The Wrong Ones, Deceiver

Rather than mine the pop-punk-y hooks that’ve become the template for the vast majority of punk bands lately, or even really hew close to the garage-rock that’s surged to the surface in recent years, on Deceiver, The Wrong Ones dive straight into the gutter. And while they’re down there, they mix it up with a whole lot of early NYC glam and sleazy, scummy metal, getting and giving a bloody nose and some ripped-up knuckles in the process.

More than anything else, what this album makes me think of glam-metal forerunners Hanoi Rocks — like that band, The Wrong Ones ride the line between New York Dolls-style punk and flat-out sleazy, girls-and-blow metal like Faster Pussycat or L.A. Guns. Take a listen to the guitars for proof; for most of the album, they’re pretty basic barre-chord street punk, but guitarists Brandon Bombshell and Steven Paradise are no one-trick ponies. Just when you think, “eh, plain old punk rock, nothing much different,” they throw in some genuinely grimy-sounding solo licks (wow; haven’t had to use that term in a long damn time), as on “Demolition,” “Spit,” or closer “Dead Already.”

Unlike their glam-metal brethren, however, The Wrong Ones are full of snarling punk braggadocio, to the point where I’m pretty sure these guys would (and could) stomp your ass into the pavement for looking at ’em the wrong way. Hell, there’re times where the pseudo-nihilistic “fuck everybody” feel seems so over-the-top (especially on opening track “Unemployment”) that I have to wonder if these guys are serious or are just taking the piss.

Frontman Jarett Neurotic seems as serious as a heart attack, though, and he and his bandmates have crafted a cool, tight, raw chunk of street-level rawk that feels nearly out of its time, like it stepped off a cassette bought back in 1984 and is adapting itself to the modern, computerized, iPod-ready world we live in these days. It’s sleazy and messy, with a handful thoughtful moments (see “Doomsday Transmission” for one), slashing punk chords married to metal solos, and the occasional honest-to-God catchy hook (I’ll have the one from “Spit” stuck in my brain all day, and “Dead Already”‘s chorus is right behind).

In a way, listening to Deceiver makes me flash back to those high school days when my metalhead buddies and I would fantasize about what we would do if only we could, about all the partying and girls and whatever the hell else, and fuck The Man. Unfortunately for us, we were marooned in semi-rural Central Texas, so our nights of wild debauchery usually didn’t make it much further than us driving around the neighborhood at 1AM blasting metal from the stereo in my friend Lee’s battered station wagon. Deceiver would’ve fit the bill perfectly (and yeah, I mean that as a compliment).