Diemonds, Rusted, Stock Tone System, The Lookout – Live at Turbo Haus – September 4th, 2015 – Montreal, QC

You know, for a style that was really only predominant in the 80’s, I’m still a little baffled at how I’m continuously getting to review all these FUCKING COCK ROCK SHOWS! GOD FUCKING DAMNIT! Alright, I feel better now. Come along kids, I’m about to tell you about a sweaty night of watching these cool Toronto cats called Diemonds at a sweet little dig known as Turbo Haus back in a time before time. (Really, it was just last Friday the 4th. Yeah, I’m late again…)

The night started out with a cool little four-piece throwback punk rock performance by The Lookout. Grown right out of our backyards here in Montreal, these cats ripped a rather impressive and beautifully simple set. It was very livewire, very in your face, and they topped it all off with a clit-rock vibe à la Joan Jett (yeah, I’m gonna get my dick ripped off for saying that one!) which was spun out by a very tantalizing little thang named Martha. If what I’ve given you here isn’t enough, than you should be doing yourself the favor of checking these cool cats out.

Up next was a former Bucketlist victim from the Rockfest Battle of the Bands, none other than alt-rock locals Stock Tone System. It was nothing out of the ordinary for this act; they were still slinging that chugging vibe and smokey vocals. Still not necessarily my cup of tea (on the basis of general lack of ball grabbing in their sound), but with their blend of approaches to the style, both musically and vocally, this is still very much an interesting act.

Rounding out the local support and kicking of the rocking of the cock was glam metal supreme act Rusted. At this point, I’m starting to run out of clever things to say about a genre of music based on sex, simplistic riffs, and sleazy singing. Hopefully in my description something will come to me but otherwise I think I need to get my head checked. They are very talented dudes, but much like their predecessors on the stage, nothing had the tendency to reach out and check my fuckin prostate (dig that imagery, internet!). All the essentials for a good cock rock band were there, including the aesthetics, the costumes, the squeals, and even the zombie like groupie dancers, but the music itself didnt enthrall me the way that I had hoped. Cocks were rocked, just not quite mine. (Annnnnnd I’m back! Haha.)

And now, the moment we’ve all be waiting for, LEEEEET’S GET READY TO INNUENDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Toronto’s own cock rock dragon slayers Diemonds hit the stage like that last ass I hit two months ago. The tunes were catchy like crabs, the guitars and bass were dirty like my last girlfriend, the drums as hard as that time my drink got spiked with Cialis, and the vocals as clean as my last STD report. Enough about me, this band was absolutely bad ass. Not a single part of this set didn’t scream either “Fuck me” or “Fuck off.” This, ladies and gents, is where cock rock lives. Little did I know, however, that this was the official drop of this act’s new album Never Wanna Die, even though drummer Aiden Tranquada’s pedals decided that they were going to just that before they actually played the title track (Ha ha ha!). The end of the night called for one hell of a cold shower, and I’m not talking about the broken air conditioning (WHICH NEVER FUCKING HAPPENS AT TURBO HAUS). Singer Priya Panda brought a heat that could break the thermostat (and probably actually did, come to think of it). She had an awesome range, but it felt a little uneasy when coming down to the lows. (Please note the ONE actual bit of reviewing I’ve done in this entire paragraph!) If sleaze and please is your bag, then go pick up Never Wanna Die and catch these gods of the glam when they hit your area code. Now if you’ll excuse me, I seem to have run out of hand cream…suspiciously.

Written by Jason Greenberg
*edited by Kate Erickson

About Jason Greenberg 180 Articles
On the first day, the Lord said "Let there be Bucketlist," and all of human kind then became aware of the incredulity or abysmally flaccid result on their attempt at Art. On the second day, the Lord said "Jason, go review that show you're going to on Friday," and begrudgingly, a review was made. What the world was for Jason Greenberg before that point is either completely unimportant or mildly pornographic, but the world of today after many years of serving his Queen has brought him opportunity, hardship, and a whole lot of Bucketlist patches on indiscriminate pieces of clothing. You may see him lugging your band's equipment and yelling at you aimlessly about the useless construct of time. You may see him expelling a noise not fully understood by humankind at the end of a microphone. You may even see him swimming in an ocean of poutine, but you will always see him as his true self, a sentient and obnoxious Bucketlist Music Reviews Billboard.

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