Scared of Chaka's Crossing with Switchblades

When you're growing up, it's not okay to have a fit. Yelling in a spittle-spewin' fury got most of us kids a hard slap on the ass or some silent time out. That kind of unruliness is unacceptable while you're living under someone else's roof. Luckily for the misfits who never had tantrums spanked out of their system, rock 'n' roll provides a great avenue for some tonsil shredding, attention grabbing, give-it-to-me-now-cause-I-want-it-it's-mine-type tantrums. And in an era of mellow indie music such that Morrissey is starting to look like a real live wire, thank God for garage bands like the Gories, the Pattern, the Hives and Scared of Chaka, who can stir up a greater commotion than Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

Scared of Chaka's new album, Crossing with Switchblades, has a Cape Canaveral take on punk that blasts off with an excellent fit. The lead song, "I'm Atomic, Baby," is pure sonic seizure material, with hopped-up three-chord rock propelling getting-hoarse-fast vocals to the moon. The record needle scratches and then, with no time to calm down, "Why Are You Weird" has already started, with the same hailstorm of fuzzy garage set on high-octane overdrive. No pitstops, move directly to songs three and four. "Permission to Die" is a hyper track that froths from the mouth and down the guitar necks. "You're Fired" gets you dizzy with its ass-shaking racket.

Then the band kind of loses it?not in the good way. Just when the musical tantrums hit their stride, Scared of Chaka downshifts into the same-old same-old of indie power pop. "Who's to Know" is a strained number, a little tuneless and not fast enough to keep you from noticing. The title track itself sounds like an edgier Weezer. What happened to the tension? The speed? The spittle?

Luckily the energy snaps back with "Glass Socket/Broken Jaw," "Fish Tacos '98" and a cover of the Zombies' "It's Alright with Me." By lucky number 13, "Shake It (Oh Yeah)," the band explodes into a screaming, choking, gonna-get-slapped-but-I-don't-care meltdown. They're back on the brat track, exactly where they should be.

What with so many bands jumping on the garage-punk bandwagon, spastic energy is the best thing Scared of Chaka's got going for them: they can throw fits like you haven't seen since your cherry Kool-Aid-drinking brother refused to take his Ritalin. They should work harder next time not to sag for even a few minutes. What's the use of throwing a traffic-stopping conniption in the first place unless you can take it all the way? Hopefully, when the band goes into the studio or plays live again, they'll take their dose of whatever keeps them going and remove all the dead meat, keeping only the heart-racing punk rock 'n' roll. What they're capable of is too good to let go of halfway through.