NO interest in nostalgia or revivals and
neither have The Milkshakes. This
re-release of their first LP (originally
on the streets in 1981 a time when
things garage were a lot less formed into
cults and coteries than now) captures
them in a debilitating peak of uncouth
say The Beatles had their best moments at
the Star club in Hamburg when they still
wore leather jackets, took speed rather
than anything more psychedelic and made a
noise fuelled by a certain octane of
amphetamine not by any quest for musical
refinement. I wouldn't like to comment on
The Milkshakes' drug intake but they
appear to crave a similar euphoric buzz
from their performances.
Milkshakes regard Beat music as an
unimprovable portrait so they leave the
canvas intact but rearrange the frame in
a mass of flying tacks and splinters.
Through a haze of snarled lips and
upturned collars (coupled to a defiantly
'80s aura) they let its potency beam out
like a beacon of rebellious beauty.
members of The Milkshakes presumably used
this logic in deciding to form a band
which did gigs rather than spent time and
money in the studio trying to make
records that sound like other records,
simultaneously penning a batch of songs
designed to have their guts torn out
nightly on stage as if operated on by a
desperately thrill seeking surgeon.
of 'Talking Bout. . .' will make
hunchbacks walk upright. The other half
will resurrect the dead. Indeed, Sid
James gets his first production credit.