It takes a certain kind of guy to wear low-rise jeans. Some look downright sleazy and disgusting, while others just look silly or effeminate. I have a feeling the gentlemen in The Blackouts, however, could pull it off.

Their snappy, contagious rock channels one part Strummer and one part Jagger, strutting and swaggering with every sense of rightfulness. They can pay five times as much for "designer vintage" clothing and make it work by looking hot. Sure, they spent too much, but they’re having a great time.

Simply stated, "Something... I Can’t Say" is one of the most fun songs to appear since Ted Leo’s latest hurrah. As loping video game guitars end out the piece, we can envision the band spilling bottled water into the crowd – it’s not cheap beer, mind you, but a modern take on a classic sentiment. 

Much of the album retains that air of fawning starlets and too much cologne. It is haughty and disgusting to some, but somehow appealing to others. Differences crop up with "I Have Found Mine," which seems slightly serious and self-important with its strained guitar intro and straight, grim tone, and the closing "Open Casket Access" which clocks in over six minutes and would overstay its welcome save for some stuttering, raucous guitars.

In all, The Blackouts represent a world of smarmy fun, and while they may not have the stuff of legends, they’re making the most of every night on the town.

Reviewed by Sarah Peters

The Blackouts' debut has been a long time coming. After working out the kinks in their sound over a four-year incubation period in the twin cities of Champaign and Urbana, Illinois, during which time the band inducted and subsequently parted ways with the requisite number of bassists, the Blackouts have finally emerged with their first proper recording, a ten-song outing that goes by the name Everyday Is a Sunday Evening. 

As long as some of us have been waiting, in truth the Blackout's emergence from their cocoon of Pabst Blue Ribbon couldn't have come at a better time. Over the past two years the new-mod explosion of leather clad Ramones babies has boiled over, and what was a fresh new revolution of recycled rock only months ago is starting to get on people's nerves.

Every album has faults, and one of the most ominous on Everyday Is a Sunday Evening is the surprisingly poor recording. The blistering, white-hot avalanche of sound that makes The Blackouts' live shows so downright spiritual has been compressed in the studio translation. Although it does clear up cacophony enough to let the melodies bleed through, a song like "One More Time" loses a lot of its immediacy without the sheer weight of the volume.

Aside from the particulars of the actual recording, the album is pretty solid all around because the songs work. Just feel "My Lines" with it's surgically sloppy guitar, slicing like a razor blade tied to the end of a lasso, and the following "Walk Away," a swanky, ambling number that butts vocal harmonies alongside Steve Ucherek's throaty, sneering vocals. It's as close as you'll find to a slow song on Everyday Is a Sunday Evening, but it doesn't come at the expense of the brazen hostility that flavors the album.

The sound that the Blackouts have is familiar, but it can't be pigeon-holed. There are obvious influences all over the place - from surf-rock to The Kinks and The Byrds - and there are easy, cop-out comparisons that can be made to bands like Mudhoney, the Strokes and the Mooney Suzuki, but there is also a rebellious country-tinge to Everyday Is a Sunday Evening in the spirit of Hank Williams and Johnny Cash that none of those bands have. A song like "Feelin' Alive" is closer to Tom Petty than it is to the Clash, and their demeanor (especially evident in their live shows) has a recklessness about it that stings like being whipped in the ass with a beer-soaked bar towel. Throw in some Dick Dale-inspired epicery like "The Ostrich" and the whole thing boils over into a swirling, snarling, howling dervish of Rickenbacker noise and a propelling rhythm section - check the mod/stoner magnificence of "Whenever I Go Home" for a full understanding.

The Blackouts' debut has been a long time coming, but Everyday Is a Sunday Evening makes a strong case for the wait being worth it. If you're not afraid of cracking open some plaster and rattling some cupboards, pick this album up and give your speakers all they can handle.

Reviewed by Eric J Herboth