Showing posts with label Cruz Somers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cruz Somers. Show all posts

CRUZ SOMERS “UV-B” C8 (Big Dunce Records)




What atrocity is Cruz Somers gonna hit us with next? First it was the alien tech in the trunk of his ’64 Chevy Malibu on Here Comes the Tarp. Now we’ve got a robotic pink abomination, begging us from the cover of this tape to kill it so it doesn’t have to live in pain any longer. “UV-B” calls to us for mercy, but we don’t help it one bit – we press play and listen to its death throes. It wails like an engine revved way too hard for way too long, drum machines threatening to overheat and crack the head gasket. The guitars in its guts grind away helplessly against themselves in the absence of maintenance, and the recorded voices crackle through static emanating from epileptic speakers. Cruz Somers is in the red here, pushing “UV-B” as hard as it can go before it violently gives up its ghost, shuddering to a halt and spraying ball bearings everywhere while leaking oil and other lubricants from various parts. Fortunately that final breakdown happens outside of the recording, and we’re able to simply enjoy the headlong punk chaos as it unfurls. So don’t really feel bad for “UV-B” – it served its purpose admirably in the end. Maybe its spare parts can be reconstituted for the next EP. Or maybe we should stop building robots with feelings, only to destroy them.



--Ryan Masteller


CRUZ SOMERS “Here Comes the Tarp” C20
(OJC Recordings)



Cruz Somers of Socialites sounds like Black Francis fronting a cross between the Ramones and Devo. Right? Cause eff yah that sounds like something I wanna do all the time. Or maybe “I Wanna Be Your Dog” run through a rock crusher might be a more apt description. Ah heck, I’ll go with the first one.

This is LA underground sheez whiz Repo Man style in abandoned buildings and parking lots, doing crimes and melting down in Cold War hysteria. There’s a thing as green as this tape in your trunk, and it flipping glows. These five songs (or six, depending on whether you consider “Your Future/Dog Dance” one song or two) are causing total panic at the discotheque, so hit the deck.

I’m almost certain a Trapper Keeper fight is going to break out in my vicinity. When it does, I’m ready. I have a yellow sport Walkman with this thing in it, and I’m ready to hit stuff with my binder emblazoned with pastel geometric shapes. Let’s rock this joint. Let’s remind everybody that this is how to channel your anger. Let’s jump up and down on industrial scrap. Let’s drink cheap beer and have fun.

Who cares anymore? Cruz Somers is kicking ass and taking names, wearing a turtleneck with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. It probably looks awesome.



--Ryan Masteller