Okay, right off the bat let me dispense with the two things that bug me about the Ponys. First, they can't spell, can't spell for shit. They misspelled their own damn name! Guys, if you get it wrong on your first record, you're stuck with it for the life of the band. So, there's that. Second, they put quotation marks around the album title, on the album sleeve, mind you, something that I consider a huge aesthetic, if not grammatical, rock and roll faux pas (Dylan did the same on his "Love and Theft" record, a supposed masterwork that I've never even seriously considered because I hate those damn quotation marks so much. Go ahead, look at that cover - those damn marks seem just as out of place as Michael Jackson at an anti-NAMBLA demonstration, don't cha think?).

That's better. Now, let me own up to my suspicion about both of these minor annoyances: it's all part of the act. These guys (and one gal, sorry ladies) seem way too smart not to realize that two or more small horses are "Ponies," not "Ponys," and they know that quotes around an album title tend to indicate self importance, and I just don't hear any of that in the music. Does any of this mean anything? I suspect so.

Clearly, the spelling "Ponys" rocks more than "Ponies," which is an intrinsically lame name (remember what Seinfeld taught us? That we should all hate ponies, as well as anyone who ever owned one! Remember?). What this tells me, as someone who has no life, and can therefore devote inordinate amounts of time to such considerations, is that they deeply understand the rock and roll ethos. And, thankfully the music has my back on that theory.

So, what of the music? Well, frankly, how much you like this album will be tied directly to your taste for Richard Hell and the Voivods. No, scratch that. It will depend on your attitude about Richard Hell's voice, period, without much reliance on your opinion of the (I'll play my hand here) KICK-ASS backing the Voivods provided. (As an aside, let me take a moment to suggest that Robert Quine was the greatest, and as a corollary, the most underrated guitarist, in history. If you think you know of a more perfectly insane solo than the ones in "Love Comes In Spurts" or "Blank Generation," keep it to yourself, out of respect for the deceased Mr. Quine. Rest in peace, you bald, psychotic virtuoso.) Jeez, can you tell I'm crippled by A.D.D.? Could it be more painfully obvious?

Where was I? Oh, yeah, Richard Hell. Well, head Pony Jered Gummere sounds just like him. So if you can't stand Richard Hell's voice, then my job becomes very easy - I'll just tell you not to buy this album, and we're done. Hear me? You can stop reading now.

If, however, you're anything like me, and you think that Dick Hell possessed one of the great, distinctive voices in punk's history, then I'm gonna guess that there's somewhere between an 80-95% chance that you'll love this. Now, normally, I'm bothered by such seemingly flagrant imitation (though what do I know? - maybe Gummere just sounds like that naturally), but the context the band gives him sounds almost nothing like their antecedents'. In fact, I don't know quite what to compare it to. It's jangle-y, but not like early R.E.M. at all, because it actually rocks. It's garage-y, but almost nothing like either Neuvo garage units like the Hives or White Stripes, or O. G (aragers).'s like the Sonics or the Chocolate Watchband (okay, maybe a little like the latter). What's more, they pull-off the almost impossible feat of incorporating keyboards (Farfisa, vintage synths) into punk - in a way few bands have successfully managed since Pere Ubu's first record.

Somehow, their music manages to evade my "spot the influence" predilection, yet not quite enter the "innovative" zone. That's some kind of feat, in and of itself.

Lest I tread on over-analytical ground here, you just need to know that this record is one hell of a lot of fun. It sports goofy-smart songs like "10 Fingers, 11 Toes," "Let's Kill Ourselves," and "I Love You 'Cause (You Look Like Me)." Its hooks insinuate themselves into your cranium, yet never become over-bearing. It's tight, but not too tight (if you know what I mean). In general, it's all about intelligent garage punk, littered with just enough sonic flotsam to keep things interesting; not to mention Richard Hell's almost-in-tune braying on top. (Dig my hip "pony" allusion there. Okay, fine, so it's donkeys that bray, not ponies. Screw you for knit-picking my attempt at referential humor!)
Welcome to the new blank generation, now blanker than ever!