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In terms of household musical divisions, my wife represents the hippies and I represent the punks and we are fighting for the soul of our daughter (who already seems to prefer hip hop, damn kid!). While Mama Kelly was an authentic tie-dye wearing, Deadhead for a while, I was “punk” for about an afternoon in 1986 when I went to school in ripped jeans and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt. The rest of the time I listened to musical freaks who’ve since been written out of punk history by the kind of post-hardcore conformists you find on any Warped Tour. I’ve so far resisted the impulse to school the preteen alterna-kids who live down my street, but as soon as my little Emma is old enough, her lessons in the secret history of punk will begin and this CD by Montreal’s American Devices will be on the syllabus. Their wiggly surf guitar on amphetamines, perverse lyrics, obscure mythology and refusal to die all spell P-U-N-K to me even if they sound nothing like NOFX (ESPECIALLY since they sound nothing like NOFX). (Terence Dick)

CD, Grenadine Records, PO Box 42050, Montreal QC, H2W 2T3,

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