Pitchfork

NYC's Grand Mal is another of those increasingly common semi- alternative "supergroups" consisting of aging journeymen boasting resumes packed with street credibility: they've paid their dues in bands like St. Johnny, Agit-pop, and the Meices. The drummer alone can claim past membership in Sixteen Deluxe, Crown Heights, Emma Peel, and Starfish. But on Maledictions, these too- cool- for- school indie veterans attempt to give junkie street- punk posturing a sparkly glitter- pop sheen. And what's with the fifty- cent titular wordplay, anyway? I mean, are these twelve songs afflicted or shadowed by some curse or similar mystical misgiving? We shall see.

Local print media fumble with typically thumb- tongued assessments: "Grand Mal are trying to be '90s Brits trying to sound like T. Rex glam punks trying to sound like Lou Reed talking out his ass filtered through a bullhorn, yadda yadda yadda." Yeah, sure there's the obvious Glam- rock T. Rex-ian angle. But in the case of Grand Mal, at least, it's much, much simpler than all that. It's all about Johnny Thunders, stupid.

And believe me, singer/ guitarist Bill Whitten's got ol' Johnny Boy down pat. He's got the unruly grease- rock hair, slings Thunders' favorite model Gibson, and throws down on the same three or four big barre chords in every song. Whitten's also perfected those nasal- toned smack- addict vocals, while being hooked on good 'ol punk phonics, too. Y'know, he's got that deliberately dumbed- down thug- speak happenin': "I feel bad/ I feel cut to the bone/ If this is pleasure/ I don't want none never," he declares on the opener, "Superstars."

For Whitten, making a studio album like Maledictions is probably more a pain in the ass than a passion. He seems a lot more comfortable with getting up on stage and belting out X's "Were Desperate" and the Ramones' "Chinese Rocks" than fashioning salable studio- recorded "product" from the street debris of his influences. With that, I'll propose that the real malediction for Whitten and Grand Mal is their yearning to retain gutterpunk authenticity in the face of major- label pressure to conform: "Hey, fellas, you can be nasty punks if you like, but if you don't appeal to the lucrative ecstasy- dropping techno- kiddie demographic, then prepare to say 'Hello, again' to your old pal, Mr. Day Job."

Problem is, onstage and on disc, the tape loop trickery and programmed sound bytes just don't seem to be a fully assimilated, integral part of their overall sound. It's almost as if this techno- age gloss is just an empty concession to some producer twerp's notion of what Y2K product is supposed to sound like. When these boys decide to go strictly barroom on us, as in "Fun, Fun, Fun" and "Out on Bail" (dig the "Personality Crisis" barrelhouse piano), they rock out with much the same fun- lovin' sass and grit as the New York Dolls or the Heartbreakers. But just when you begin to pay attention, they'll pull up lame, as on the miasmic electronica mix of "Whizz Kid."

"Stay In Bed" could, I suppose, pass for a good imitation of a catastrophic Oasis or Supergrass (is there a difference?) outtake. But then they'll counter with an irresistable dose of pure pop sweetness like "You Gotta Be Kidding." On "Sucker's Bet," they decide to tinker with dynamics a bit. The sleepy Ny-Quil verses are such a downer, though, that not even the noisy racket of the too- loud choruses can shake you awake. The crafty guitar figure on "I'm in Trouble" can't quite save a song that limps along on too many tired, overused power- pop motifs. "Picture You," is just flat and tuneless, lacking a standout hook (or anything else) to break up it's insistent plodding. There's also the final 20+ minutes of slow, trip-hop death, ushering us into the ninth circle of tape loop hell, but we won't get into that.

Admittedly, though, I'm rubbed in strange and not- so- uncomfortable ways by Grand Mal's Maledictions. Of course, that doesn't stop me from ejecting the CD, yelling "assholes!" and malevolently slinging the disc across the room.