Scat Records News

Originally released in 1985, the debut EP by The Mice still stands as one of the finer song-oriented rock records of that era. Drawing inspiration from both mid 1960s British Invasion groups and the energy of punk, For Almost Ever is about as scorching as an essentially pop record can be. Although vocalist / guitarist Bill Fox would go on to release several much-loved mostly acoustic solo records, here he is joined by his younger brother Tommy, a veritable monster on the drum kit, bashing away with both finesse and the manic energy of a high school kid. And let’s talk about the song “Not Proud of the USA.” Conceived as an answer to The Clash’s “I’m So Bored with the USA,” this track is packed with such overwhelming hooks, righteousness, and adrenaline that it’s irresistible. During the war in Iraq, it took on a new life on college radio and online when it was reissued on CD. And with this vinyl reissue, it would seem the timing is sadly spot-on once again. Mastered by John Golden, this new pressing crackles with The Mice’s spirit, reproduced in big 45 rpm sound for deeper low end and greater definition than the original, which has been commanding a steep price for quite a while now. We’ve also been able to restore the colors of the handcolored cover photograph to their original vibrancy.

Originally released in 1990, Same Place The Fly Got Smashed was Guided By Voices’ fourth album in as many years. Roughly a concept album about an alcoholic named Joker Bob who goes on a bender, someone dies, and Bob gets the chair (“the electrifying conclusion”). From the moment the needle drops, the listener is served notice that this isn’t going to be an easy listen, as an argument taped off of a TV cuts to a basement recording of a lone, blaring electric guitar with someone yelling over the top. But for those brave enough to pass the opening hazards, there are wonders within. This particular album has come to be held in higher and higher regard by fans, and they are correct to consider it a top-tier release. The story and sequence have a flow, and consideration for approachability is optional. Many of the crudest tracks reveal themselves as necessary stitches in the album’s tapestry. Yet it also contains all time greats like “Drinker’s Peace,” “Mammoth Cave,” the epic “Local Mix-Up/ Murder Charge,” and of course “Pendulum” with its immortal opening line: “Come on over tonight, we’ll put on some Cat Butt and do it up right!”—a rare break in the clouds on one of the band’s darkest albums. This reissue, like the previous ones in this series, is a mostly faithful reproduction of the original pressing of 500 on the band’s own Rocket #9 label. And like the others, the virgin RTI vinyl is housed in a thick tip-on jacket, and includes Robert Pollard’s original handwritten lyric insert.

The electric eels were the first punk band, full stop. They may not have “started” the genre, but they were the first to tick all the boxes. The eels rejected every 1970s rock convention—professionalism, virtuosity, subject matter, image. Dave E.’s caustic vocals, complete with an aggressive lisp and a head full of snot, would become de rigeur a few years after the group disbanded. Meanwhile, the songs’ focus on car crashes, suicide, neuroses, and generally hating people were as far out of the mainstream as possible. The two eels tracks that do approach the subject of romance couch it in terms of not really caring that much about it (“Jaguar Ride”) or placing it in the context of a grisly murder (“Silver Daggers”). Also consider John Morton’s signature guitar sound, a nails-on-chalkboard tone with brutally free soloing inspired more by Albert Ayler than the blues or aspirations to technical facility. Ditto Dave E.’s clarinet playing and affection for lawnmowers and vacuums during live performance. They were notoriously violent not only among themselves, but towards audiences, police, and anyone unfortunate enough to be around them when things went south. Then of course there are the leather jackets, the clothing festooned with rat traps or safety pins. And no bass player, why bother. There is simply no other “proto” band to have had all these pieces in place circa 1973- 1975. Yet it is a mistake to consider the eels exclusively in such a context. Yes, the eels could and did shock anyone who encountered them, but they also had great songs. While both Dave and John were visionary writers, they also had rhythm guitarist Brian McMahon, a melody and riff machine who wrote many of the band’s signature songs. And they were no one-trick pony. Although much of the band’s material is appropriately high-energy, there is also the downer eels—morbid, harmonically risky, and in full existential crisis. Although it’s not a focus of this compilation, the eels also had a penchant for completely free improvisation. Over the last forty plus years, there have been several electric eels compilations. Spin Age Blasters is quite simply the best one ever assembled, every single key track is here in its best version, properly mastered by John Golden, and sequenced with an eye towards both flow between tracks as well as individation between sides. A true monster of an album.

Originally released in 1986, the debut album by My Dad
Is Dead is remarkable not only for its strong and varied
material, but also how the aesthetic of MDID’s music was
fully formed and instantly recognizable from the git-go.
Here are the open modal guitar tunings, the primitive
drum machine paired with live drums, the complete
rejection of the pentatonic scale and related 1970s guitar
techniques, and the dry, journalistic language that brings a
distanced, subdued pathos to the harrowing characters and
their situations.
Few artists who traffic in the darker realms of the human
condition do so without some degree of melodrama; Mark
Edwards’s penchant for understatement and distance
brings even more gravity and impact to these songs of lost
souls in a dying city. All these qualities would become
hallmarks of the My Dad Is Dead sound for years to come.
Like Edwards’s next few albums, ...And He’s Not Gonna
Take It Anymore was performed and written entirely by
himself, which only deepens the feeling of isolation that
permeates the album.
This 2021 reissue was remastered by John Golden Sr.
and is a huge sonic improvement over the original pressing
and early ’90s European editions. Best of all, it includes
an entire bonus LP of rare 1985 recordings that were only
issued on cassette at the time. These are raw, primitive
4-track recordings that ooze with post-industrial Cleveland
malaise. They include nine previously unnreleased songs,
and early versions of four songs that were re-recorded for
the album. Fans are certain to find some new favorites here.

Death Drives A Cadillac was Spike In Vain’s second
album, never officially released and unheard in its final
form until now. Like many hardcore bands circa ’84 and
’85, the group was ready to further expand its palette and
ease off the thrash tempos. Recorded roughly a year after
Disease Is Relative with a bigger budget, the album is even
more wide-ranging, and the songs are more fleshed out.
“Despair grew inside her, I grew inside her. She named
me Spirit Death, and this is my song” sings Chris Marec,
the vocalist on half of this LP. Though less “young” than
their debut, that album’s darkness lingers, but here has a
more removed, observational quality, with many songs
sung in character or in the third person, along with a
tendency for anthropomorphic allegory. It has a bit less to
do with screaming for death to come than with a growing
resignation to being the other, a recognition of inescapable
alienation and its relation to childhood trauma. —all with
a heaping side of absurdity and a sense of wonder at the
gradually unfolding endtimes.
That said, many of the tracks wouldn’t be out of place
on the debut, and some feature exotic tunings. Bits of roots
music come into play as well—gospel, blues, and country
figure to some extent in a third of the songs, sometimes
in convoluted, Beefheart-esque ways, and at other times
toying with genre archetypes as a cat does a mouse.

everything one needs to know about this album: a misshapen,
CHUD-like figure wanders in a graveyard bearing a cross,
while a mutated fish flops in a polluted ditch and a clutch
of factories belch their smoke above it all. The message of
the illustration is not to frighten or warn, but to celebrate
and admire.
Originally released in January of 1984, Disease Is Relative
is an unapologetic and wholesale embrace of death,
disease, and dystopia, with liberal doses of absurdism
and an unrelenting devotion to anything unexpected,
chromatic, or evil sounding. Sporting influences as
diverse as no wave, death rock, funk, post-punk, hardcore,
metal, and prog rock, this music somehow happened in the
midst of a first wave hardcore scene, before there was a
“post-” to be “post” of. Less surprising is that this happened
in Cleveland, which also inspired a desire to recreate the
feeling of the city’s post-industrial desolation in sound.
There’s also some epic screaming and crazy guitar playing.
The album features three songwriters (brothers Andrew
& Chris Marec, Robert Griffin), who also divide guitar,
bass, and vocals equally between themselves here.
Drummer Bruce Allen is the secret weapon, and provides
a clue to what a young Bill Bruford might have done in a
band like this. And yet, beyond all odds, the end result is
cohesive, cathartic, and utterly idiomatic. The distinct vibe
of the album, and its sheer quantity of killer riffs, songs
and performances have made it an album that people have
championed over time, while others have come to know it
through the interwebs as a result.

everything one needs to know about this album: a misshapen,
CHUD-like figure wanders in a graveyard bearing a cross,
while a mutated fish flops in a polluted ditch and a clutch
of factories belch their smoke above it all. The message of
the illustration is not to frighten or warn, but to celebrate
and admire.
Originally released in January of 1984, Disease Is Relative
is an unapologetic and wholesale embrace of death,
disease, and dystopia, with liberal doses of absurdism
and an unrelenting devotion to anything unexpected,
chromatic, or evil sounding. Sporting influences as
diverse as no wave, death rock, funk, post-punk, hardcore,
metal, and prog rock, this music somehow happened in the
midst of a first wave hardcore scene, before there was a
“post-” to be “post” of. Less surprising is that this happened
in Cleveland, which also inspired a desire to recreate the
feeling of the city’s post-industrial desolation in sound.
There’s also some epic screaming and crazy guitar playing.
The album features three songwriters (brothers Andrew
& Chris Marec, Robert Griffin), who also divide guitar,
bass, and vocals equally between themselves here.
Drummer Bruce Allen is the secret weapon, and provides
a clue to what a young Bill Bruford might have done in a
band like this. And yet, beyond all odds, the end result is
cohesive, cathartic, and utterly idiomatic. The distinct vibe
of the album, and its sheer quantity of killer riffs, songs
and performances have made it an album that people have
championed over time, while others have come to know it
through the interwebs as a result.

These newly remastered editions of Bill Fox’s second album are the first since its 1998 release, including the first-ever vinyl pressing. Listeners will hear a wider soundstage, more detail, and improved listenability. Recorded on 4-track cassette, the fidelity belies the sophistication and nuance of the songwriting, This adept remaster by John Golden Sr helps bring definition to the intimate, at-home feel of the album. It sparkles.Very similar in feel and quality to Fox’s debut album, much of Transit Byzantium draws from the same group of recordings. It has the same feel of musical inevitability, that the songs exist beyond time itself, their eventual manifestation guaranteed by Apollo. He could’ve given them to the Everly Brothers, or the Byrds, or the Who, but instead they were channeled through an everyman from Cleveland with an aversion to the limelight. And while a traditional folk influence colors several songs, even those possess the indelible stamp of Fox’s charismatic voice and personality. Although nearly entirely acoustic and with minimal percussion, these eighteen songs cycle through a remarkable variety of textures and moods.While much has quite rightly been written about the god-tier songwriting here (“Song of a Drunken Nightingale,” “My Baby Crying,” “I’ll Give It Away” for starters), it should also be noted that this is a guitar player’s record, though more in terms of conception than flash. Lines of harmony and counterpoint wander between parts, sublime in their invention though sometimes crudely documented.