Although Jackpot Records, one of the most eclectic reissue labels around, re-released this masterful psyche-punk album in 2010, it’s still worth a shining the spotlight on here in early 2011.
Initially released to a perplexed European public in 1968, Dutch band The Outsiders' CQ is a true proto-punk explosion, as dark in content as S.F. Sorrow and as animated and adrenalized as Black Monk Time.
The album kicks off with “Misfit” in strong freak-beat fashion – pulsating bass, pounding guitars, and a drum intensity that tries to knock your skull in. The detours follow with direct yet experimental dirges “Zsarrahh” and the titular “CQ” (the feel repeated on other songs throughout the album), and although the LP moves from lament to bombast, ultimately, what is stunningly obvious from the onset is the band’s desire to “harsh mellows” and sonically attack the listener’s sense of limitations. The polite murder song “Daddy Died On Saturday” and the frantic, DC hardcore-tempo of “Man On The Dune” are clear examples of a band trying to fuck with its late 60’s fanbase. Noise freak-outs in “Doctor” and “Prison Song” go beyond the cozy vanilla of artsy-fartsy and enter a realm of true menace. This is Velvet Underground angst sung in a slight Dutch accent.
Apparently, according to the liner notes (which I am always loathe to read), CQ was The Outsiders swan song, although members of the band would continue to record under various names in the years to follow. Regardless of the band’s progression leading up to this timeless album, CQ is a stand-alone masterpiece, a violent meditation on the fluid and changing nature of rock n’ roll and the culture that brought it on. Truly a classic, The Outsiders made a perfect record in their time and ours, so without further whimsy, snap this one up, shitbirds.
