The Bronx performs September 12 at Gypsy Tea Room, with the Distillers.
As with pierced-and-inked TRL darlings Good Charlotte, it's tempting to call out way-hyped L.A. sleaze-rockers the Bronx on their dubious fealty to hard-boiled punk ideals: On their Web site (thebronxxx.com, naturally), they declare that "these days rock is dead" and that "emo dudes are carrying purses" (which, to be fair, is pretty funny), before really opening fire: "Fuck your Silverlakes, fuck your Melroses, fuck your Sunset Strips. This is Hollywood Boulevard--just a bunch of junkies, hookers, pimps and bookies." (I took the liberty of cleaning up the boys' spelling and punctuation a little; you know how punk rockers can be.) Of course, all the vitriol is in support of an album the group claims numerous major labels fought viciously over, one in whose liner notes Rolling Stone staffer Jenny Eliscu is thanked, presumably for the profile she wrote for January's edition of the magazine's "Next Wave" package. Thanking a Rolling Stone staffer! What would G.G. Allin think? Oh, who cares. The Bronx's self-titled debut, produced in part by L.A. sleazemeister/former Guns N' Roses guitarist Gilby Clarke, is the junkie- and hooker-friendly version of GC's The Young and the Hopeless: shock-punk exploitation shot up with hazardous amounts of curdled garage-rock brio and addled Hollywood Boulevard acrimony. I suppose I'd prefer it if they dispensed with all the keeping-it-real claptrap, but their razor-burn riffs have earned them the right to spew for a minute or two. Time them carefully.