If your dick hurts for some Screeching Weasel, J Church, or The Mr. T Experience-type pop-punk that can only be performed by a pair of drunken skunks from the Pacific Northwest who grew up cracking jokes and sharing smokes while repeatedly melting wax of Ramones LPs in New York City, then your Johnson will be pleased to hear The Femurs.
Colin and Rob are a couple of Caddyshack-line spitting, beer swilling, lonely heart boys who run around on stage, toweling off sweaty guitars, snotty mics, & smelly drum kits as if their instruments were the town slut. With lyrics penned by tattooed romantics, hocked on top of electric acoustic grooves, The Femurs stir a scene like The Queers ripping the axe from John Darnielle’s hands and using it to demolish every 4-track recording from The Mountain Goats. The band’s third effort, Modern Mexico, lands the kooky punch of Dead Milkmen with the throat chop of The Riverdales.
Don’t expect to mosh your best friends to death on Modern Mexico. Dudes are from Seattle where the vibe is way laid back like 24/7 in the freezer isle at cooler world. As tough as you think you are, these recordings will tug at your black heart, while you drink drink drink your vitals into alcoholic infernos, dying for that fire extinguisher from your dreams (or fifth period science class) to put our your body’s fire. These addictive tracks are lively bursts of sappiness for both the tattooed or clean-cut crews.
Whenever I drink with these two, who would sound great on FAT, Merge, or Lookout! (in 1991), I love to get into belligerent shenanigans with Rabbi Rob Femur, one half of this playful pair and host of the 4-hour punk explosion “Gabba Gabba Hey” Saturday nights on KNDD-fm. Once, for example, I threw a full can of Fosters, Australian for beer, towards the stubble cheeks of his New York mug. Colin, for now, remains safe.
Support these West Coast country-punkers and take their underground trip to Modern Mexico.