by JOHNSON CUMMINS

Here's a local rekkid you should be buggin' out on: Demon's Claws self-titled (Dead Canary)

These trash rockers bring a new definition to the term "lo-fi" by letting everything ride in the red. It may sound like they recorded it in a washing machine, but these reverb-drenched ditties shine through the maelstrom of mud and keep the primitive power pummelling. Singer Jeff Clarke has one foot in the gutter and the other in Dementia 13 as his mouthful of marbles spills tales of blood, the devil and more blood. "I don't really write lyrics," says Clarke. "I'm too lazy to write them down so I just get into a frame of mind and whatever comes out, comes out. Listening back to the record, it seems a lot of the lyrics have to do with violence, which is funny because I'm really not like that. I have no clue why I keep singing about blood." Hi-fi heads, be warned - Hasil Adkins' records sound like Tubular Bells compared to this.

If you weren't at these shows, then you're just plain L7, baby:

The Sunday Sinners, Pub Jacques-Cartier, Feb. 24: First off, what an amazing joint. Tucked away in the Village, this place pretty much caters to the cover-band set, so you know it's hot. Half the fun was just checking out the regular clientele. All of the guys looked like Bon Jovi's Richie Sambora, complete with three-quarter-length leather jackets, and the ladies all looked like they pay their rent by sliding down a pole. Garage-rock warlords the Black Lips didn't make the scene due to the man coming down on them at immigration, but after witnessing the Sunday Sinners, it just didn't matter. Made up of ex- and current members of les Vautours, les Sexareenos, the Delgators and the Nul Set, these ladies (and one very lucky dude) serve up soul-slathered hip-shakers that could give the Detroit Cobras a run for their money. The lead singer possesses pipes of gold. Dig it!

Highlights: The Richie Sambora thing was a close second to watching an overexcited Pop Montreal organizer Dan "Hill" Seligman lose himself during "Mama Didn't Raise No Fool." Watching him yank out "jazz hands" when he thought no one was looking was priceless.

Jerk Appeal, Barfly, Feb. 25: It was guitarist Curt's birthday so you know this was going to be an especially messy one. If you have a hankerin' for three-chord, meat-and-potatoes punk rawk, Jerk Appeal are guaranteed to deliver the goods, and there is no better venue to see them at than the Barfly. Their retelling of Tina Turner leaving mean ol' Ike on "36 cents" is a gem, but the cover of Teenage Head's "Picture My Face" was what will separate these guys from the other crud calling itself punk out there.

Highlights: A drunk guy pouring beer all over himself before beating up a defenseless chair during the encore.

THIS IS MY HAPPENING AND IT FREAKS ME OUT! jonathan.cummins@gmail.com

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