If you're familiar with The Coathangers then you probably know the Atlanta group's premise. The story goes that four young women decided to start a band for the sole purpose of being able to hang out and play parties. They weren't going to let the fact that none of them knew how to play any instruments get in the way of their having a good time. The backstory certainly added to the charm of early songs like "Nestle In My Boobies" and "Stop Stomp Stompin'"--songs that resided somewhere between no-wave's caustic stabs of dissonance and garage rock's primal minimalism. In the seven years since their formation, The Coathangers have released a slew of records and toured across North America and Europe countless times. The persistence of such a casual endeavor is a testament to the infectious quality of their songs and the electric nature of their unruly live show.
Suck My Shirt is the The Coathangers' fourth full-length. The title refers to an incident involving the salvaging of spilled tequila during the recording session for the album. While the title implies that little has changed with regards to the band's celebratory mission statement, even just a cursory listen of their latest album demonstrates that there have indeed been changes in The Coathangers' camp. First off, the quartet was reduced to a trio for the latest record, with keyboardist Bebe Coathanger (Candice Jones) stepping down from her duties. But the absence of keyboards isn't nearly as noticeable of a difference as the band's refined songwriting approach. Refinement is an attribute we expect to see in any group that has a career spanning more than a couple of years, but the extent to which The Coathangers have honed their trade with each successive album dwarfs most bands' maturation. This isn't to say that The Coathangers have polished their sound; the group once again worked with Ed Rawls and Justin McNeight at The Living Room to attain the same production values of their Larceny & Old Lace album and their recent slew of split 7"s. Rather, the refinement can be heard in the quality of the songs themselves. While the band retains the alluring spontaneity and happy accidents of their early releases, the trio's current work sounds far more deliberate and locked-in than anything they've done in the past.
"It's a balance between overthinking and just going for it," guitarist Crook Kid Coathanger (Julia Kugel) says of their songwriting strategy. It's a duality immediately apparent with the album opener "Follow Me". It's a classic Coathangers tune with the raspy vocals of Rusty Coathanger (Stephanie Luke) belted out over the signature grimy rock laid down by Crook Kid and bassist Minnie Coathanger (Meredith Franco). But the chorus opens into one of the most accessible hooks in the band's canon, just before segueing into the next verse with a squall of violent dissonant guitar. From there the band launches into "Shut Up", a title that harkens back to the brash sass of their first record. The song still has its spikey guitar riffs and shouted chorus, but here The Coathangers sound less like a jubilant version of Huggy Bear and more like the art-pop of late-era Minutemen. Dedicated Coathangers fans will recognize the re-worked versions of "Merry Go Round", "Smother", "Adderall", and "Derek's Song" from their run of limited edition split 7"s, and hearing them in the context of the album shows that these tracks weren't merely isolated examples of the band's more sophisticated side, but were actually demonstrative of the group's increasing capacity for nestling solid melodic hooks and rock heft into their repertoire. By the time the band wraps up the album with the humble pop perfection of "Drive", it's hard to believe this was the band that garnered their reputation with raucous bombasts like "Don't Touch My Shit".
"Ultimately, every album is a snapshot of who we were at the time," says Crook Kid. And while that might mean that The Coathangers in 2014 don't feel compelled to chronicle the youthful piss and vinegar that yielded the Teenage Jesus & The Jerks-esque spasms of their debut album, it's exciting to hear the output of the band as they explore the range of their temperaments with a broader musical palette at their disposal. Suck My Shirt is available on LP, CD, and digital formats on March 18th 2014 via Suicide Squeeze Records.

Like a fluorescent-lit snack-aisle oasis in some desolate interstate road stop, brimming with Skittles and limited-edition Sno Balls, Tacocat's Easter-egg-hued pop-punk-pop is bubblegum-sticky with hooks, bound to brighten up the most drab stretch of bummer backroad.

The band's four-person, seven-layer-burrito came together organically: Lelah Maupin (drums) and Eric Randall (guitar) met in their native Longview, WA—two hours south of Seattle, the very town that Green Day named their breakout debut single after. Lelah's family room was wallpapered with framed Magic Eye posters, hence "Stereogram," the cross-eyed love letter to that bizarre '90s optical fad. She met lanky Eric while both worked at Safeway, wearing the chain's distinctive navy aprons before breaking north to Seattle. Eric's band The Trashies practiced and played in the basement of the 24/7 House in the Central District, where Long Beach, CA native Bree McKenna (bass) was living, amongst the dust, boxes, and spiders. Lelah met Butte, MT native Emily Nokes (voice, tambourine) in one excruciatingly early/boring graphic design class, slipping her a doodled-upon note; she soon noticed Emily's big voice while she sang along with R. Kelly on the radio. Emily and Bree hit it off one sloshy night at the Comet. Eric impressed Emily with his reenactments of scenes from Anaconda. Sometime around 2007, via countless raucous house party shows, the legend of Tacocat was born.

The foursome would quickly make a name for themselves with their simply energizing power pop, drawing on classic Northwest energy with an uncommonly upbeat, surfy swag that could only come from gray skies and hydroponic sunshine. Their sly and unabashed '90s revivalism has, in the past, found the band pondering Evan Dando and Waterworld—and Bree herself explains finding about riot grrrl via Napster and Julia Stiles in 10 Things I Hate About You. They've described themselves variously as "Feminist sci-fi" and "Equal parts Kurt and Courtney"; oh well, whatever…NVM.

NVM—Tacocat's second full-length album and first for Hardly Art, opens up like some mystery shoebox, wistful, instantly nostalgic: snapshots of mortifying exes ("You Never Came Back") and sketchy party situations ("Party Trap"), maybe a postcard with an alien smoking a joint. Cigarette cellophane-wrapped weed nugs, pain pill crumbs and wrapped tampons ("all the girls are surfing the wave, surfing the crimson wave today"), all serve as a roadmap through Tacocat's bong-ripped reminiscences, scenarios all-too familiar and hilariously improbable. There's the notoriously inconsistent #8 Metro line ("F.U. #8") and the accountability-allergic, black-clad brick-heavers of "This Is Anarchy." The protagonist of "Psychedelic Quinceañera"—based on Bree—just wants to dance with rainbows, mind-expansion style, instead of having to wear a frilly dress in front of her whole family. Emily daydreams of a "Bridge to Hawaii," where even the destitute could walk their asses to paradise—before being snapped out of it by cat-calls from construction workers, business dads, and drunk hobos ("Hey Girl"); sweaty jerks telling her that she shouldsmile!

NVM all that, though: you should, and will, smile—either a wry little corner-lifter or a big ear-to-ear equator—and shake what's yours, when you hear the whippet-smart latest album from the world's favorite palindromic band. Text a friend.

Portland punk isn't historically silly—since the late '70s, mostly straight-laced bands like the Wipers and other Trap Records (now dubbed Zeno) acts painted a generally austere picture of the city's scene. In today's new wave of the genre, however, things are a lot goofier.

The dudes of White Fang are mainstays of their hometown's newfound merrymaking. They share members with likeminded outfit The Memories, one of whom is Rikky, also known as Free Weed. Over the years they've collectively shifted from rougher cuts to a lighter, more easygoing template, but they've been proponents of a freewheeling, devil-may-care attitude all along. These days they're crafting super-baked, bong water-logged jams for marathon hangouts—because, for White Fang at least, their wild weekends last "seven days a week."

"MUSK is an anomaly. Its knuckle dragging, saturated dirges are the uncalculated, pure expression of spite and frustration. Go ahead, think mid-70s Ohio filtered through Australia a few years later, but remember this vitriol is being flung on Telegraph Ave cretin in Berkeley, 2013. Formed with an unabashed allegiance to agitation, both of their own and listeners, MUSK is antithetical to its Bay Area contemporaries. While others pamper sycophants and desperately strive to endear potential fans, MUSK commands a flippant disregard for their feelings and precious posturing. MUSK shows are not wheelchair accessible, there's no door on the bathroom stall and cocaine addled fan-children won't be ushered through the back door in stained fur coats with 3" buttons on the lapel." - Sam Lefebvre (Degenerate Zine / MaximumRocknRoll)

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