With their self-titled release, The Rodney Kings have made something lots of people will find sonically offensive. However, listeners who enjoy the purity of DIY punk rawness may find something interesting about this record—if they search feverishly, that is.
If you’re looking for lo-fi, look no further; fidelity doesn’t get much lower than this. I’m fairly certain that the band traveled to 1982, found a concrete garage and recorded this album on an old, malfunctioning voice recorder. Bootlegs of early-‘80s Descendents concerts are more discernible than this.
The Rodney Kings’ sound is somewhere between Dead Kennedys and Black Flag, with a bit of indie garage-rock sprinkled in for modernity’s sake. Besides the two welcome solo Wurlitzer tracks, every song is one-to-three minutes too long, putting this album squarely into the “art punk” category.
Since all the vocals sound like they’re being shouted through a megaphone, the only clues as to what these songs are about come from the titles (zombies, bones and girls come up). If this band has anything to say and actually wants people to hear it, lyrics should be included. Then we could at least read along.