There was a creepy trend in heavy metal circles in the eighties and early nineties where summa these scarf wearing glamsters were all having these dark fantasies of offing their girlfriends like Eminem and Motley Crue and Guns N Roses. “Murder On My Mind” is another one of those, but energetic and power poppy as fuck, it inda sounds like Cheap Trick, which is always a positive. They looked fabulous, like Hanoi Rocks. The production’s crisp and urgent and they capture that same killer, enthusiastic vibe as Hanoi did with “Tragedy”. The singer has starpower in spades. They wear colored leather like the Cherry Bombz, and the vocalist brings the heartfelt desperation of Stiv, and the girl magnetic charisma of Ronnie Sweetheart. They’ve got the kinda intensity I always tried to channel in my kid bands. The singer was portraying a character up there, like a Steven Tyler or Andrew Matheson from Hollywood Brats, but he’s also–and for me, this is the important part, he’s courageously revealing other parts of himself. They’re weren’t that many singers back then that really showed you intimate things about their experiences. There’s genuine songwriting and actual artistry at play here, which was rare in those days, and even rarer now. He’s trying to work it all out in his songs, find a way to make sense of relationships in this everything’s for sale bizarro world, fuckedup society, back when the whole never apologize and greed is good hierarchical narrative was first taking hold, becoming the zeitgeist of this ever darkening age. This record’s a real treasure trove of elusive rocknroll kicks! Some weirdo kids got together and formed the near perfect band in the Guns N Roses era, and somebody’s girlfriend told the guitar player he should be the singer, or their record company went bankrupt, or something, and they foolishly broke up right on the edge of doubtless victory. Then, decades later, our fearless diehard figured out a way to release and market this absolute glamour punk masterpiece. I’ve been meaning to write about is for months, but got stuck in a horrible gauntlet of sudden money problems, work pressure, a major colon cancer ordeal, and anguishing pain from a herniated disc and degenerative spinal syndrome that triggered a lifetime of CPTSD trauma and the EMDR therapy brought back paralyzing buried memories and I started trauma splitting and my old lady wants me to stay off the booze, while she does all the heavy lifting and we got caught up working for a textbook, real life, millionaire narcisisst who was already sucking out all our most vital lifeforce around the clock, while we were dealing with a disabled teenager in crisis, so that’s why I’m just now getting around to ranting about it. Some Catholic school, deep suburban kids I sorta mentored when I was around 27, they would go truant to loiter around the record store, asking me to teach ’em about punk rock and tell ’em stories, they modelled themselves after my old band, and consciously sought out three of my old bandmates/roommates from Boston and formed a local punk band, summa their songs were direct responses to stories I’d told ’em about my first hand, lived experiences, but I was drinking heavily and going through my first bad breakup with a rocknroll queen I loved back then, and was somewhat oblivious to the fact that while they were flattering and impersonating and imitating me, they were also kinda taking potshots, taking the piss, had bought into a bogus hometown highschool group-think negativity narrative about how rocknroll was something that could be purchased on Amazon. I was not able to pass among the jocks and rich people. My first two drummers died the same year, and one of ’em had been an older mentor to all of us in that part of Ohio, so they reformed and brought in another drummer to “pay tribute” to the dude at a reunion show for record store day. I had had the same idea when my little buddy the skinhead drummer died, of reuniting my original cast and crew but somehow, they collectively decided I “was not happening”, and really just rejected all my olive branch offers to reconvene and record original material. I’m sentimental as fuck and remember how much fun it was some of the time, growing up together, we defied the odds and oppression with a real strength in unity for a couple years, and I know I was not a mere asterik, even if that’s what they’ve reduced me to, a mere content provider or phrase chisiller, so I’m still somewhat begrudgingly pleased they got outta that abusive pisshole town and continued to make music, even if they have their own stories about how they are all too good for me, or I can’t sing as well as their Kendoll frontmen. They remain artists and performers and that is really a win for the good side, even if it aint with me, they all came from unbearable bullshit midwestern warpig abuser trauma and escaped, so I’m somehay still gratified by that, even if disappointed they dont wanna hear from me when their mom who was also like a mom to me, died. Almost rushed home to the funeral but knew that it’d be another sports schools popularity contest where all those guys would be letting me now how popular they are in their elite zipcodes with some imaginary in crowd, now that they are supposedly oh so bonafide and legitimized because they have money, or whatever.
“She’s A Machine” sounds like one of David Lee Roth‘s only so-so cuts from his post “Skyscraper” albums, in that it aint Van Halen, but it’s still got the right on magical spirit. Takes ya back to nights at the drive in behind the Dairy King, fumbling around with your Catholic school jock friends and drinking beer underage. Beer was my obvious and only accessible solution, how I self medicated all my life, and now I’ve just been through the most retraumatizing year of my life, I want more beer. Sobriety aint natural to me, I started drinking when I was probably four, got serious about drinking in the sixth grade, while making mixtapes for girls in my O.G. gangsta friend, Sean’s Pro Drive bedroom, out by the suburban country club, which is why I always think Rob Sheffield’s a genius for writing a book called, “Talking To Girls About Duran Duran“, even though he cashes big checks for having to be imaginative enough to try to apologize for all that shitty Taylor/Britney/Backstreet Boys douchey lifestyle bullshit the man has been thrusting upon the public since they decided to kill rocknroll on the airwaves after 9/11 and banned 700 anti war songs from radio play. My friend Sean loved hiphop from Day One and we had some crossover, in that I was into Prince, Sly, P-Funk, Andre Cymone, the System, and Zapp. Sean had mixers and was into all the early breakdance music, and I brought my rocknroll and new wave and Prince lps over and we were mixing the Clash and Van Halen and Prince with Afrika Bambatta years before Ton Loc or Aersomith. “Too Late” mighta had some real hit potential had it appeared on Headbanger’s Ball during the hairspray metal era. It’s almost Bon Jovi like in it’s radio friendly accessibility. Singer sounds a bit like Bon Jovi, too, and that’s not intended as an insult at all, he’s got Bon Jovi melodic songwriting sensibility, but galaxies of punk attitude with brains and a lot more heart! Guitars are as professional, slick as you can get without starting to suck, this band were really, really good at all of it. Not as good as the Beat Angels, but at the same bar. They have some Dimestore Haloes lovable record store misfit charm, too!
Everyday we hear about some band that deserved to be famous but failed, whether as a result of innerband girl conflicts, or record label profit fuckery, but these cats, Sybil really had it all, I think they are every bit as good as Electric Angels or the Throbs, better than Poison, better than Faster Pussycat. “I Need A Gun” is like an old Robert Johnson song, with a White Lion pop sheen all over it, our troubled hero is having that restless “Hey Joe” conflict about wantin’ to shoot his woman down again. “Puttin’ You Down:” is like crackerjack heavy metal, they bring a heaviness lacking in the poof pop Winger/Warrant days. The singer embodies that snarly streetwise outsider vibe, kinda equal parts Stiv Bators and Davey Vain. My friend Marty Ers from Midnight Crisis is gonna love this album! “I Know You Can’t” reminds me of Candy(!!!) and they are one of my all time most essential, favorite bands for marrying power pop with more of that Generation X/Trash Brats/Joneses/Ramones aggression. “Too Much Punch For Judy” is what Skid Row mighta sounded like, if they had more good songs besides their big three hits, it’s almost new wave, it had to fuck with Skoal chewing, pickup driving, macho redneck bandanna wearers heads, to see these new waveish glam dolls thrilling their leather skirted girlfriends while wearing those weird sunglasses from Commander Salamander, or Mothra on High Street. This is precisely the same vibe that always got me in trouble, and caused me to become such a polarizing figure back in the first half of my life, cause I was very new wave, but also white trash broke as fuck, so I could not fund the musical operations like the better heeled big city gentrification hipsters all my ex bandmates went off to play in cover bands alongside. I just had a heart full of feelings, a knack for telling stories in two minute vigenettes with a spoonful of somethin’, it was too glam rock for the Black Flag and Suicidal Tendencies hardcores, and too andogynous for the middleclass peeps who needed to be validated by popularity among the nine to five paycheck squares, and sports fans who still watch tv at night and frequent the mall. It’s totally right up my alley though, it’s fun, it’s cool, it makes you wanna be young and alive again. I feel sorry for all the sad suckers who were duped into believing they had to earn the approval of the straight world and achieve that all important middle class respectability, and Taget shopper purchase power, before they could ever possess the right to let loose on the weekend and ever take a risk, or have fun that was not purchased in tiny increments.after dark and in secret, whether we’re talkin’ ’bout the double secret but oh so obvious middle class, after five drug habits, or five hundred dollar concert tickets you see ’em buyin’ nowadays. I think I woulda got along like a house on fire with these joyfully unbridled, crazy carousing characters, of Sybil, at least when they were young, we share the same kinda hearts and impulses. I had a couple girlfriends like the one in “Too Much Punch For Judy”. You’re getting along, everything’s finally gotten a little less tense with dummy pressures from the outside world, and right when you’re supposed to be relaxing into some get high pleasure, she abruptly wants to argue, or accuse you of something you didn’t do, she’s just hellbent on creating drama and conflict when there’s nothin’ wrong. You get that she has her own childhood trauma, but you aint trying to be nobody’s punching bag. Once she’s in her cups, it’s all over, cause anybody who witnesses a screamy chick always automatically assumes you are somehow responsible, or to blame for her moodswing freakouts, when it really just might be the vodka she starts guzzling at seven in the morning. Next thing you know, some oversized, belligenet, male strangers are wrestling you outta the bar like you did something wrong. Hellish batshit. By the time you hear Sybil’s perfect hit, “She Said”, you’ll be thinkin’ ’bout how much you still love the Nerves and Beat and Candy and Plimsouls–those guys had that level talent and professionalism and songwriting abilities but also brought this whole extravagant entertainer showmanship live action stage presence like Hanoi Rocks and old school Van Halen. I love them and knew I would way back when my esteemed fanzine sister Dev Ostrov, who hipped me to them and lots of other cool bands over the years, first told me about ’em like six months ago. They did a fantastic job with the packaging and promotion and they are very much one of those bands like the Ultras, Nancy Boy, Four Horsemen, or Lions & Ghosts, in that it remains a total mystery to me how they never really even became as big as Jetboy, who they’re every bit as pretty and flamboyant and stylish and cool looking as, or the purple haired Zeroes who had the same kind of upbeat, melodic sensibility and excellent musicianship. Sybil is my favorite new band and probably yours, too, if you dig the same kinda music I do. Now I gotta find a way to get the Sybil t shirt and poster. They rock like fuck, my brothers and sisters and friends of the Revolution. If you liked American Heartbreak, or the Naked Flames, you will almost certainly love Sybil…
Veglam 
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