Kamikaze Killers

“…their names will not be mourned…”

Five New Yorkers as Asian as Clint Eastwood make up the very Pacific-sounding (name-wise) Takashi, an act that, thanks to reserved seats on unnoticed compilations Metal Over America and New York Metal-‘84, have been blessed with a career that’s about a toe hair more monumental than Mongol Horde labelmates and fellow Big Apple residents, Alien. There’s actually little difference between the two. Obviously both embrace some good ‘ol glam-inspired duds that look like a paint tray threw up all over the place, however not so obvious (at least when you toss some instruments their way) is the lifted spirits many have felt as the band’s tastefully straight-up, party-free style becomes the betrayer of this frightening visual; basically another premeditated murder of glam perception - a nifty tactic heroes Twisted Sister orchestrated earlier on.

Yep, the pleasing aroma of uncomplicated metallic integrity fills these four Kamikaze Killers songs and reactivates memory synapses to recall the similarly satisfying scents of debut ep Armored Saint, co-conspirators Alien, elusive August Redmoon, and perhaps less aggressive Taipan and/or Witchkiller. It’s clear-headed and cleanly-played stuff without being prissy or stuffy and avoids the musically/lyrically risque tightrope one may expect it to walk despite a title like “Playboy Girls” ending the ep with some cold water spittle (and the song isn’t too hot, either). Everything else, however, is pretty stomachable.

“(The) Strangler” and “Kamikaze” represent the band’s designs on fast and slow. Well, more of a brisk mid-pace than fast, but “(The) Strangler” and its eventful chorus are party-starters regardless. Unlike its screw-loose namesake, “Kamikaze” doesn’t really fly in for the kill, but is deliberately structured, initially by a nose-first dive into unashamed cowbell, then a methodically cool rhythm shocked with Simonson’s flashburst solos to light up the chorus. The strong “Mad Max” challenges “(The) Strangler” for dominance by sculpting a broad-shouldered, downward-bludgeoning chorus that authenticates enough brawn for me to ignore “Playboy Girls” with little more than a sideways scowl. Almost.

Kamikaze Killers, even one that flattens a quarter of its wheels, is likable enough to warrant a forward look to a follow-up suicidal swoop. The musicianship, which includes Danny Stanton’s decent, slightly elevated mid-range, hangs in there at the favored standard and exploits some interestingly solid songwriting (I have a hunch “Playboy Girls” isn’t a fave song of any of ‘em). Alas, the future for Takashi was some ship-jumping to inconsequential Hittman and Ninja, but they’ll always go down in history as Mongol Horde Records’ first advisor to the Khan.

What? What's with the (The) in "Strangler"? The jacket = "Strangler", the label = "The Strangler". Welcome to my stupid anal side.