Sometimes you gotta go back to basics. I first encountered Sweden’s Rickshaw circa 2003, probably because they put out a split single with The Awesome Machine (among many others), who I way into at the time. I was in college, feeling my way through the post-Man’s Ruin landscape of European and American heavy rock and doom for a radio show I’d started at my school’s station, and with a cable modem and file-sharing know-how, I was able to experience records like this at a point when there was just about no way I could’ve done so otherwise. I’m still going back and buying CDs from that stretch of years, by the way. At least those that are available. This one I was fortunate to get in a promo pack from Devil Doll Records a long time ago, and as I’ve said on numerous occasions, I keep everything.

If their Bandcamp page is anything to go by, Rickshaw now think of themselves mainly as a precursor to The Chuck Norris Experiment, who debuted in 2005 — another good record — and put out their most recent offering, a split 7″ with Scumbag Millionaire, in January, continuing an apparently long tradition of cohabitating releases. Fair enough for the catalog that The Chuck Norris Experiment have amassed since Rickshaw gave way, but even if they’re assuming it’s fans of the one who’ll go back to the other, it’s on its own merits that I pay Sonic Overload, the second and final Rickshaw full-length, another visit.

Those merits are plenty and plain to be heard. It is heavy rock of its era in Sweden. Issued in 2002, the band would have come up as contemporaries of the likes of Dozer, Lowrider, the aforementioned The Awesome Machine as well as other splitmates in Adam West, Hateball, Trigger, and so on. Unsurprisingly, it’s more in line with the hard-garage latter grouping that Rickshaw fit, rather than with the post-Kyussism happening elsewhere. That said, the band — formed by the core duo of vocalist Joacim “Jocke” Olsson and guitarist Robert “Bobby Dawn” Nilsson — flirt with that style on their sophomore outing in a song like “Last Man Standing,” which finishes a maddeningly catchy four-song opening salvo that elsewhere finds Olsson tapping his inner Dave Wyndorf on opener “Point of Orange” and the subsequent “Lick My Flames,” both of which work to set the scene for the various punker bursts that will follow, including in “I’m Ready,” another hard-landing chorus that stands out all the more with the contrast of a subdued middle section and a runtime that dares pass the four-minute mark. Rickshaw do that only twice on Sonic Overload; the second time is “Get You Down” (4:53) a few tracks later.

The feedback that begins “White Light” after “Last Man Standing” is kind of a signal that Sonic Overload is moving into its next phase. Recall this is arguably the peak of the CD era, so while 1999’s debut, Tender Songs of Love, and various splits along the way only came out on vinyl, Devil Doll pressed to compact disc, and so far as I know, an LP version has never followed. For what it’s worth, with 12 songs in 40 minutes, it would split into two sides easily enough, but alas. In any case, “White Light” is a direct beam to the heavy punk/garage rock side of Rickshaw‘s sound, and it pairs dynamically with the already-noted “Get You Down,” another fuzzier vibe, that lets the bass take the fore momentarily even as it pushes outward in a fashion that ends up being near motorik despite the grounding factor of its hook. The shifts throughout Sonic Overload can be subtle or not, but the album was clearly constructed with a live show in mind, and it works in that spirit throughout.

Thus, the opening salvo that leads into the back and forth of “White Light” and “Get You Down,” which is followed by “Kitten Natividad,” a paean to the Russ Meyer-era actress of the same (stage) name that seems to play off Alice Cooper lyrical patterning, thinking of lines cribbed from “Poison” particularly. So be it: Rickshaw‘s purposes are their own. From there, “Ahead of the Game” and “Perfect Crime (Electrified)” follow in succession, the former faster, the latter still pretty fast in the grand scheme, and both somewhat overwhelmed by the catchiness of “All You Jazz” immediately after. It’s a trope of the compact disc form that, if songs are going to get lost anywhere on a record, that’s the spot — right past the opening, before the closing, of what would be side B on a 12″. Fair enough. “Kitten Natividad” and “All You Jazz” are stronger in their delivery, but it’s not like “Ahead of the Game” and “Perfect Crime (Electrified)” are hurting anybody. Far worse ways to spend about six minutes of your life.

Sonic Overload, again, as a live show would, finishes strong with “Islands in Your Stream” and “Who’s Your Bobby?,” the latter marking the age in which the disc arrived perhaps even more than the progression of the tracks could. The penultimate cut seems to be a kind of apex, and it fades out gently on guitar until “Who’s Your Bobby?” brings one final two-minute thrust that nonetheless summarizes one of Rickshaw‘s greater strengths throughout, which is being able to leave a landmark of a chorus for the listener to hold onto even as the band seems to sprint onward to the next part. Strong songwriting structure is a tenet of garage rock and punk, and in drawing from both traditions while edging them further toward heavier riff rock, the band found a niche for themselves that was distinct and deceptively multifaceted.

But at its heart, this is a rock and roll album. It didn’t change the world. I don’t think you’d call it “classic” except maybe as being representative of the the style of its time, and maybe the band are right when they note that mostly what Rickshaw did at the end was provide the transition to The Chuck Norris Experiment. Fine. Truth be told, I needed some straight-up rock, and this was that. Maybe feeling the same. Either way, as always, I hope you enjoy.

Thanks for reading.

—

My mouth hurts. It’s been eight days now since I had that molar unceremoniously yanked from my face — by a surgeon, don’t worry; not a Cardassian interrogation or any such thing — and though The Patient Mrs. assures me that the hole in my mouth “looks good” in the relative way a hole in the mouth might, I have visions of continued infection and an ache that extends down my jaw. I took my last antibiotic this morning. I’ve been rinsing my mouth with the prescription mouthwash I was given. I have not yet taken ibuprofen today, but I will shortly.

This is supposed to be a 10-month dental process at the best. Have tooth pulled and infection cleaned out, bone graft put in. Heal. Then in like April or May I guess have the foundation put in for an implant. Heal again. Then sometime by October or November, get the implant in and actually be done. Human bodies are so, so, so stupid. Anyone who tries to sell you on “intelligent design” has clearly been designed with their head up their ass. If we were intelligently designed, we’d grow new teeth when our old ones come out. You know, more than once.

Anyhoo, hurts, so I’m bitching about it.

While I’m bitching, yesterday was a virtual-school day because of snow. The Pecan — still three years old — and I do virtual preschool together, him sitting on my lap in front of my laptop. It’s a fucking nightmare. Yesterday, he bit me hard enough that I was bleeding on one arm, and scratched the other hard enough that, again, I was bleeding. I also had to stop him from biting himself, which he did on several occasions and does regularly — you want unnerving, there’s your toddler self-harming — when overwhelmed or frustrated or asked to do anything. Yesterday he would not say the words “cement mixer.” He knows cement mixer. He points them out on the road. And yet, when called upon to do say “cement mixer,” he lost it. I wanted to take a hammer and smash myself in the face. I still do.

Today is another all-virtual “snow day,” but in hope of preserving the rest of the day surrounding from turning to absolute shit, we’re skipping it. I feel bad for The Patient Mrs., who no doubt dreads coming downstairs from work only to be immersed in my sundry fucking miseries.

Did I tell you we bought a boat? We need to move it at some point this weekend. I don’t know.

I got up before 5:30 this morning — it’s just after 7 now — and put a fire in the fireplace. I’ve been dealing with a sore wrist because, again, bodies were intelligently designed in god’s image and it hurts when god jerks off too, but in a bit I’ll grab The Pecan from upstairs, do breakfast, and take him outside to shovel snow. In his case, that mostly means shovel it into his mouth with his hands, but that’s fine too. As long as he’s happy, not running into the street and not trying to use the shovel on the car, he can eat all the snow he wants.

Next week, more Questionnaires, as well as some Dozer interviews about their reissues that should’ve gone up this week but apparently I had the release dates wrong because I’m fucking inept. Could’ve sworn I tried to coordinate that with streams like last time, like with Dozer and Nebula both, but there you go. I thought that shit was out in March.

So those’ll be posted. And Monday a review of the Spirit Mother stream that’s this weekend, and this and that and the other thing. New Gimme show today. I got in trouble for it, so please listen. 5PM Eastern: http://gimmeradio.com.

Great and safe weekend. Hydrate.

FRM.

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