Unpop Culture: Claw Hammer ‘Ramwhale’ Album Review

Under the thumb of glam, Los Angeles in the late 1980’s resembled a grand scale transvestite extravaganza. Enter Claw Hammer, loud, hairy balls stinking up the lipstick breeze.

Clouding my ability to deal with the most basic of social requirement is the need to amuse myself with pointless lists. Utilising 85% of available brain space are words and music. Of that 85%, thousands of sub-sectors are carved into micro-percentile categories and biases. Within .1% of one percent is an obscure category I call Wahlphonica. This is a shortlist of vocalists with cartoonish voices that loop in self-mocking parody. To qualify, one must sing to the point where horrific technique circles back to amazing by pure, dumb, genetic luck. Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, and Lazy Cowgirls’ Pat Todd are but three Wahlphonica alumni. Symbolic of my lack of desire to deal with reality, the list is named after Claw Hammer’s Jon Wahl.

If nothing else, Jon Wahl is a band-christening mahatma. His Lexington Devils conjure images of rich-running carburettors, back-block fisticuffs, and fucking on the hood of a ‘65 Impala. Blunder Tongue promotes memories of lengthy cunnilingus sessions, she doesn’t climax, you can’t talk for a week. And Midget Handjob... sure, sign me up!

Racking up low-offence misdemeanours, the name Claw Hammer is meat & veg purged into a solid gold stew. The name matches the licks; this is one balls-to-the-wall outfit. Jon Wahl’s voice is so excruciating, it’s captivating.

After a swath of self-released cassettes, Claw Hammer signed to boss label Sympathy For the Record Industry. In 1990, an eponymous debut was released, as well as the Double Pack Whack Attack EP. However, it wasn’t until the 1991 tribute to DEVO’s Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are DEVO! entitled Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Not DEVO!, that the band clawed the flesh of garage punk audiences.

In 1992, Jon Wahl (guitars/vocals/harmonica), Christopher Bagarozzi (guitars/vocals), Robert Walther (bass), and Bob Lee (drums) released the blues punk blueprint, Ramwhale. The magnum-opus shuns Claw Hammer’s earlier Beefheartian leanings, opting for a polarisation of the conventional.

Opener Naked proves the formula: from the moment Wahl shits out the lyric, “Such a waste, what a shame, how it slipped out from under my feet”, the listener assumes the juxtaposition.

Polar adjacency is the reason I adore Ramwhale. The disc shudders me to opposites, shreds me from heart to arsehole. This album is both the knife and the stitch, stripping its victim of component just to rebuild with the same damn part.

The pick-a-path of musical desire is what cuts Ramwhale as quality fabric. The songs aren’t twisted, yet not accessible either. While the adrenalised rock ‘n’ roll is a bonus, one must dig deep to allow its essence to seep. It’s part blues, part ghosts of bebop, part desperation and fragility, held firm by nitro, bonded by the snap of devotion.

This is the personification of music.