Standing Over By The Record Machine: Projectile Platters’ 3-volume tape dump of The Joneses is the public-service reissue of the year

The Jeff Drake-led Hollywood glam-punk outfit is The Great Lost Bridge Between The Heartbreakers And Jason And The Scorchers. And pull your pants back on --we'll get back to Combat Rock next week!

The Joneses around the recording of Keeping Up With The Joneses; Jeff Drake in the Ramones shirt. (Pic: Chris Amouroux)

“The Joneses were a riot of dirty guitars, dirty hair, and dirty and ripped Western shirts and jeans who owned the good side of the Hollywood rock scene for most of the ‘80s,” I wrote in Ugly Things earlier this summer, in service of Jonesin’: Complete Discography, Volume 1. The first of Puke ‘N’ Vomit Records’ reissue wing Projectile Platters’ triple-vinyl issues summarizing the barely (if not un-) sung Hollywood glam punk kings, it’s just been joined by the other two volumes at your local Disk-O-Mat.

To summarize, The Joneses – led by the charismatic and supremely well-read Jeff Drake – were the band all those mid-’80s Sunset Strip sleaze-rockers wish they were, but were too heavy metal to pull it off. The constantly-shifting-but-for-Drake quartet slunk in on spindly ripped denim legs shod in cheap, broken-healed cowboy boots, in a cloud of Marlboro smoke and Aqua Net, that riot of dirty guitars/hair/western shirts/minds mentioned earlier. Their crunchy swagger reached back to the New York Dolls (of course) and 1977’s best, but there were also some dime store country cassette anthologies and cracklin’ rockabilly singles rounding out their record collections. They were like the older cousins of pre-metal-infusion Redd Kross, except nasty and dangerous – they were too busy hotwiring ‘68 Camaros and getting loaded on Boone’s Farm and fistfuls of reds to watch the fucking Partridge Family. And with the country/’billy influences, they also served as the bridge between Johnny Thunders’ Heartbreakers and Jason And The Scorchers. There was some twang to their raunchy, exuberant thunder.

They ruled the Strip for a few years in the mid-’80s, but they scared all the major labels who ended up signing weak heavy metal rip-offs of their organic expression. They were too real. They could not be tamed. They lived in a constant state of turmoil, especially as the membership turned-over like they lived in a tumble drier down at the corner laundromat between gigs at The Troubadour and The Whisky. Co-founder Steve Olson drifted in and out between pro skating tournaments, and TSOL-sters Ron Emory and Mitch Dean both served a spell, as did future L.A. Gun Paul Mars. The one constant was Jeff Drake, his sneery post-Thunders vocals, sneery post-Thunders guitar, and his immaculately raunchy songwriting, the pinnacle of sleaze-punk craftsmanship.

Then he got arrested and served time for robbing a bank. Hey, you gotta feed a habit somehow, when rock ‘n’ roll can’t. Let it not be said that addiction is fertile ground for great decision-making.

Jonesin’: Complete Discography is of everything, a three-volume tape dump of every note The Joneses recorded, a sorta audio preface to Jeff Drake’s memoirs being published this fall. (Full disclosure: I wrote a forward to Jeff’s book, as did the amazing Pleasant Gehman. I’m sure it will be a great read, despite my words fucking up the first couple of pages.) It’s all done in chronological order, from the first demos in 1982 to the cover of The Professionals’ “1-2-3” (AKA The Avengers’ “Second To None”) excavated for Criminal History, the last time The Joneses got anthologized. It’s all here: Absolute anthem “Pillbox,” the best woman-as-narcotic analogy this side of “Another Girl, Another Planet”; the bruising, midrange-heavy title outburst to the Criminals EP; multiple renditions of “Ms. 714,” bump-n-grind blues “She’s So Filthy” and their Dolls-up of Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock,” be it a compilation track or a cut for their sole LP, Keepin’ Up With The Joneses; the clever double-entendres of “Big Boy” from the Anita Fix EP; and the rawest, roaringest take on Aerosmith’s “Chip Away At The Stone” ever heard, from that same sole LP. There ain’t a note left in the tape boxes cluttering Jeff Drake’s backroom.

After 20-some-odd years hearing most of this via the Criminal History CD, it’s good to hear these tunes on a proper record again. Jonesin’: Complete Discography, 1-3 proves vinyl is the best possible rock ‘n’ roll format. These three LPs sound so full-bodied and juicy, you’d swear The Joneses were in your living room giving you a private show. And Drake’s hilarious, warts-n-all, shaggy dog story liner notes are the perfect icing on the cake, alongside the vintage photos and flyers and clever rethinks of all their old sleeve art housing these records. These are the public service reissues of the year, and you need them all.

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Annie Murphy as Allison McRoberts, the actual protagonist of Kevin Can F**k Himself.

TeeVee Casualty: AMC’s Kevin Can F**k Himself fucks with televisual formulae quite nicely

Yeah, you’re getting two reviews for the price of one today. Stop complaining.

So, your picture tube fades in on a rough, working class house, likely built in the late ‘50s, before cutting in immediately on a dumpy-but-clean living room. Two burly men play beer pong in front of an older man and a thirtysomething woman seated on a shabby couch. A laugh track erupts every few seconds, as the quick cuts between three cameras indicate this is yet another working class sitcom centered around a boorish husband who dominates every room he is in. An ever-suffering wife enters bearing a laundry basket, nearly hit by a ping pong ball. This turns out to be a practice session for a wedding anniversary kegger the husband – the titular Kevin – throws annually - the Anniversarager. 

“I’ve been thinking,” the wife announces in a thick Massachusetts accent, setting the laundry basket onto the ping pong table inexplicably set up in her living room, wincing through a shit-eating grin, “that instead of the rager, we could celebrate our anniversary with something more adult.”

“Like a threesome?” the husband and his dopey friend ask synonymously.

Kevin continues, insisting on the Anniversarager, oblivious to how he’s crushing his wife’s spirit. 2:30 later, the wife exits the room for the kitchen. And on the other side of the door is a single camera drama depicting every ounce of her angst over her shitty marriage, culminating in her slamming a glass onto the countertop, cutting her hand badly. “I’m fine,” she calls out to the concern no one shows.

Within the first three minutes of the premiere episode, first airing June 20, 2021, AMCs Kevin Can F**k Himself completely overturned multiple televisual standards, creating a unique, exciting show.

If we’ve learned anything in the first month-and-a-half of The Tim “Napalm” Stegall Substack’s existence, it’s that the best art not only honors its roots, but completely fucks with any accepted formatting. And in this new Golden Age Of Televised Dramas that amounts to auteur filmmaking on premium cable, AMC has set new standards for weekly series with the most innovative examples on the air. Think of Breaking Bad, Mad Men, The Walking Dead, and certainly last month’s hero of this concept, Better Call Saul. From the scripting to the casting to the cinematography and direction, every AMC show has been a leader as well as a superior example of fucking the form. Kevin Can F**k Himself might be the ultimate in this concept.

Kevin McRoberts, the titular overgrown man-child played by Eric Petersen in the overblown manner of boorish TV husbands from Ralph Kramden to the Kevin James character in the short-lived Kevin Can Wait (an overt allusion), is not even the show’s main character. Rather, it’s wife Allison, beautifully played by Annie Murphy (Schitt’s Creek). Allison’s only allowed to shine when she steps out of the non-stop sitcom that is Kevin’s life and into the single camera drama that is her life, as he loudly hatches one narcissistic scheme after another. The fact is, KCFH is only a comedy when Kevin is in the scene, oblivious to how his self-centered bluster affects everyone who just happens to wander into his world. We see the damage he’s done not only to Allison, but next door neighbor Patti O’Connor (Mary Hollis Inboden), an obvious ex-teenage goth turned drug-dealing hairdresser, and her dopey younger brother Neil (Alex Bonifer), Kevin’s best friend who worships him. But the comedy becomes less and less funny as the episodes roll along, explaining the negative impact Kevin has on everyone, and why Allison first wants to murder him, then just disappear. As Kevin steamrolls through everything, completely unaware of how horribly he impacts all around him. It is intriguing that Kevin is the least sharply drawn character in the show – all broad strokes and bull-in-china-shop characterization. But Allison is as nuanced a character as any on television these days. 

Series creator Valerie Armstrong deserves heaps of credit for devising a truly original show that carves its own identity. It obliterates all cliches while satirizing them. AMC announced the second season, which premiered in August, will be Kevin Can F**k Himself’s last. This is actually good. A show like this should be short-lived, bowing out at its peak. It’s as perfect as the Sex Pistols lasting two years and one album, then fucking off. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

#teeveecasualty #televisionreview #kevincanfckhimself #AMC #sitcom #drama #both #nonstandard #anniemurphy #schittscreek #ericpetersen #maryhollisinboden #alexbonifer #valeriearmstrong 

Thank you for reading today’s reviews. Coming soon: Reviews of ex-Radio Birdman guitarist Chris “Klondike” Masuak’s new book and the Moonage Daydream David Bowie documentary, plus interviews with Jesse Dayton, Keith Morris, and Lydia Lunch!  Please support The Tim “Napalm” Stegall Substack with a free or paid subscription, and by sharing this piece. And remember: You pay more for coffee each day than a five dollar monthly subscription to this site.