There's something heroic in embracing a range of musical influences that much of your audience has largely neglected or simply dismissed. The canons of indie rock are something of a lockbox, and it's always a disappointment to see the same precious genealogies of musical influence rehashed by my colleagues. The old 70's tag that "the Clash are currently the only band that matters" implicitly perpetuates the ridiculous mythology that all good music was born in a single reactionary wave against the aging dinosaurs of bloated arena rock. Sure, it makes for great copy-- a spontaneous act of resistance like the Boston Tea Party-- but it's a shorthand way of writing triumphalist history. When alternate lineages come up, they either come up as the butt of jokes (like prog-rock or hard fusion), or are fetishized as exotic commodities (like the recent frenzy over Os Mutantes). By the logic of Pitchfork's still-intact theory of music evolution, the Fucking Champs should not have survived the Reagan administration.

The high-minded prog sweep of bands like Rush and King Crimson, the self-indulgent virtuosity of Mahavishnu Orchestra and Return to Forever, the ludicrous aggression of Slayer and M.O.D, the cerebral wankery of the Soft Machine and Henry Cow: these should, by conventional wisdom, converge upon the shittiest band in America. The guitar nerd's Serpentor: some genetically constructed hybrid of acne and greasy hair, jazz-rock pedantry, Dungeons & Dragons maximum charisma points, suped-up automotive skills, a Metal Up Your Ass t-shirt, the lyrics to every Frank Zappa album, and a sticker on the outside of the '82 Ford Club Wagon that reads IF THE VAN'S A-ROCKIN' DON'T COME A-KNOCKIN'. It's a sad picture, but not quite as sad as the picture when you walk in and this guy is fucking your wife. That's the Fucking Champs.

The Fucking Champs (sometimes sanitized as C4AM95) might just turn out to be the hipsters' antichrist, seeming to possess a breathless fluency in the kinds of music so often denied indie cred. What issues forth is glinting metallic sprawl: funkless, bereft of sarcasm, and whiter than the Air Force. And just to make sure there isn't any incidental two-step, the band's lineup is stripped down to two guitarists, Josh Smith and Tim Green, and drummer, Tim Soete. The occasional Mellotron and Korg keyboard shows up for some space-synth jive, but beyond that, it's pretty much a coldcock right in the geek glasses.

IV erupts from track one, "What's a Little Reign?," with furious Ride the Lightning-era Metallica riffage and angular guitar pyrotechnics, compacting into two minutes what it might take the average progger twenty minutes to say. "Esprit de Corpse" (the song titles are all this great) continues the aggression in strata of retro nine-string Silvertones-- made by Danelectro for Sears Roebuck around the time of the British Invasion-- wailing through Marshall stacks. The fuzzy "Policenauts" lays synth-modulated guitar under shameless fretwork. The heavy math-rock of "NWOBHM 2" revives the muscular flex of the opening track, rushing the riffs through impossible changes. You'll wish you were drinking a Coors with Rikki Rachtman and spinning old Motorhead records. You'll wish your arms were sleeved with tattoos. You'll wish you were smashing things.

The eerie Mellotron and acoustic guitar number "Lamplighter" captures the British gloom of Emerson, Lake & Palmer, complete with shrieking crows in the background. The brilliantly titled "Thor is like Immortal" is the audio equivalent of the cover art to every lame fantasy novel you've ever secretly loved. You know you've always wanted a massive battle-axe, a Hobbit-like sidekick and a dreary art-metal soundtrack for your adventures in the ruined kingdom. The elves may seem jolly enough but they're not your friends. Just gather up the sacred crystals from the spirits' forest and be on your way.

"These Glyphs Are Dusty" is a melodic, speed-metal workout that constantly threatens to spiral in on itself. "I Love the Spirit World and I Love Your Father" is a brief, skeletal interlude of distortion-laden guitar. "Lost" is a moody and cryptic bird song on the Roland GR-707 that fades into the final track. "Extra Man," the only song with vocals, comes on in steely trills like old Iron Maiden, shifting into tight pop-metal under Tim Soete's catchy (if somewhat indecipherable) refrain, before revving up into mathy stutters of pounding drums and guitar fanfare and turning pop again. I find myself praying for backward-masked apostropes to Satan just because I don't want this to end.

If you aren't convinced yet, then just think of the balls it takes to simply swipe the unofficial title of Led Zeppelin's magnum opus, the crown jewel in the classic rock canon. I mean, really. And the Fucking Champs would never be able to pull off a work as relentless and genuine as IV if they were only interested in some guitar-wank retread. Their passion for their influences is true, perhaps a great deal more so than, say, the Elephant Six's stifling embrace of art-pop's harmony-laden heyday. The Fucking Champs bang out sorties of precision-assault head metal without apologies or cocked eyebrows. Suddenly, the devil's music just got a fuck of a lot cooler.