Split LPs can be a gamble, but Talk Trash With lands squarely like a swift kick to those tender testicles dancing in the steel-toe-boot category — ten tracks of loud, unpolished punk mayhem that feel tailor-made for sticky floors, smoky blue air (ahh, remember those years?), piss puddles for those who can’t miss a note, and the smell of a ripe armpit from a troglodyte who last showered sometime last month. A halo of flies is an extra touch in the Satanic Panic department.
Gino and the Goons arrive first like true garage skull-stompers, hammering out ragged, riff-heavy blasts driven by pounding anthem-sized drums that feel built for bar-room sing-alongs and late-night piss tanks. There’s a healthy nod to Johnny Thunders and that Lower East Side gutter swagger, but the Goons drag it through grease and gravel before flooring the gas pedal. While crushing testicles and stomping on your skull, they also drag your forehead across asphalt until you look like you fought with the local piercer. This is music for cruising in an 8-track-enabled dilapidated convertible — top down, engine coughing, belching up last night’s beer suds — pure hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you rock ’n’ roll, landing like a full Goon boot to whatever body part I haven’t already mentioned. Hail, hail rock ’n’ roll — and Satan as an afterthought.
Flip the record, and Chinese Junk answer with a different shade of wreckage. “I’m living on Chinese rock / all my best things are in hock” might as well be the nocturnal-emission mission statement here — raw, sneering, and gloriously unpolished, unlike when something overly polished releases bodily fluids and paints the walls. Their side blasts forward with the manic simplicity of The Spits and the primitive monster-garage stomp of The Mummies, songs snapping by in tight, snotty bursts where hooks rip you apart like some second-rate B-movie horror flick filled with blood packs of corn syrup dyed red.
Both bands complement each other — or maybe they don’t — and that tension is exactly what makes the split work. Hey boys, compliments go a long way, so kiss and make up. Instead of sounding neatly paired, the album plays out like a sweaty, pile driving wrestling match, complete with metaphorical metal chairs smashed over skulls and the crowd yelling for one more round. It’s messy, loud, and completely alive — everything a proper garage-punk record should be.
Verdict: Two bands, one loud black-ice collision — a basement-level brawl with strobe lights for atmosphere, pressed onto vinyl and meant to be played at 12 (fuck Spinal Tap). Oh, and apparently i like the word SWEAT. Hey Kids Pee Wee here- every time you hear the word SWEAT, yell at the top of your lungs!
rating 8 Sweat Socks out of 10
