Reatards

Reatards

Grown Up Fucked Up

Goner

Shortly after the release of Teenage Hate, the debut album from the Reatards, an 18-year-old Jay Reatard started working on a new album. He was spitting out punk rock anthems a mile a minute at this point, so a new record made sense. And what else was there to do? He’d quit school a couple years back so a normal day for Jay meant he was bumming around midtown Memphis winding people up.  At this point, Eric Friedl had introduced Jay to Meghan Smith, via mail or phone or something. And they became fast friends. Smith and Blake Wright ran Empty Records out of Seattle, and the label made plans to release Grown Up Fucked Up. After a complete mess of a European tour with the Persuaders, Jay came back and recorded the album with some help from his girlfriend at the time (and future Lost Sounds bandmate) Alicja Trout. It soon became clear that there was a harder edge to everything. While Teenage Hate had been nasty, it was rooted in the Crypt / Oblivians scene of scuzzy rock, with covers of Fear, but also Buddy Holly. Grown Up Fucked Up was a power pogo into Killed By Death-style punk rock. The songs jumped off the record and grabbed you by the throat. They were passionate, ridiculous and utterly authentic. It wasn’t too long afterwards that he put out the equally amazing “Your So Lewd” single (now included on the album as well). Like everything Jay did, he...

Reatards

Teenage Hate / Fuck Elvis Here’s The Reatards

Goner

Goner Records presents the deluxe reissue of Jay Reatard’s first full-length LP, with a bonus album of early tracks recorded on four-track and only released on cassettes. Some songs feature Greg Cartwright (Reigning Sound, Oblivians) on drums! Teenage Hate / Fuck Elvis Here’s the Reatards offers a glimpse into the punk energy and rapidly developing raw talent of a teenage Reatard. The double-album features covers of Fear, The Dead Boys, Lil’ Bunnies, Buddy Holly, Johnny Vomit & The Dry Heaves... and The Beatles!  “Having seen Jay Reatard on the periphery of the leather-boy rock circuit a couple of years ago, I had gotten the impression that he was an arrogant shit. A real ‘Little Lord Punkleroy,’ he was. It seemed that the short path from aping the Oblivians in his bedroom to actually playing alongside of them had given him an undeserved license for haughtitude. Well, after hearing this release, I now grant him the right to be as shitty to me as he wants to be. He may ignore my ass around the club all night, because this record just spews aching beauty. It is easily the most blistering pizzunk to dribble down the leg of the raspy whore that is the ‘Memphis scene’ in a long while.   “The liner notes lack any trace of irony and spill more pubescent bile than a crippled maid cleaing up after one of Roman Polanski’s ‘hot tub ’n’ cognac’ parties. It all starts to make sense when you think...