Born Bad

"Born Bad" - The Makers The Makers tear through "Born Bad" with the snarling conviction of garage-punk true believers, all fuzzed-out guitars and switchblade attitude. The production is deliberately raw and analog, channeling the 1960s nuggets-era garage rock the band worshipped — trebly, overdriven six-strings, a pounding tom-heavy beat, and a Farfisa-organ menace lurking in the corners. The vocals sneer and howl with greaser bravado, equal parts Iggy Pop strut and Sonics scream, selling the song's self-mythologizing bad-boy stance with total commitment. There's no irony here, just leather-jacketed swagger and the romance of being the wrong kind of guy. Emotionally it runs on adrenaline and defiance, a two-and-a-half-minute shot of rebellion with no interest in nuance. Lyrically it's pure delinquent boast — born bad, raised worse, proud of it — the eternal rock-and-roll posture of the outsider who'd rather be feared than loved. Culturally The Makers belonged to the 1990s garage-rock revival, a Pacific Northwest band keeping the flame of trashy, primal rock alive while grunge dominated the region's reputation. They dressed sharp and played dirty. Best blasted in a dive bar, a speeding car with the windows down, or any moment you want to feel a little dangerous. It's a love letter to the genre's snotty, sweaty, gloriously dumb heart.