MCB has a couple of the new 7" vinyls from Foster Care and Pampers ready to roll - email firstname.lastname@example.org and get to this show
FOSTER CARE AND PAMPERS COMING TO DETROIT
FOR A SHOW AT JUMBOS DETROIT
THURSDAY JULY 26TH
OPENING THE SHOW WILL BE UH OH
FOSTER CARE DEBUT ALBUM 'BAD VIBE CITY' AND PAMPERS 7" BOTH OUT NOW
THROUGH JACKSHACK RECORDS
JULY TOUR DATES:
WED 11 Brooklyn @ Legion (tour kick-off)
THURS 12 Baltimore @ Golden West Cafe w/ HOLLYWOOD
FRI 13 Richmond TBA
SAT 14 Charlotte TBA
SUN 15 Atlanta @ 97 Estoria w/ RALPH
MON 16 Atlanta TBA
TUES 17 Memphis @ TBA w/ TRUE SONS OF THUNDER
WED 18 Nashville TBA
THURS 19 Nashville @ Springwater Supper Club
SAT 21 Chicago @ Nowheresville w/ RUNNING & LEARNER DANCER
SUN 22 Milwaukee @ Frank's Power Plant w/ BUSTER DOUGLAS
MON 23 Lafayette @ Foam City
TUES 24 Columbus @ Ace of Cups w/ dudes from the Feelers new band
WED 25 Cleveland @ Now That's Class w/ FANG
THURS 26 Detroit @ Jumbo's w/ UH OH
FOSTER CARE: The name alone conjures images of screaming brats, covered-up systematic abuse, and future employees of the state penitentiary. The music itself crashes your party, steals your beer, then steals your girlfriend, kicks a hole in the wall, and then careens back out into the night, once again on the endless search for more kicks. This is their idea of fun, and fuck you if you ain't ready for it. Their debut LP, Bad Vibe City, is an aptly-titled journey through the underbelly of "The Greatest City in the World." You may need a shower afterwards (sample lyric: "sucking on a hobo's cock"), but you'll be humming these tunes as you scrape the filth off of your body.
Half of the band are NYC-born-and-bred. The other half (also half of the excellent Ex Humans) came crawling out of the South, hungry for the kind of oblivion and transcendence only the Naked City can provide. Harnessing the speed of early 80s hardcore, the snot of prime Killed By Death punk, and the grit and grime of their New York City environs, Foster Care are channeling all of their pent-up neuroses and aggressions into first-rate scum anthems.
But this is no one-note "rager" of a record. On the surface, the 5AM lament of "Don't Make Me" could be mistaken for the kind of sappy pop-punk ditty that lesser bands have made a career out of; but there's real emotion as singer Chris Teenager tells us how she not only stole his heart, but also took off "with my money." Hey, this is New York City, and love don't come cheap. Even on fuck-you sing-alongs like "Don't Want To/Don't Need To" the melodies come fast and furious. And don't mistake these miscreants for dummies: the lurching swing of "Death on The Installment Plan" references infamous nihilist French novelist, Louis-Ferdinand Celine.
Seeing Foster Care play is not a passive experience. A flurry of flying elbows, toxic sweat, broken gear, and bug-eyed intensity forces you to make a decision: Dive head-first into the chaos, or slink back into the corner; safe, dry, bored. Every Foster Care show is an eviction party, and their bodies are the soon-to-be-abandoned houses (no temples here). Anything goes, short of setting them on fire (actually, that's probably OK too). Fittingly, Foster Care makes you feel like a kid again, hopped up on sugar (or the adult-equivalent), with no responsibilities and no worries.
Echoes of New York's glorious punk past can be heard in these grooves. The swagger of the Dead Boys, the putrid stench of The Mad, the ferocity of Heart Attack, and the staring-down-the-barrel-of-a-gun intensity of the Testors (drummer Josh Martin, formerly of Carbonas and BeatBeatBeat, is the lead guitarist in Testors mainman Sonny Vincent's current band) runs through the veins of the young guns that make up Foster Care.
Buy the record, go see them play, lock up the booze, keep your girlfriends at a safe distance, and get ready to party. Foster Care is coming, and, judging by the maniacal gleam in their eyes, they mean business.
PAMPERS: I would forgive you if you were grossed out by that name. I would understand if you quickly flipped passed one of their 45s at the record store. Bug-eyed demon smile cackling at you with a wink and a snarl. But don't be afraid. Snatch it up. Back at your home, where you are safe, put it on the turntable. You will shit yourself with glee as the waves of psyched-out garage punk pummel you into submission. Sometimes getting smacked in the face is refreshing; necessary.
Early Pampers material could have been somewhat accurately described as "Spits doing lines with Thee OhSees," but these days the band has carved out its own identity. They seem to fit on any show, always providing a loud, messy blare, but focused; serious fun. The kind of band you just surrender to, and dance like a fool, beer flying every which way. Mongo vox, cranked Vox, primitive yet precise drumming, a cloud of warped sonics swirling above the rock n' roll thud; Pampers delivers.
And that is the case on their new single (numero dos for the band). The A-side features "Guts," a bad trip you can dance to, and "Rat Hole," a short n' sinister lil' ditty that recalls prime Urinals. On the flip is the more melodic "Lies," a cavernous rock n' roll song that will get trapped in your head, pacing back n' forth. It doesn't make sense, but Pampers gets under your skin. A rash that you welcome, it feels good to scratch.