Rocket from the Crypt
RFTC
Interscope

The Alpha Male has gotten an unusually bad rep of late, basically being held responsible for the 1980s Wall Street hegemony, the overwhelming use of sports metaphors in modern life and the development and dispersal of such cosmetic-oriented medications as Rogaine and associated products at the expense of lifesavers like protease inhibitors. But he does exist beyond Big Dick battles of the ego and monuments to vanity. Rock has been seeing more of them emerging of late, possibly in reaction to the glut of oversensitive alterna-wimps trading on their shag haircuts and angst.

Jon Spencer is probably the best known of the bunch, but Speedo isn't far behind. As the leader/czar of RFTC, he's developed a very simple formula: take standard rock chords, cut out flashy solos and techniques, dress sharp, and work like a sonuvabitch. It is this ethic that has made his Rocket take off to the extent that a cadre of Crypt-kickers have gone so far as to get a finned space vehicle tattooed on their persons for free admission to all shows. Now that's loyalty. It's also not past understanding. These guys are worth it. And that live energy is translated with laser-guided precision direct to your ears with this recording.

If corollaries count, look to the more aggressive numbers of Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes -- that's where the big band horn attack and neighborhood spirit (a la their mentor Springsteen) comes in. Another is obviously Otis Redding, and that Speedo allows a measure of heart-&-soul R 'n' B to take a pew on his non-stop express is a tribute to how secure an Alpha he is. (In the tonsure department, he's definitely got nothing to worry about.) I've also heard elements suggesting a direct lineage to The Saint's 2nd album, but certainly that distinct sound the Fleshtones refer to as "Super-Rock" fits the bill as well. All this means, all it adds up to, is that it achieves a classic feel without kneeling to nostalgia (much), and that's a tough trick.

Everything here carries a full load of passion, and with lyrics as uncomplicated as this it makes the frontman's delivery as important as the arrangements (which are brassed-out and buffed-up to a treble shine -- and not a lick of it riding the Ska bandwagon). We've all witnessed brilliant sets totally swamped by audience ennui. In those moments didn't you wish the performers would realize that, sometimes, you just wanna go to the show? So, the added attraction here is the way this is sequenced to give you all the power and calculation of a Las Vegas revue: a big fat opener, a couple of near-sentimental bridge numbers, the lewd shocker, showstoppers liberally interspersed, and all of it leading right up to a rousing finish at 41:48. And that's where Speedo comes in, sweating through numbers to make a physical presence. Even on this recording, you can almost feel him prowling the stage, white knuckles wrapped around mic, on his knees pleading ... probably until someone throws a cape over his shoulders and leads him to the wings. But, no. I shouldn't give him the mantle yet. And he probably wouldn't take it unless it complemented his suit.