s suggested, either. Tunes do range the typical trash-rock gamut, from dirt-caked shakers ("I Got a Knife") to slurred dirges ("Sweet Kin," "Stone Cold") to teen-jivejangle ("Ain't No Thing"), but there's a lil' unexpected Killed by Death psychosis scattered in between the copious '60s salutes, which elevates this particular gang above and beyond the non-existent competition. Believe the hype. - Blank Generation

My God a few seconds into "Throw it Away" and I thought I was taking another nightmarish trip down Sesame Street! And yeah, the whole song's got that bubbly, skip the sidewalk from side to side smiley-faced vibe outlining a sore-throated voice box effect to provide contrasting irritability. We're not quite so lucky on track two, but then little did we know The Dave Clark Five would be making their 30-year reunion on a song called "Freakout" no less. The tunes are short and sweet -- here's hoping a little more cloud cover rolls in for extra density -- and it does on the welcome closing, train wreck of a song that I can best describe contemporarily as that sorta "hit" Vines tune where the lightning bolts crash into their equipment and they stand there playing and striking stupid poses. The songs on "The Black Lips" are top heavy and amateurishly presented to the point where at all four corners of the room, you're bombarded by tool boxes, wall calendars and various assorted fluid stains. Think of it as Garage Rock with a psychedelic twist of Rockabilly, The Wolfman, and Dick Dale creations that when the dust settles, it's like a reprinted copy of The Stones' (circa '67). "I've Got A Knife" is a major kick in the nuts as if someone suddenly decided distribution should expel from both channels -- and again, short, short, short. Best song on the record and I can't even finish a lousy sentence before I'm bombarded by fucking Big Bird muttering something about being "Down And Out." I wish I could side step the Sesame Street reference, I really do. Okay, we'll return to the American Graffiti soundtrack for a second trip to Saturday night cinema. I'm not crazy about the name and I'm even less crazy about the guitar player's moon on the back cover, but there's an animalistic quality to this stuff that transcends simple childhood pleasure to the point where not only do you not want to sing along, you're damn near ready to hit the mute button for fear of nerve damage from occasional but out of nowhere fun with feedback. Their style is nothing fancy, just dirty overalls and do it yourself, and if I had to guess, here's the album all of your late-sixties' faves would've loved to make if censorship didn't stop 'em in their open-toed tracks -- and somehow guys like Young and Dylan still loosened the slack enough to reel off a good one now and then. These guys are out there chasing their own asses a little too much for me to go ga-ga over, though if we're really to do this right, I'd be under an adequate influence consistent with the return trip I'm taking here. So pop the top and rediscover the combined arts of Classic Rock, primal Punk, psychedelia, sappy Folk and silly studio spurts to keep ya guessing; There's some talent to go with the whole Stones, Dwarves, Dylan, Hives persona -- so envision each of the four somehow, and maddeningly so at times, blended together and guesting from one song to another though when we arrive at "Everybody Loves a Cocksucker," all bets are off. The songs say a lot about versatility for The Black Lips, a laugh and a half and fun for all, but ain't enough groove to grab onto and too diminutive to develop any real singularity if not staying power. --Vinnie Apicella / In music We Trust

Exclaim

These cool-ass Georgians play some chunky raw blues raunch and roll. And even though this kind of lo-fi garage stuff seems to be perennially suffering from an under-the-radar level of popularity that may induce much eye-rolling among the jaded hipsters, this one is actually quite the gem. They play with a broken down style as if their instruments are a couple of notes away from exploding in their hands. These guys blow the mesh trucker caps off the wannabes with their dirty style and feedback-laden sound. This record is dedicated to their late guitarist, who was killed in a car wreck before it was released. Keep that in mind when listening and turn it up.--By Rob Ferraz

Mohair Sweets

I'm almost certain that I wouldn't have the Black Lips stay at my house, that I couldn't possibly keep up with them in a beer drinking contest, and that I would probably not like to see their notoriously chaotic stage show. But what I do like about them is the fact, that in spite of their total laziness when it comes to picking out clothes, they have a real cool garagey sound, use cheapo guitars, and never sound like an ape trying to get out of a locked van. For a buncha young punks with a reputation for getting' naked and trashing clubs that is a very good thing. Give this baby a listen. I think you'll be more than pleasantly surprised if 60s influenced punky-garage is your thing.

Anene 5/03

The Black Lips are by far the only thing from the recent wave of Rock 'n' Roll bands that have sprung up in the last couple of years that I've enjoyed. The band seems to be fully aware that Rock 'n' Roll wasn't invented by the Rolling Stones and have taken more to the original souns of first-wave, down and dirty Negro-rock; and it sounds fucking great. Plus, the Caucasian singer ends up sounding line Anthony Michael Hall during his whitey-black blues impression in the Breakfast Club.--Matt Davies

Left Off the Dial

The Black Lips come screaming out of Atlanta, GA where the boys are, word has it, known for their raucous stage show and exhausting antics.  Their self-titled debut album is currently out on BOMP! Records, home of the "Battle of the Garages" compilations and records by Stiv Bators, as well as Iggy Pop.  This record is not a very mixed bag, consisting heavily of 60's-type psychedelica and a term both overused and overrated, and that isn't going to stop me, so here it comes: "garage rock."  What does that mean anymore? Yeah, BOMP! is known for discovering and nurturing garage bands, but The Black Lips isn't really a "garage rock" record.  A label like "garage rock" would certainly steer me clear if I wasn't reviewing it.  I prefer comparison to The Cramps; it is definitely more fitting here, and The Black Lips wear it well.

The Black Lips play all their songs entirely on the same three chords throughout the record, which gets monotonous if you aren't down with it however if you think listening to the same three chords, over and over again is wicked cool, then you should buy this album.  There is a track entitled "Crazy Girl," which is very 1990's grunge and a complete departure from the rest of the record, so that provides a nice break.

I'm glad to own this record simply for the track "Freakout," that although sounding completely ripped off, still kicks ass in a sonic explosion kind of a way.  The vocals on most of these songs leave much to the imagination, as you cannot understand most of what vocalist Cole Alexander is saying.  There's some stuff in there about being "Down and Out" and another gem, which again sounds ripped off: "Living at home is such a drag" wait for it oh yeah, the Beastie Boys did that line, and I dare say it was better used in developing their frat staple of a hit "Fight For Your Right" than it is in the three-minute opus by The Black Lips entitled "Everybody Loves A Cocksucker."

One of my favorite things about this band is their use of the harmonica.  If I haven't said it to ya'll before, I do love the harmonica.  The Black Lips use the harmonica often and that is another good reason to purchase this record.

And before I finish, you should know that this album was recorded as a four piece.  In addition to Cole, there is Jared Swilley, Joe Bradley and Ben Eberbaugh.  The record is dedicated to Eberbaugh, presumably because he died in a tragic car accident shortly before the record was to come out.  The Black Lips are currently touring about America, catch 'em if you can.--Brenna Krause

Outsight

It is a hairy, coming-at-you-from-the-dark, raw vintage psychedelic rock sound espoused by The Black Lips. The garage punk group has a falling down sound as heard from '60's Texas comps featuring the 13th Floor Elevators and a lo-fi ur-punk sound that is the thing Bomp exists to perpetuate and that is why the band's jangly, paisley sounds are on that label. The ragged teen beat on this album is so then, it is now.--Tom Tearaway

Paniscus Revue

Elemental garage punk with more than a little bit of the acid-washed Sixties to it. The simple buzzing battery of rhythm and beat occasionally descends into the chaotic muddle of a minor psychotic episode, aided by the turkeynecked yowling of the lead and backing vocals, but more often sounds like a chair-bound back porch revival attended by habitues who are no stranger to the corn liquor. Ergot-laced, in this case, as there's more than just a trace of brain and nerve damage evident in these thirteen spasms of withdrawal.--Tom Crites

Fuxored

It's all the good stuff in one place. Garage punk and blues and songs about whiskey and blow jobs and the guitar player's bare ass hanging out of his pants on the back cover after this cute punk girl has pulled them down. Distorted vocals and fuzzed guitar and frequent visits by a harmonica. Doe-eyed innocence like the Partridge Family one second and then hacksaw delivery like the Laughing Hyenas the next second.

When they're trying, they sound like such nice boys. "Throw It Away"'s got a jangly lead and a bubblegummy delivery that makes you envision guys with tight white pants on the album cover. But then this second line of fuzz enters the song and runs interference and that matches the distorted vocals and the shouting and the organ in the background. So the whole thing is sweet like a twelve year old girl in pigtails who has a Luger behind her back.

"Ain't No Deal" is similar and twice as fantastic. Breaks out of the garage traditions and heads for nonstopfunstomp Vaselines type punk. Rocking paintmixer percussion that never lets up...a constant happy thump joined by the cheery rasp of a tambourine. The wife, music-hater extraordinaire, is hearing it for the first time and she has her hands in the air and she's swaying side to side. There's something about this song that makes your upper-torso bend and shake.

"Freakout" is your typical garage fare but it's done really well with that jackhammer rhythm guitar and the chorus of people shouting "Freakout" and, you know, what is with all of these garage people and their freaking out? Seems like everyone's always freaking out on these records. I don't really care because if this track had composure it wouldn't be nearly as good.

One thing the album's really good at is framing these coherent, single-worthy songs with dumb fun that wads up traditional blues, Stones-y rock, and kerosene soaked country and chews it like a plug of Day's Work. "Stone Cold"'s this slow rocker with warbly chords stretched like taffy. If Creedence got their start on Estrus and recorded their version of "I Put A Spell On You" on a b-side for the single's club, this is what it would sound like.

"Sweet Kin" is a developmentally disabled yodel about incest. And it sounds like that'd be an idiotically cheap yuk, but it's got a twangy Hank-ish drawl that's pretty hard to fault and also manages to work the pretty clever lyrics "my mama's sister's baby's daddy don't know but all it took was 23 chromosomes to make my heart sing (seek?) kin" into it. Those might not be the exact words. They're kind of hard to understand. I think these kids are drunk.

"Can't Get Me Down" flirts with the blues, aping "Manish Boy" and throwing in some nice harmonica and the vocals end up slurring into a bizarre blues baby talk ("JAY CAIN TEE TEE CAW CAW") that puts other infant blues artists to shame.

Fans of the Headcoats or the Mummies or the Vaselines or blowing things up with M-80s will like this a real damn lot.

Pennyblackmusic

"I think when you come to a real rock club you don't fuck it up," a man harrumphs at the beginning of Black Lips! debut, presumably after witnessing some puerile onstage stunt.

"Exactly .. you should be over 21 to do that shit," the woman he's speaking to replies.

Well, the Lips are under 21, and fucking things up would seem to be the raison d'etre of the youthful foursome.

They come across like a less frenetic Oblivians - tinny phone-fidelity vocals (with drunken shoutalong choruses), primitive chord thumping, sinister fuzz and spiky double-stopped riffs,  ... if Royal Trux had listened to the Troggs instead of the Rolling Stones, they might sound like this (though the album does sound quite Stonesy at times).

Some tunes, like 'Ain't' No Deal' approach something like tightness, but for the most part the band barely keeps things together: the countrified 'Stone Cold' is held together with baling wire, a chicken-pickin' guitar riff and a barely ,perceptible whistle; 'I've Got A Knife' has some random piano hammering where most bands would put a guitar solo; 'Down and Out' backs wretched vocals with broken bottle percussion.

Bomp and it's affiliated labels (Alive, The Committee to Keep Music Evil) have been on a bit of a tear lately, releasing great albums from Big Midnight, the Black Keys and the Snakes -add Black Lips to the list of great Bomp discoveries.

Sadly, lead guitarist Ben Eberbaugh was killed on Dec. 1, 2002 - the day before the band was to play for their CD release party - by a head-on collision when a driver crossed into the lane his car was travelling in. The band is apparently soldiering on; based on their debut, that's a very good thing indeed. --Andrew Carver

Zoopaloop

It seemed that Georgia was not outdone as regards rocking 'n' rolling and the Black Lips are finally one of the best proofs of the inescapable fact. It also seems that these four dudes have rather privileged over the last few years shows and their live aspects regarding the fact that this CD is only their debut album being added to the few singles which made up their discography up to now. Their demonic reputation having preceded them, I was expecting to listen to a chaotic sort of punk'n'roll which was greatly going to fuck the place up in my house. I must say I have been surprised and rather pleasantly surprised.

Although the recordings span from November 2000 to September / October 2002 one doesn't feel too many differences as for the sound quality, one takes great delight in listening to these roughly recorded gems which are made up with many more influences than what we could have been expecting. A bit after the manner of The Ruiners, The Black Lips borrow as much from Iggy Pop or The Dwarves ( "Everybody loves a cocksucker", "Throw it away", "Fad" ) as from time-honoured blues singers whose long dirges are still ringing out along the mississippi banks. Besides, this dixie's essence crossbred with country music fills up the room as soon as the quatuor strikes up some cuts as "Stone cold", "Sweet kin", "Can't get me down" where one easily imagines B.B King, John Lee Hooker, Freddie King, Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson and their kinds striving to spark things off by letting their guitars do the talking.

The rest of the album is just a series of 60's inspired brutal rock'n'roll bursts where the boys have tremendous fun in one of the most falling apart style where the vocals are threw up with a unbelievable rawness ( "I've got a knife", "Down and out", "Freakout" ) worthy of diehard punks whose ethic is here absolutely respected.This could'nt-care-less attitude is at its paroxysm when they go so far as some noisy deliriums which, all things considered of course, bring them closer to early Sonic Youth ( "Steps", the end of "You're dumb" ). Though they have actually their own musical limits, the topsy-turvy and diversified ambience of the whole shows evidence of spontaneity and ingenuousness almost adolescent. The embryos of melodies scattered throughout the album ( "Ain't no deal" ) are only confirming they could show us what they are really made of in a near future.--Renaud Rigart

Amazon 5/03

This Atlanta quartet spins out the sort of ragged, blues-edged garage rock that brings to mind the early lineups of 1980s revivalists like The Salvation Army, The Chesterfield Kings and The Lyres. But in the case of The Black Lips, two decades further removed from the mid-60s garage and roughed up by the sterility of 90s pop music, their sound is even rougher, with less focus on í60s style and more concentration of raw, adrenal playing.

Vocalist Cole Alexander sings in a hyperactive, rusty growl thatís exaggerated by a tinny microphone, studio distortion, and the bandís underlying thrash of guitars, bass and drums. At times the songs spiral into chaos (much like their live shows are reported to do), but the reverb-soaked blues "Stone Cold" settles down for a slow-motion examination.

This Bomp LP was delayed a few months when guitarist Ben Eberbaugh was killed in a freak car accident. In his honor, the band collected all of the tracks theyíd recorded to that point, including early singles, to create this CD. It's a fitting overview of the band's first, savagely good incarnation. --Eli Messinger

Rockpile #92

The Black Lips are here, and you can kiss their white ass. Really, you can, or at least, the picture of it on the back of their self-titled full length debut CD. The fact that Bomp, an indie label known for its enduring commitment to grassroots ideology, put out this album of dirty, depraved garage rock speaks for its authenticity. This is garage rock, and not in the "sorta garagey but still marketable enough to invoke corporate dick-sucking" kind of way. Imagine the Flamin' Groovies on a lot of bad acid playing in an outhouse. These are the guys who walk around at the end of a party, finishing off all the beers, even the ones with the cigarette butts in them. They don't get laid and they don't give a fuck. The album basically sounds like early demos of a band you end up digging, but with no context. Don't get me wrong-- I'd love to go see the Black Lips live, especially in a garage filled with plenty of booze and naked asses. The truth about garage rock: it's best in the garage.--Charly Wilder

CD Universe

This Atlanta quartet spins out the sort of ragged, blues-edged garage rock that brings to mind the early lineups of 1980s revivalists like The Salvation Army, The Chesterfield Kings and The Lyres. But in the case of The Black Lips, two decades further removed from the mid-60s garage and roughed up by the sterility of 90s pop music, their sound is even rougher, with less focus on '60s style and more concentration of raw, adrenal playing.

Vocalist Cole Alexander sings in a hyperactive, rusty growl that's exaggerated by a tinny microphone, studio distortion, and the band's underlying thrash of guitars, bass and drums. At times the songs spiral into chaos (much like their live shows are reported to do), but the reverb-soaked blues "Stone Cold" settles down for a slow-motion examination.

This Bomp LP was delayed when guitarist Ben Eberbaugh was killed in a freak car accident. In his honor, the band collected all of the tracks they'd recorded to that point, including early singles, to create this CD. It's a fitting overview of the band's first, savagely good incarnation.

Cyclops

The Black Lips are four young punks who crawled outta Atlanta. The Lips play stripped down garage rock with a big dose of punk attitude. Think Back From The Grave mixed with a lot of cheap beer. The record starts with a jangle of guitar and a scream on "Throw It Away." These guys are sloppy in a Neckbones kinda way and I like it. "Freakout" is a trippy freak-out song. It would've been the perfect soundtrack to that graveyard scene in Easy Rider. "Down and Out" is driven by a piano riff and is laced with broken beer bottle and acidic screams. "Sweet Kin" is a slow blues number with some great harp. "Crazy Girl" starts with a great riff and explodes into a wall of fuzz. It reminds me a little of Jesus and the Mary Chain. "Everybody Loves a Cocksucker" is a Country Teasers style ballad. "Can't Get Me Down" was recorded live is a great stompin' blues number with more great harp work. "You're Dumb" is the last listed song (there's an unlisted track). It starts out slow and quiet and then builds into a frenzied freak-out. By the end all hell breaks loose with fuzz, screams and noise. It's the best song on the record. Check out the Black Lips if you love crazy primal rock n' roll.

Outsight

It is a hairy, coming-at-you-from-the-dark, raw vintage psychedelic rock sound espoused by The Black Lips. The garage punk group has a falling down sound as heard from '60's Texas comps featuring the 13th Floor Elevators and a lo-fi ur-punk sound that is the thing Bomp exists to perpetuate and that is why the band's jangly, paisley sounds are on that label. The ragged teen beat on this album is so then, it is now.

CultureBunker

The Black Lips are probably a great party band, for all the great and not so great reasons. Everyone's gonna have Safe and Sane fun, can dance around to it, and half sing along without needing to remember any words. Another way of describing very comfortable terrain with no bumps or surprises, which can make for a rather boring road trip unfortunately. Basically what you have here is a collection of cool covers with other words on top. Unfortunately it's a bit of a problem for this record. Almost every song sounds like something you've heard before. There are some very clear-cut though admirable sources that should be cited (but should they be cited by The Black Lips, I wonder?). The Standelles. Tommy James and the Shondells. Small Faces, early pissed off Kinks. And those are just some of the earlier influences. The first song sounds very much like a twitchier version of the early Iggy "Passenger," which ain't too bad when you consider some of the other shit people are listening to these days. "Ain't No Deal" is a two chord anthem that pretty much mines the same sources as The Strokes, if perhaps a little less ably. The Velvet Underground heroin sound without actually being loaded. A 'Strokes Light' sort of beverage. "Stone Cold" is somewhat affected and Spoooooky late 50s/early 60s garage rock, a theme revisited a few times on this record. If you've ever heard Deadbolt or The Oblivians you probably know what I mean. The fifth track "Fad" is more fun than a lot of the other tracks, because it's played more loosely and emphatically than the others, but still the background vocals occasionally stick out like an anal wart on a sore thumb, a feat not quite achieved unfortunately to the point of distraction. "Cocksucker" actually irritated me pretty bad and really seems to have stemmed from someone in the band getting a new effects pedal and trying to figure it out (hopefully they made progress with it later on). A Word To The Wise: Just because you recorded something doesn't mean it's worth listening to. The mixing and sound quality of the recordings is quite good and definitely traditional. The tones (I hate that word too) are absolutely great on most of the tracks, drawing very specifically on some past classics, and the varieties of styles being appropriated are impressive. It's almost like they grew up with hip older brothers or younger parents that bought them their equipment but never got around to showing them how to play. I must admit these guys have pretty good taste as far as musical role models go and it's highly likely that we could hear some good things in the future from The Black Lips if they'd learn to color outside of the lines a little more. If they're going for sloppy they need to be sloppier (not just shitty). If they want fake emotion, more fake emotion please. If they're going for retro they need to be tighter at imitation, and if they're trying to do anything someone else can give a shit about, they really need to push it a little more. All said and done, there are a few too many tracks that are doing the same job and that same job has been held by many and much more efficient employees.  The Black Lips might be just another nameless party band with a name for now, but if that's all you really need then I can highly recommend this album.  Every band exists in two dimensions, their recorded work and their live performance. I actually got to see The Black Lips perform at The Silverlake Lounge not long after I penned the review of their CD. While I must stand by my review of the CD, I would feel like a complete ass if I didn't mention how hard they rocked live. They were energetic and loose and really poured it on. While the music is what it is, their live performance was totally punk rock, definitely not "Safe and Sane" as was the impression from the CD. Clearly the live energy was lost in the recording process, which is not an uncommon problem with many bands unfortunately.  I wish the CD had made half the impression of seeing them live, but I'm going to have to stick to my guns on that. They are all basically kids (the oldest member being just 21) and they still have all the bright eyed sincere enthusiasm for rock n' roll that manyunfortunate bastards tend to outgrow. The end of the performance combined partial nudity, honest to God puking onstage and a dogpile into the front of the crowd. If you notice them coming to your town, I highly recommend that you check them out. Sit in the back if you're a pussy, but by all means go.

Dagger #32

Jared, Cole, Ben & Joe hail from Atlanta and have listened to some old crusty garage and R&B records in their lifetimes as well as some punk (Cramps, etc). This is a down n' dirty R&B garage record that's very '60s sounding. "Freakout" was fun as was "Ain't No Deal", all shuddery and trebly. Best song title ever: "Everybody Loves a Cocksucker." They even do a slow n' pretty number, the very Stonesy "Sween Kim" (about incest).

Miami New Times 7/10/03:

Not filth, broken glass, nor flames can slow these Black Lips

by Tom Bowker

The 40 Watt Club in Athens, Georgia, is a hallowed place in indie-rock lore. More than 20 years ago, R.E.M., Pylon, and the B-52's got their start at the self- described "premiere music club in the Southeast," helping to create the notion that American regional music scenes had indigenous sounds. But it ain't the same in the new millennium, according to Joe Bradley, drummer for Atlanta garage-punk delinquents the Black Lips. This past August, the Black Lips were winding up their label showcase set at the 40 Watt when all hell broke loose. Bradley was minding his own business, methodically applying lighter fluid to his drum kit, when two bouncers grabbed the five-foot-ten, 135-pound musician, slapping a lighter out of his hand. "Zippo fluid only burns for a few seconds, and I moved the mics out of the way," Bradley says. "I don't know what they were so upset about. I had to do something, so I kicked all my drums over. After the chaos onstage was over, the two guys picked me up, threw me outside, and tried to get me arrested." That didn't work, so they hauled Bradley in before the manager, who stiffed the band out of $300.

The 40 Watt may have ripped them off, but the Black Lips got the last laugh by catching two of the bouncer buffoons on tape and using it to kick off their self-titled debut CD:

Buffoon number one: "You come to a real rock club, you don't fuck it up."

Buffoon number two: "Exactly! They should be over 21 to do that shit."

Buffoon number one: "No fire in the 40 Watt, motherfucker!"

Almost a year on, the incident remains a perfect example of what's wrong with music today: Rock 'n' roll has always been about drunken teenagers fucking shit up. If there's no place for that, it might as well roll over and die. But as the Black Lips very existence proves, going back to basics can breathe life into the old gray mare. Their hybrid of British-invasion rock, lo-fi psychedelic blues, and first wave punk has similarities with far more popular bands like the White Stripes and countless neo-garage rock acts (many of whom are sharing the bill with the Black Lips at this weekend's Florida Fuzz Fest.) But the similarities end when the Black Lips walk on-stage. "When you play music, you gotta be passionate!" Bradley relates. "I hate bands just standing around. Why bother playing if you're going to just stand there? It's so boring! We'll do anything but stand still."

And when Bradley says anything, he means anything. Singer/guitarist Cole Alexander is known for pulling his pants down and smacking the guitar strings with his penis. If that doesn't kindle enough of a reaction, he transforms into a perverted fountain by pointing his unit upward and aiming for his mouth. Last month in Columbus, Ohio, bassist Jared Swilley suddenly threw down his bass and jump-kicked guitarist Jack Hines across the stage and down the stairs. Hines responded by tackling Swilley and kicking him in the head. "If the audience is standing there, it's harder to get worked up," Bradley explains. "If they're dancing, we draw off that." In addition to dancing, the band encourages friends and fans to throw lighted firecrackers and full beer cans at them. Why not? Bradley says. "They don't hurt much."

Much of the Black Lips' appetite for destruction can be traced to their residency at "Die Slaughterhaus," the seven bedroom, ex-Georgia Tech frat residence they rented after graduating from high school two years ago. Die Slaughterhaus had a sloped roof that doubled as a skateboard ramp. The place also was the site for punk rock house parties that featured bands from all over the country. Admission was free for local shows, $3 for national acts. Obviously, this didn't leave much in the budget for cleaning supplies. "It was really dirty," Bradley recalls. "You couldn't walk barefoot. There was broken glass and filth everywhere. I wouldn't even sleep on the couch -- it was that disgusting."

After a year, the building was condemned. "We had a destroy-the-house party. People were smashing beer bottles into the wall. There was a person-sized hole by the staircase. Someone ran right through it, like Tom & Jerry. "

After their property was condemned, the band moved into "Die Slaughterhaus II," which featured a boxing ring in the backyard. On a lark, the band sent a copy of a self-pressed single to small Los Angeles label BOMP, which signed them immediately. With their debut disc (Black Lips!) in the can and a planned winter tour, everything seemed to be going the Black Lips' way. Then this past December, two days before the tour was to begin, a drunken driver struck their guitarist, Ben Eberbaugh. "Some bitch was driving the wrong way without her lights on and killed him instantly," Bradley states. "There were so many people at the funeral. We were the pallbearers. It was like that movie Suburbia when all the punk rock kids came up the aisle."

With heavy hearts, the Black Lips pressed on. The day after the funeral, they left on tour as a three-piece, taking childhood friend Hines (who turned down their guitar job back in high school) along for the ride. By the time the tour got to Hines' home in New York City, the band had convinced him to join and move back to Georgia. But the lads in the Lips are hardly ever in Hotlanta these days. Their album is winning rave reviews, and they're busier than one-legged men in a butt-kicking contest. Die Slaughterhaus II is on the verge of extinction as the Black Lips are becoming a global phenomenon. "Only two of us live there anymore, and we're never home," Bradley states. One can only hope that another group of miscreants can maintain it while the Black Lips conquer the world, since it's not condemned -- yet.

Creative Loafing 5/7/03:

Born bad : The fast rise and short, dramatic history of the Black Lips by Chad Radford

Over the course of only three years, the Black Lips have endured more than most groups go through in an entire lifetime. They've been criticized as being obnoxious suburbanites, 86'd from clubs after particularly unruly shows, and they've endured the death of a bandmate -- all before the group saw the release of its first CD.

"Bad things happen to us," says bassist Jared Swilley, recalling a few of the more scandalous moments during the group's legendary live performances. "We don't try to do bad things, they just happen."

The Black Lips emerged shortly after the breakup of suburban garage/punk outfit the Renegades, which featured Swilley and his Dunwoody High schoolmate, vocalist/guitarist Cole Alexander. The two reconvened with two other school friends, guitarist Ben Eberbaugh and drummer Joe Bradley. Although it was an entirely different group, the Black Lips carried on the Renegades' reputation for on-stage antics -- including, among other things, fire, phalluses and a free-for-all of rock 'n' roll chaos. But that was only the tip of the iceberg. With the new group, the debauchery got pushed to entirely new levels.

Moving out of their parents' homes, Swilley, Alexander and Eberbaugh -- along with a handful of other high school friends -- relocated to a house near Georgia Tech they dubbed Die Slaughterhaus. Here, the group launched its own record label, Die Slaughterhaus Records, which released the group's debut vinyl single (later re-issued on Brand Name Records). The house also served as a DIY venue, not only for the Black Lips, but also for local and nationally touring punk acts. After a slew of performances and parties spiraled out of control, the house was condemned and the group relocated to East Atlanta, where it set up Die Slaughterhaus II.

The Black Lips performances evoke the spirit of Iggy Pop, Sid Vicious and G.G. Allen to some extent, though the group has no interest in being strictly a shock-rock band. However, no one in the group denies stories of certain band members urinating in their own mouths and spitting it on the crowd, or of band members dousing themselves and their instruments with lighter fluid and trying to light themselves on fire, all to riotous audience reactions. This may go over well in their own home, but taking the act to local clubs has been more tricky. The Black Lips are banned, for instance, from playing the 40 Watt in Athens, and club owners around Atlanta give an awkward pause when the group's name comes up in conversation. But there is never a lack of venues available for the group to play.

"I think we're good-bad, not evil," Swilley says. "A lot of club owners say they don't like us, but deep down, I think they do. We like to create an atmosphere of chaos at our shows. I really hate going to shows where people just stand around and don't do anything -- you could do that at home with a video. If you come to see the Black Lips, we're really going to do everything we can to put on a show. And if we're going to break stuff or go nuts, we're all really careful not to damage the club's equipment. We do get into some trouble, but it's never too much trouble. I think a lot of the stories people are hearing about us are blown way out of proportion."

After a second single on the Wilmington, Del., label Electric Human Project, the Black Lips began looking for a label to release its debut full-length. On a lark, they sent a demo to famed L.A. garage/ punk label, Bomp Records, known for putting out releases by the Germs, Iggy and the Stooges, Brian Jonestown Massacre, and others. Soon, they heard from Bomp owner Greg Shaw, who quickly signed the group to a two-record deal and paid for the recording of their first full-length at Zero Return Studios.

"We sent our demo to Bomp more as a joke than anything else," says Swilley. "It's got to be my favorite label of all time. We own everything that label has ever put out, and we sent it to them just to see if we'd hear anything back. We were at a point where we thought it was a big deal to get to play shows at places like Echo Lounge, and then all of the sudden, we're on Bomp. It was great."

Just as everything seemed to be going right, things took a drastic turn for the worse. In early December of last year, the band was on the eve of releasing its Bomp debut, and three days away from going on tour. Guitarist Ben Eberbaugh was driving on Ga. 400 when a driver going the wrong way hit and killed him. In shock and grieving over the loss of their friend, the group made a hasty decision to carry out the tour as a three-piece. For the surviving members of the group, breaking up was not an option. No one in the group finds it easy to talk about Eberbaugh's death, and instead of dwelling on the tragedy, the band has made every effort to keep moving ahead.

"When Ben died, everything changed," Alexander says. "We had all come so far together and now it could all end so easily. But we decided to keep going, it's what Ben would have wanted us to do."

Bringing a sense of closure to Eberbaugh's period with the band, the group decided to compile everything it had recorded up to that point and add it to the full-length. The disc combines songs recorded at Zero Return with other material done at Radium Recordings in Athens, and more. "We wanted everything to be on there," adds Alexander. "Even the 7-inches."

The result is a mish-mash of material with varying production qualities that gives the songs a ghost-like quality and offers a glimpse of the chaos that unfolds at the group's shows.

Shortly after returning home from tour, another high school friend, Jack Hines, joined the group. Hines had been living in New York at the time of Eberbaugh's death, but returned to Atlanta and took up residence as the newest tenant at Die Slaughterhaus. Not only had Hines been a friend of the group for many years, he was, in fact, the Black Lips' original choice for guitarist. Though he had initially turned down their offer, the group felt the spot couldn't have been filled by anyone else.

"Jack plays guitar a bit differently than Ben," Swilley says. "He doesn't have the same chops. But we all grew up together and it feels natural to have him in the group. He really is the man for the job."

Says Hines, "I was a little scared at first. We had all grown up together and I loved Ben just as much as everyone else in the group. It was hard enough knowing that he isn't here anymore, and having that on my mind while I was playing his parts made it all very hard to do. And I was worried that people wouldn't respond well to me being added to the group and say things like, 'Who the hell is this asshole; why's he playing guitar for the Black Lips? He's not Ben.' But there hasn't been too much of a hazing process. I think I've been received pretty well by everyone."

Meanwhile, the Black Lips have two U.S. tours planned in the coming months, and a second album ready to be recorded. There's also talk of Spanish label Munster Records doing a vinyl release of the group's older material, and other labels have approached the group about releasing the Bomp debut on vinyl. Having already undergone a "Behind the Music" full of drama, the Black Lips are now ready for new world of possibilities. Southeast Performer: Nov. 01

The Somber Reptile, Atlanta, GA 9/18/01 - This was one coagulated, drunken orgy of electric squawking and irresponsible /violent /existential jokes. The Black Lips have tapped into that elusive vein in rock and roll that so many others can't seem to find. The show was totally depraved mayhem which many forget rock and roll is supposed to be about. Rock and roll is fuck you, and that glowering rocket ship ball of energy that is youth.

The Black Lips had the energy of 6,000 manic horses running free across miles and miles of endless fields. On-stage, the group was totally irresponsible. After thirty seconds of playing, each song would fall into pieces amidst the group's own laughter. Piercing feedback attacked the ears between the songs, and the members of the group would talk to each other on stage, asking each other what song to do next. When the group finally did get into the swing of things it was like a yelping cheetah freezing to death in the depths of old, cold, lonely Alaska. The songs were fast, sloppy, furious, and filled with an undeniable passion that put you on the squeaky edge. The Black Lips sound is reminisent of '60s punk violence like the Stooges, the Creation, or even the Rolling Stones in the early days; with saint and sinner Brian Jones. The group was totally on the edge of life.

The microphones were constantly falling over, one of the amps malfunctioned, and the members of the group crawled over each other, knocking each other down in the midst of total abandonment. As the show progressed it became increasingly more erratic. Towards the end of the show the rising frenzy hit the high mark of sleaziness when the vocalist, Cole, unloosed his pants a little bit here and there until his ass was hanging out. During the chorus of one explosive song, he pulled out his dick. Many probably thought this was as far as it would go, but alas they were wrong. After whipping it out he then began pissing everywhere. Urine shot up in the air in a loop. He pissed on his fucking guitar playher! Ben, the guitarist, was completely surprised too. After the incident Cole ranted to the audience members about the qualities of recycled PBR. Audiences deserve punishment, especially in Atlanta. The state of things here is so boring, and oftentimes people are too complacent in the never-ending search for entertainment. An audience needs to be challenged in order to reaffirm its own existence; and this is exxactly what the Black Lips did.

Many people probably would write these guys off as a bunch of stumbling, drunken kids, but these kids know exactly what they're doing. The music and the spectacleare pure energy and explosive youth, free in expression: what rock and roll is all about.

-- Matthew Proctor

Horizontal Action #10

Ain't Comin' Back 7" EP - Fuck Yeah, these guys are gonna bowl you over every time. Crazy teenagers from Atlanta that capture the most authentic feel of the Back From The Grave bands, and keep their lo-fi harmonies amazingly together. It's sloppy, but their "Stormy Monday-ish shit will stick to your ribs every time. hell, they're the new SHADOWS OF KNIGHT! It's dirty, and it's irresponsible, and by george, that's exactly what we go for here at Horizontal Action. These kids apparently were fronted money from Bomp Records to record an album, so you know it's that good. To be in such great company would be amazing, so we wish 'em luck. And don't forget to keep 'em stocked with females when they come to your town.

--Rod Spillings

Southeast Performer: March 02

Record Review: The Black Lips 7"

The Black Lips (better known as Labia Negros) are the infamous foursome who reside at the even more infamous Die Slaughterhaus in Atlanta. They're heralding the return of three-chord rock and sundering current trends with Bach-like virtuosity. The Black Lips are here to throw true garage rock in yer face, pulling no punches with a solid lead / rhythm /bass /drums combination assaulting your eardrums like a '70s four -track that has come alive to choke you with shiny analog tape. It's self-evident that these boys are here to make some noise with their musical toys, even if it means stripping to their skivvies--which at least one of them usually does.

With the intro to "Ain't Comin' Back", you're set to hear out the rest of what these rock and rollers got to say and play. Vocalist Roby Rebel whines and slurs with youthful ineptitude of the fiercest caliber as his fellow Black Lips join in with backing vocals declaring they'll never return. And don't forget about those naughty firecrackers or that solid guitar line and ripping Thunders-esque solo. "Stone Cold" is about a girl dying on you in the middle of copulation. Its tremolo guitar and lurching rhythm will make you do "The Zombie" -- a frenetic slow motion dance that looks and feels like a robotic undead gone haywire. You'll be doing it the whole time this creepy song crawls with its badass chicken-scratch guitar pickin' and insistent snare beat. "Can't Bring Me Down" shows where their musical roots truly lie: the blues. This song has the production value of two boom boxes with Robby telling the tale of a dirty old man's last day of school amidst the primal pound of tambourine and rattly snare, a guitar on the verge of breaking down, and a howling harmonica wailing its lament. "B-52 Bomber Boy" is the most feel-good of the 4 songs, as a working-class kid sings about his search for a working-class gal. It's got a rhythm that will roll you and then rock you much like the rest of their songs. Most of their numbers are so bursting at the seams with energy and enthusiasm that at the end their own entropy consumes them in a hairy mess of crazy drums, wild guitar and feedback.

The Black Lips are a white spot in a field of musical bleakness. This four-piece hits the thick of it all like a mechanized contraption ripping your nails off from tip to cuticle. "Keep it simple stupid" is their motto, simplicity is the thing with lyrics off the top of the head, plodding backbone bass, single-note guitar lines, blistering solos and classic chorus /refrain progression. Let the Black Lips give you the kiss of death.

--Bradley Harris

GaragePunk.com Forum 9/12/02

As a whole, they look like retards. Degenerates. These are the kids in high school who fucked their sisters and jacked off their family dogs. They're from the Deep South, so maybe there's a bit of truth steeped in my lie. The night gets better as a band crony lights a length of firecrackers as long as my arm and lets it fly. Smoke everywhere, Cole's gagging and you can see in his eyes that he truly wants to throw up on stage. Oh yeah, and they sound like nothing has ever sounded. They bury bridges, they burn walls, they climb buildings. They carry the pail of slightly southern dirge, like the Gun Club if they weren't sunny boys from LA. And of course it's loose. Snare hits are sometimes lost, a random bass note struck here and there, the dissonant hum of all the guitar strings, tuned to the key of Satan's scrotum, being struck by lightning.

They'd already had me at "Hello", but managed to jump completely overboard on their second to last song. Cole, with guitar solo fast approaching, puts his axe down and undoes his jeans. Big fucking deal. Everyone and their grandma's pulled their pants down on stage, and if you ain't John Holmes, aint' no way you gonna impress me. Instead, he hovers over the guitar like a mother to a wounded child and begins to hit the strings repeatedly with his cock. Hard. I'm won. It was THE quintessential moment. Nothing comes close. Nothing.

--Ben Blackwell