From the sound of their debut album Love or Perish, Pocket Rockets appear to have spent a lot of time splashing around in the musical backwaters of the sixties and seventies, soaking up records like "The Little Black Egg", whose earnest failure to win widespread acceptance finds a more self-conscious articulation in this modern resurrection. The Rockets position themselves as defiant outsiders, kids who look on with a mixture of jealousy and disgust at their popular counterparts. This snooty imagery is aided by the fact that the band are still teenagers and sing about the sometimes petty concerns of their age. Though the world would scarcely be a poorer place if all the collected teen angst were swept into the Atlantic, the Pocket Rockets are at least intriguing enough to make you think twice before you break out the push brooms.
Love or Perish announces itself as lo-fi early on, but despite the inevitable accompaniment of insularity, bratty sneers and hiss flatter the music more often than not. The Rockets seem as if they're coming in from far away, like a radio station that barely comes in as you drive through a spooky small town late at night. There's something penetratingly strange about their songs, as their straight pop becomes unintentionally twisted in the process of trying to play it well. All three members-- Carmen Clark on vocals and bass, Lili Schulder on guitar, and Mat Lewis on drums-- are much longer on imagination than chops, and this gives them a naïve if not quite primitive quality. With such limited artifice at their command, it's natural that Love or Perish sounds less like an album than a diary, with all the strengths and weaknesses of unrestrained exhibition.
Periodically egocentric, cliched and clumsy-- "Cookie Blows a Fag" is a tipsy, more leaden "Arnold Layne" if ever there was one-- Love or Perish has its selling points. In addition to plucky songwriting, its sheer honesty offers a voyeuristic thrill: Clark sounds naked to the point of sexual, even when her subjects are far removed from impure thoughts. She reveals the good and the embarrassing in equal measure, but the more blushingly confessional she gets, the more candid, unrefined and gloriously nasty the record sounds.
Pocket Rockets should be given points for rawness, but they might gain or lose a few depending on whether they chose rawness or it chose them. A major question remains: How will an audience receive them in the bitchy, trendy world they tread? With the more bluesy garage revivals, singers recite their problems for the sake of the audience, for explanation and ensuing empathy. Robert Johnson would interject, "You know what I'm talkin' 'bout," and you would. The Pocket Rockets don't appear to care if you know what they're talkin' 'bout: Their music is not designed to be universal, rather firmly personal, and without apologies. Whether this strikes you as solipsistic or bold depends on your proximity to the band's point of view. Either a quintessential cult record or another cocky slice of childish bombast, Love or Perish is still a more personal confession than many of its posey peers.
