For those who prefer their garage rock of the grimiest ilk, Crypt Records has always been Valhalla’s gutter — a label that throughout the ’90s was flooded with bands of bile-caked four-chord crunching and piss ‘n’ vinegar invective. Well, after dumping a goodly amount of promo dough into the Dirties’ record back in 1997, then promptly seeing it receive the usual deaf ear — even from the burgeoning “garage scene” — Crypt vowed never to sign a new band again.
But alas, the Crypt brain trust is giving it one more try. Have they retained that impeccable bad taste? The answer — in the form of this two-gal/one-guy New York City group — is a decided Yup! The Little Killers’ debut is a roughshod runover of Johnny Thunders’ slash ‘n’ burp power-pop hooks clawing to get out, and a gravelly piped goon who’s tired of cheatin’ dames — mainly ’cause he’s losing sleep from bedding down with them. Speaking of cheating dames, the one on drums has little interest in impressing, opting instead for bashing harder right after a slipped stick. Though they’re less cracked in the warped humor department than most of the Crypt stable, who can make out lyrics in a club show anyway?
This article appears in Sep 24-30, 2003.