The Yuckies


Punk rock will not save the world. All those mohawked jerks, closer to socking royalties away in mutual funds than getting their liberal arts degrees, should learn to put on a tie, cut their goddamn hair, and start lobbying if they want to make a difference. Leave punk to the kids with real concerns, like heartbreaks and tight jeans. This, my friends, is where you meet the Yuckies, the local lady trio who just released Dirty Bird. They may not influence foreign diplomacy, but they'll place a cathartic bandage across your emotional chest wounds. The album is balls—I mean, ovaries—out. And ladies, if you just broke up with, or are considering breaking up with, your boyfriend/girlfriend, buy this record. Sure, you could snuggle up with some ice cream and some Simon and Garfunkel and have yourself a good cry—or you could pop in Dirty Bird, scream 'til the neighbors pound on your ceiling, and set stuff on fire while glorious power chords are blasting in the background. Now that's being proactive. Skip straight to track four, "You Give Me the Creeps," and sing along: "Sometimes you just wanna make me puke up everything I've eaten the past two weeks/You give me the creeps (whoa-oh-oh-oh)." Trust me, belting out the "whoa-ohs" works miracles. Next, hit up track nine and take this advice: "Take your balls out of your purse and hit the road/Can't deny the liberation that we feel when we get to the show." Then patronize the next Yuckies concert and throw your granny panties onstage with a big "thank you."