The Alpha Male has gotten an unusually bad rep of late, basically

being

held responsible for the 1980s Wall Street hegemony, the

overwhelming

use of sports metaphors in modern life and the development and

dispersal

of such cosmetic-oriented medications as Rogaine and associated

products

at the expense of lifesavers like protease inhibitors. But he does exist

beyond Big Dick battles of the ego and monuments to vanity. Rock

has

been seeing more of them emerging of late, possibly in reaction to

the

glut of oversensitive alterna-wimps trading on their shag haircuts

and

angst.

Jon Spencer is probably the best known of the bunch, but Speedo

isn't far behind. As the leader/czar of RFTC, he's developed a very

simple formula: take standard rock chords, cut out flashy solos and

techniques, dress sharp, and work like a sonuvabitch. It is this ethic

that has made his Rocket take off to the extent that a cadre of

Crypt-kickers have gone so far as to get a finned space vehicle

tattooed on their persons for free admission to all shows. Now that's

loyalty. It's also not past understanding. These guys are worth it.

And

that live energy is translated with laser-guided precision direct to

your ears with this recording.

If corollaries count, look to the more

aggressive numbers of Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes --

that's where

the big band horn attack and neighborhood spirit (a la their

mentor

Springsteen) comes in. Another is obviously Otis Redding, and that

Speedo allows a measure of heart-&-soul R 'n' B to take a pew on his

non-stop express is a tribute to how secure an Alpha he is. (In the

tonsure department, he's definitely got nothing to worry about.) I've

also heard elements suggesting a direct lineage to The Saint's 2nd

album, but certainly that distinct sound the Fleshtones refer to as

"Super-Rock" fits the bill as well. All this means, all it adds up to,

is that it achieves a classic feel without kneeling to nostalgia (much),

and that's a tough trick.

Everything here carries a full load of

passion, and with lyrics as uncomplicated as this it makes the

frontman's delivery as important as the arrangements (which are

brassed-out and buffed-up to a treble shine -- and not a lick of it

riding

the Ska bandwagon). We've all witnessed brilliant sets totally

swamped

by audience ennui. In those moments didn't you wish the performers

would

realize that, sometimes, you just wanna go to the show? So, the

added

attraction here is the way this is sequenced to give you all the power

and calculation of a Las Vegas revue: a big fat opener, a couple of

near-sentimental bridge numbers, the lewd shocker, showstoppers

liberally interspersed, and all of it leading right up to a rousing

finish at 41:48. And that's where Speedo comes in, sweating through

numbers to make a physical presence. Even on this recording, you

can

almost feel him prowling the stage, white knuckles wrapped around

mic,

on his knees pleading ... probably until someone throws a cape over

his shoulders and leads him to the wings. But, no. I shouldn't give

him

the mantle yet. And he probably wouldn't take it unless it

complemented

his suit.