THE PARIAHS - The Pariahs (Fading Ways)
Proving that Pariah doesn't mean pussy, these Toronto-an terrors unzip a slithery fingered fizzy lager chemical buzz and speed teeth rattlers and once out in the open they sure intend to stay there, obstinate oysters with similarly solid shells. Perhaps, in my personal and never honestly humble opinion, exceptin' 'Nighttime Of Knives' which plods way too much in portentous porridge quick sand slop for my low-grade 80's MTV shite sensitive hearing ensemble, in spite of it sounding kinda like The Cult Of Power, maybe because it sounds like something that fell off the back of Billy Duffy's Harley on the way to the studio recording 'Sonic Temple', to be scavenged by a beast more mythical (hysterical?) than the yeti or bigfoot, yuss, Def Leppard.*
Now, if you think, 'Hell, Stu you miserable old sod', grooving on the gripin' straight away, I do it to valiantly pave the way for the the resulting words of praise that replace the pillorying. For from 'She's A Rocker' revving around 'In The City' reckless and wrecked with the Wildhearts in their song wanderlust 'Earth Vs...' days but stripped of all excess modifications, declining the optional extras so they can flog 'em on e-bay for some fuck-up fertilizer fire startin' fuel to run, to the Rose Tattoo-ed torso twistin' tummy tucker '(Me, I'm) Wild Heat' being rolled over roundabouts by monster truck roaring road hoggers like standouts but not standalones 'Down Again', 'Yellow Alert' and 'Joan Jett' (I mean, they wrote a song called 'Joan Jett' fer cryin' out loud, that's GOTTA qualify them for inclusion on your next compilation for chums CD!), which being fleet fretted like a spasmic sperm dance to the egg really hit home, flexing frivolous muscles and dropping tuneful thunder onto your toes to cause those hard-worn heels to hover like a human Huey hitting hanoi rocks...tho overall The Pariahs don't quite split the arrow at fifty paces Robin Hood style they sho' bring a dirty diesel gut-shakin' quiver to the most lacquered quiff or coiff and, just to be gratuitously lascivious, the laciest crotch perhaps into the bargain. Which, y'know, isn't to be sniffed at.
These Pariahs should be proud, and this be no perfidious pusillanimity.
* I'll probably like it next week.

Stu Gibson

Scuzzy, dirty rock from hoary Canadians
Rated 9 out of 13
It's not everyday you come across a band whose slogan is 'we're older, louder, and dumber than YOUR band', and the Pariahs certainly like a party. And a party is a good way to describe their self titled effort, with its rock n roll heart beating steadily away. Of course, if you chuck in the odd sleazy, drunken night out and morning after the night out, you've pretty much got it.
The first track, 'Baby's a Rocker', is filthy and does what it says on the tin: fast and furious rock that would have parents up and down the country tutting in disapproval. It's fun, dumb and lives up to the band's slogan. This is not music that's meant to be background music. The next song definitely has a strange title in 'Teenage Death Song' but that doesn't stop it being one of the better tunes on the album. It takes the best bits of Hole, adds male scuzzy vocals and sounds really good even with the chugging guitar solo in the middle.
But it doesn't take that long for the dumb ethic to return, with the band declaring 'this is a sad song' on 'Sad Song'. If the reason for his sadness is that he walked miles and miles with no cigarette, I dread think what else makes him sad. However, the music is great and the press release's description of scuzz rock turns out to be right. It reins in the chaos a touch, letting it build up before letting loose on the chorus.
The party rages on all the while on 'Down Again'. The vocals may seem to be half mumbled and high pitched, and like 'Baby's a Rocker', it's fast and furious uptempo rock. It worryingly starts to resemble Rod Stewart in parts, which is not a compliment, but Mikey Pariah's vocals have that same gravelly quality. 'Essential' is the sleazy night out after the party winds down. Restrained, low vocals compliment a filthy tune that slinks along just nicely.
The album ends on a high with 'Yellow Alert' and 'Wild Heat' finishing off what the rest of the album promised. That is, it rocks like a bitch furiously. There is excellent riffing, not least on 'Wild Heat' that whirls around menacing - it's all chaos and confusion.
It's not one of the best albums of the year, but The Pariahs is good fun, and it would make a fine addition to anybody's party CD collection. And anyway, if you believe the website, 'they're not going away'.

Natasha Perry

THE PARIAHS - The Pariahs (Fading Ways)
Clocking in at just two seconds short of the thirty-minute mark, the Pariah’s third album, an astonishing five years since their last, is a spirited thrash with variable results. Despite the long wait between releases, perfection is clearly not at the top of the Toronto quartet’s agenda. The loose live feel exudes an admirable ‘warts n’ all’ authenticity and that proves both a benefit and hindrance to the overall album.
Opener ‘Baby’s A Rocker’ boasts a smoking, scuzzy riff, brimming with Ramones-style energy and a touch of the Wildhearts’ melodic prowess, which loves and leaves you within 100 seconds. Sadly, the rest of the album does not match that incendiary entrance. Typically, for a band called the Pariahs, there’s plenty of macho, ‘last gang in town’ posturing that’s really quite tedious, an example being ‘Nighttime Of Knives’, knuckleheaded cock rock reminiscent of the Cult circa ‘Sonic Temple’.
There’s some good melodies scattered about. ‘Down Again’ and ‘Joan Jett’ reveal the Pariahs pop sensibilities, which should be explored further instead of plumping for rudimentary garage rock. Yet the energy and enthusiasm cannot be faulted and I daresay the Pariahs will truly shine on stage. If they ditch the tough guy stance, show a little emotion and pen some stronger tunes, then the Pariahs will surely be a much more interesting, as opposed to one-dimensional, proposition.

Ross Halewood

THE PARIAHS - The Pariahs (Fading Ways)

For fuck's sake people, stop wasting time listening to shitty, wanky arsehole bands that only want to impress with technical ability and overly complicated toss.
Life's too long for that, especially when there are bands like The Pariahs you could be filling your minutes with. No? You don't want to? Okay, it was just a suggestion. These five Canadian greaseballs apparently "never met three chords they didn't like". Hopefully they won't bother looking. Is it lazy or uninspired to self-title your third album?
No matter, the songs do all the talking, in a language derived from The Wildhearts, Ramones and Teenage Head. Simply calling a song 'Joan Jett' should earn them a rock 'n' roll medal, but writing one as rockin' as 'Down Again' should make this album mandatory listening for everyone who believes they have a right to utter the words 'punk' or 'rock'.

Paul Raggity

THE PARIAHS - The Pariahs (Fading Ways)
From the name and the album art I initially dismissed The Pariahs as a pop punk act, but boy, was I wrong. Baby’s A Rocker might be under two minutes long but it has more in common with Wayne County and Johnny Thunders than the Offspring with its frowning gutter roar. Dirty rock is the key here for this Canadian band’s third album, but there’s more here than typical for the genre. Joan Jett and Yellow Alert might offer by-numbers boozy garage punk thrills, but Nightime Of Knives is Danzig rumbling with Paw in a dank bar, and Down Again is more Green River grunge than CBGB punk.
It may not be perfect music for the Christmas and New Year atmosphere, but The Pariahs' self-titled third release is a perfect antidote if some moron gets you a Darkness album for Christmas. Wildhearts fans will love this.

Charlie Parker

Diamond Dogs and The Pariahs - Underworld, London
4 out of 5

Their soul-tinged, boot-boy punk rock sound is all about energy, passion and huge hooks; the ramshackle fury of The Saints welded brutishly to the feral bite of The Bronx. They also have a song called 'Joan Jett' which is about as cool as it gets.

Dom Lawson

Last night saw a cracking gig from Diamond Dogs and The Pariahs — a couple of bands who share a label — at the Underworld in Camden in a cold Londontown.
The Pariahs — Don't Shun Them
First up were a five-man band of nutters from Toronto, Canada, in the form of The Pariahs. Now, just because they have a the before their name does not mean they're The Strokes (et al.) copyists. The Pariahs combine edgy, punky vocals with an almost Mötley Crüe-esque band. The sheer energy of lead singer Mike Pariah (who looks like an accountant) and bassist Staci T. Ratt drives this band ahead during their performance. It helps a great deal that Ratt looks like the offspring of Nikki Sixx and a groupie. This lot deliver driving hard rock with a touch of the sleaze, reminiscent of The Wildhearts.
As I suspected, The Pariahs were awesome live, and their song "Joan Jett" was particular fun. Even though the band were playing to sod all people (and most of them either journos or musos), they delivered a performance as if it were Reading or Knebworth. And this is key: the band actually looked like they were enjoying themselves on stage. They actually want to play live. I should also add that I chatted with several band members, and they are bloody nice guys who were pleased to be on tour. They had rather good things to say about their tour-mates, and none of it seemed forced. If you get a chance, catch The Pariahs live; you won't be disappointed.

Marty Dodge

THE PARIAHS - The Pariahs (Fading Ways)
4 out of 5
'Punk' is a dirty word these days. In a time when a 13 year old will passionately declare Simple Plan as the pinnacle of the genre, and then say "oh, that wildlife presenter with the funny hair?" when you bring up Johnny Rotten, it would appear that proper punk rock, as the old addage goes, truly is dead. The Pariahs, however, would disprove this theory. Admittedly 'older, louder and dumber' than most – Radiohead must be shaking in their intellectual boots – their blue-collar punk songs are quite a breath of fresh air.
Formed in Kingston (the one in Canada) in 1989, the band aren't exactly prolific – this eponymous third album is the follow up to 2000's gloriously titled Mouthful of Headache, and their debut Home Is Where you Hang Yourself was released a decade ago. Indeed, 32 minutes of music would seem paltry when it's been five years since your last record. However, this self-titled release is an album with very little fat. Barely a note is wasted, from the opening two-minute sleaze-fest of 'Baby's A Rocker' (sample lyric: "My baby's a rocker/I can't keep her in my pants") to the doesn't-do-what-it-says-on-the-tin 'Sad Song' right down to the army of guitars soloing at once on the fantastic 'Nighttime Of Knives'.
Original it may not be, but The Pariahs is a vastly enjoyable record that is basically a half-hour highlight in itself. The Ramones would be proud, were it not for those pesky guitar solos.

Gaz Hughes

Dubbed the Canadian Invasion Tour, musician and Fading Ways label boss Neil Leyton ambitiously brought over three bands to represent his home country and show the UK what was heating up over the other side of the Atlantic. Unforunately, tonight it seemed that Nottingham just wasn't interested. They should be ashamed as the few people who bothered to turn out on a cold Tuesday night were treated to a spectacular Rock and roll show. Kicking things off were Aceface with their Canadian / Brit pop hybrid followed by Leyton whose cool, calm Bowie-esque swagger has seen him earn praise worldwide. It was left to headliners The Pariahs though to really raise the roof. Joined on satge by Red Light Rippers guitarist Staci T. Rat who added some extra glamour and spark to the proceedings, the band ripped through tracks from their self titled album. Frontman Mike may not be your archetypal frontman but he packs one hell of a voice and has a stage presence that easily swamps his small frame. I for one got a private rock show to end all rock shows. Wish you could have come along!

Rob Lane

THE PARIAHS - The Pariahs (Fading Ways)
“The Pariahs are a gang of filthy, Ramones-lovin’ malcontents” according to their press release and I find no reason to argue; passion, punk and attitude by the sick-bucketful.
Their self-titled third album fizzes with more anger than Roy Keane at the Man Utd Christmas party and features guitars dirtier than Christina Aguilera rolled in pig swill by Spanish binmen. Images of piss-stained leather jackets, week-old stubble and string-vests leap out at you despite their Canadian – and thus ultimately boring – background yet cultural stereotyping shalt not halt these bad mothers.
This album is the first to be set like rabid dogs upon the British public and knowing the fondness for grime we harbour in this country, The Pariahs are sure to be welcomed with violent headbanging men with more tattoos than sense – the general gig-going public. From Baby’s a Rocker’s kick-ass Undertones-esque intro through the group-chanted Nighttime of Knives and to the awesome final song (Me, I’m) Wild Heat, this collection of noise goes straight for the jugular with a sledge-hammer.
The Pariahs have stripped rock music down to what it should be; fast, fun and fucked with a little smattering of sex appeal. OK so they don’t have the latter but they do have the first three in abundance. This is one to piss off your parents/neighbours/friends/girlfriend (delete as appropriate); buy it.
P.S. also check out their website for cheap laughs and fun, fun, fun.

Sam Wilkes

Hamilton Music Notes
Blurring Kingston collegiate aspirations with a Toronto Queen Street cool, The Pariahs are a Hamilton band—if only in their minds and their sounds.
Guitarist Loaf and drummer Bonz, (their respective nom de guerre), along with John Bowen, (also guitar), bassist Matt Fidler and vocalist Mike Farrell have spent two decades developing a reputation for their intense brand of straight–up rock and roll, culminating with a return to their second home of sorts in support of their new CD. “Loaf and I met in our first year in college at Queen’s in Kingston and started the band in 1985,” recounts Farrell. “We moved to Toronto in 1992 because that’s where the day gigs were, and the current line up we have has been for well nigh of ten years.
“But it’s guys like Tom Wilson and The Florida Razors—they’re the reason that Loaf and I got into rock and roll,” says Farrell. “Before we even met, Loaf would be heading down to the Gown and Gavel in Hess Village to check those bands out. Then he brought me out and then we ended up opening for them. Tom sort of took us under his arm and took us to some weird clubs around southern Ontario, and that’s how we got to rock and roll. The next thing you know we were playing the Gown all the time—all those drunken, crazy nights during the late ’80s and early ’90s when that scene was really happening there.
“Tom encouraged us and introduced us to Tim Gibbons and Dan–O [Achen] and all the guys from Junkhouse at some late–night parties in Hamilton, and we found it more exciting than the stuff happening in Toronto,” adds the singer. “There was a good scene in Toronto, but it sort of goes through waves. In Hamilton, there was always this good scene. We’d be saying, ‘This is the way rock and roll should be, how come booze cans in Toronto have to be so pretentious?’”
By 1995, The Pariahs brought their no–frills, Steel-town inspired rawk to disc on Home is Where You Hang Yourself, and five years later underscored the mantra with their sophomore Mouthful of Headache CD. Not ones to release their whine before its time, their new eponymously titled disc could be their magnum opus, most closely capturing what they do best.
“We are a very ‘what you see is what you get’ kind of band,” laughs Farrell on the band’s deceptive image. The Pariahs aren’t cultivating an image of ‘homeless no style’ or even attempting an anti–style statement. Rough, ragged and rocking are the only three Rs they want to teach. Live, imagine a demented shop teacher donning a ratty sports coat with the elbow torn, spitting piss and vinegar and dancing up a rock and roll storm; he snarls his rock manifesto while dual guitarists slam out chunky riffs, occasionally simultaneously tonguing each other in mid solo. Bruises are made in this drunken rock ballet/brawl, and beer inevitably gets spilled.
“We’ve never set out to decide what we should be like—it just happens,” Farrell says. “All of that comes naturally, so we don’t care what other people think. In Toronto, there are a lot of great bands but there are also a lot of wanker bands—bands that are in it for the money or to get signed and all that crap. It really is not where we’re coming from. We played that game back in the day, but when we decided we didn’t care about that whole apparatus we started actually kicking ass much better.“As soon as I get on stage, I guess I transform,” he muses. “I don’t like putting it into words, but it is intense. We’re very proud of what we do, but we don’t think too much about it. We know it’s kick ass rock and roll, but we don’t get worried how people describe our music. Are we punk? Are we rock? Or somewhere in between? To be quite honest, we don’t really care. We’re not dilettantes one way or the other. A lot of people call us punk because we’re older than your average band. But we’re defined by the live experience and we’ve always tried to capture that on our albums. I think we’ve come as close as we ever have with our new one.”
Enlisting different techniques to capture more of the urgency and immediacy of their live performance, Farrell wrapped up a microphone in foam so he could ‘bounce’ around the studio to capture the frenetic beast he is on stage onto disc.
“In the studio, we wanted to hear the spits, crackles and pops and you might get a bit of bleed, and it might not be the cleanest sound, but it makes us feel better,” explains Farrell. “A lot of the vocals on the album are the scratch vocals, where we ended up using the first take I did. “We get on stage and go 110 mph, so we come close to that on this disc,” adds the singer. “But the live show is what it is all about anyway and we’re always excited to play Steeltown. Anything goes, and that goes without saying. C’mon, this is rock and roll for fuck’s sakes!” The Pariahs and Downboy open for The Master Plan at The Corktown this Friday, December 3.

Ric Taylor