Punk rock has always relied more upon aesthetic than talent. From the moment Malcom McLaren first sat down at his drawing board to draft that unstoppable cash cow, built to exploit the burgeoning disestablishmentarianism of British youth, the working class sensibility of mid-70s British and New York punks saw their image diluted by commercial interests until it was no longer recognizable. A mere 25 years later, the same insidious motives fuel the corporate world: the safety pins, tattered jean jackets, and hatred for the C of E embodied by punk poster boy Johnny Rotten have been replaced, by soulless So-Cal frat boys with Hot Topic endorsement deals and multimillion dollar recording studios.
As the former street punk scenes of early 80s London and New York rested in a state of suspended animation, MTV and its minions subjugated not only the once vibrant scene, but also its singular aesthetic. Punk's innocence and misfit angst has been supplanted by phony social consciousness and political correctness; it's grown increasingly difficult to even remember-- much less appreciate-- the Herculean efforts of the genre's founding fathers, like Stiff Little Fingers, Buzzcocks, The Sex Pistols, The Clash and The Ramones.
Bringing a fiery wave of three-chord rock played at breakneck speed to an audience dissatisfied with the excesses of glam rock, and recently numbed by the lingering afterburn of disco, The Ramones stand alone as the first legitimate punk rock band. Shattering the conventions and stricture of mainstream rock, The Ramones established the blueprint for minimalist street-kid rock, long before style entered the picture. To their credit, The Ramones have carried the torch for the New York Punk movement ever since its inception, remaining true to its rage and irrepressibility for as long as any of us can remember.
Prior to the passing of both Joey and Dee Dee Ramone in the last two years, the band was actively touring, and boasted numerous solo projects. Unfortunately for The Ramones, maturity didn't yield adaptability, and these late-fortysomethings were clinging steadfast to the same brand of anti-culture twenty years after its initial impact. As his recent collaboration with punk revivalists The Speedkings illustrates, former drummer Marky Ramone is no exception. Hooking up with the latest project of Nick Cooper, former leader of the Buckweeds, Marky Ramone handled drumming duties on Legends Bleed, forty minutes' worth of predictable schlock-punk whose disposability is surpassed only by its irrelevance.
Despite bearing the moniker Marky Ramone & The Speedkings, Ramone's efforts on this album are relegated to percussion, with guitarist/vocalist Cooper providing the songwriting and marginal creative impetus. Ramone's drumming is as solid and feverish as ever, displaying his talent for banging out pinpoint hardcore and punk tempos without rest in all 16 of the album's original tracks. While there's certainly no dearth of verve present, this album really boils down to the same tired party culture nonsense of yesteryear, preaching an eternal love of fast cars, beer, apathy, and promiscuous young girls.
"You're all I want, you're all I need/ You drive me crazy baby, I just can't breathe/ Roll the dice, spin the wheel/ Buckle up, honey, I'll show you how it feels." So goes the haplessly antiquated Motörhead of "Hot Rods-R-Us", a song dealing with a young man's anthropomorphic relationship with his car. When they're not addressing culturally irrelevant hot points like carburetors and double clutches, The Speedkings explore mindless teenage ire, on tracks like "Fuck Shit Up", "I Don't Care Anymore", and "R'n'R Asshole", with puerile prose like, "Oh my gawd, you really suck/ I'm gonna tear you another asshole/ Always shit out of luck," and, "Time has come for some change/ Motherfuckin' scumfuck so deranged/ I don't give a shit what you think of me/ Punch your lights out, then you'll see/ I don't give a fuck, I do what I do."
Tracks like "Sex Phone Girls", "Weenie Hair", and "Beaver on my Mind" are so laden with obsolete male impulses and schoolyard puns, I'm virtually positive the late Joey Ramone is cringing in his grave. Legends Bleed is a benign party record, plain and simple. If you can get past the tracklist, lyric sheet, and band members' birth certificates, you'll have a blast. Anyone in search of the perfect soundtrack for a DUI or suffering from a Peter Pan complex will be delighted by this group of aging hipsters still trying to milk a dead aesthetic for all it's worth.
Ironically, the gratuitous inclusion of four abysmal Ramones covers recorded live in Germany are all songs Joey & Co. recorded before Marky even joined the band. Undoubtedly, missing out on The Ramones' seminal work left Marky struggling for his own niche, but his work with The Speedkings, and his previous solo efforts (with The Intruders) echo his utter lack of interest in relevance and taste. For as much as punk rock as been bastardized and assimilated by pop culture looking to prey upon angry kids with questionable fashion sense, nonsensical parody like Legends Bleed keeps better, modern day punk mired in prehistoric stereotypes propounded by men in their early fifties.
