No Doctors
Abbey Pub, Chicago, 08/20/04
Arty, self-referential meatheads who always travel in a pack--more often than not accompanied by a gaggle of chicks--No Doctors are the frat boys of the local noise scene. All their tunes sound familiar in that scruffy-dude-handling-a-guitar-like-a-woman way, and if you didn't know better you might think they were a really, really horrible beards 'n' bell-bottoms cover band. Their dicks seem to channel their dadaist lyrics ("that bush smell like an Easter egg," "the coating on her carpet left a twinkle in my eye"), and singers Chauncey Chaumpers and CansaFis Foote drawl and scream like blue-balled horndogs over blistering clown-horn saxophone, raunchy blues-guitar wankery, and firecracker drums. Their recordings reek of whiskey, BO, and weed and are so blown out they might be killing your speakers--just the sort of thing that makes me lick my chops. But No Doctors live are even more intense: the second they start playing, the audience takes several steps back. This is one of the boys' last performances before they move to San Francisco.

Liz Armstrong, Chicago Reader