I Can Lick Any SOB in the House? Who on Earth would proudly carry such an ostentatious -- some might say, repellant -- moniker? A bunch on juvenile wannabes? A novelty act, perhaps? If not, then who? The guilty party is one Mike Damron, who with his brawny backing band has created one of the most intelligent and compelling country-rock albums this reviewer has ever had the pleasure of smashing stuff to. Damron aches his way through 10 songs of unadulterated ramblings, effortlessly fitting the swamp-country mould with its honesty and realism. Damron has no qualms exposing his frailties ("Swing Man Swing"), misdirected affections ("Creepy Little Noises" and "Walk Across Texas") and tragic childhood ("Hey Big Man" and "Saturday"), and doing so with such a well worn, beaten-by-life baritone adds an affecting charm to his songs. The album is often hard to listen to with the singer bleeding into every song his passionate personality. He comes across as somewhat of a beer-stained messiah, entirely upfront and unafraid to comment on life, love and social and political injustice, easily leading his audience to believe he could very well "lick" just about anyone he comes across, on or off stage, SOB or not. Powerful and resonant, smart and satisfying, this ain't no novelty act.
    -- Nikki Tranter

    Ever since the Replacements’ 1991 demise, hundreds of bands have tried their luck—with varying degrees of success—in carrying the Minneapolis legends’ punk-meets-Americana torch. I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch In The House, a Portland, Ore.-based outfit, has quite possibly done the best job to date in re-creating the Mats’ recipe of fire and angst with their new CD, Creepy Little Noises. Borrowing their moniker from bare-knuckle boxer John L. Sullivan’s biography, I Can Lick (there, I’ve shortened it), fronted by raspy voiced Mike Damron, mix it up just enough to avoid a “rip-off” label—the band occasionally sidesteps the middle-men Replacements and jingle-jangle their way straight through Gram Parsons-inspired Stones territory (“Whose to Blame,” “Walk Across Texas”). However, Damron’s gritty, demon-exorcising tales of a troubled, lonely childhood—the amazing “Saturday” and “Hey Big Man”—are pure Westerberg, and the suicide ode-title track could have easily been written for Tim or Let It Be. Imitation is often an irritating form of flattery, but this disc is so lyrically and musically mesmerizing the I Can Lick’s influences are soon overshadowed by their talent. Damron’s two-pack-a-day delivery might urge the listener to send the man some Luden’s, but you get used to it after the first couple of listens of this riveting record. (Steve Sav)

High Bias, 12/02

    The problem with most roots rock artists is that they're too polite. Constrained by fan expectations and their own deep respect for American music traditions, too many roots rockers treat country, blues and rockabilly as sacrosanct forms not to be futzed around with or applied to anything but reserved emotional states. Even songs about killers make the villains out to be sedate and possessing the finest manners.
    Fortunately, not all roots rockers forget the art of being rude. For instance, the awkwardly but appropriately monikered I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch in the House sounds like it crawled out of the bar with an arm in its teeth and a knife in its back on Creepy Little Noises. Frontperson Mike D. sings in a voice so grizzled even his larynx must have tattoos on it, and his country rockin' songs leave nothing to the emotional imagination, whether he's dealing with anger, fear, despair or something more tender. "The barrel tastes good in his mouth," he raspily croons in the title track, "He's gonna go out like he came in/All alone." Not much false sentiment here; even the more whimsical material like "Saturday," which celebrates the titular day of play while noting "Mama, you won't hit me again," has a dark edge. For all the crazed energy permeating the record, there's a sense of craft here; "Graveyard Song," "Walk Across Texas" and "Swing Man Swing" display a strong sense of melody and a close attention to grimy detail that belies the spontaneity of the performances. Creepy Little Noises sounds like the raging drunk at the end of the bar, but that drunk has the soul of a poet.
Michael Toland

    Portland kicks ass, okay? I mean, we have the world's most dysfunctional NBA team, the country's nicest transportation system, lots of beautiful parks for the runaway kids to squat in, lots of seedy heroin dives, and a Chinese food restaurant called Hung Far Low. Or at least we did when I grew up there. I last lived there 16 years ago. I live in Wisconsin now, and I miss the PDX.
    Especially when there are kick-ass alt.blues.country acts like I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch in the House still there. This debut record from ICLASOBITCH is pretty much all the work of one guy, the very very confident Mike Damron. This guy is working all sides of the street: bluesy roots-rock ("Graveyard Song"), dragged-up-from-the-depths personal pop-rock that sounds like bonus tracks left off Let It Be by the 'Placemats ("Swing Man Swing"), and death ballads (the title track). And that's just the first four songs!
    Look: Damron is a huge huge talent. His songwriting says a little too much -- does he really need to describe himself mouldering in the grave? Does he really need to call a track "Fear'd" and then sing about how he ain't a-feared? -- but hey, it's a first album, cut my homey a break. And his punky whiskey-flavored soulful voice and John Mellencamp-esque chord changes (and that is SO not an insult in any way... Mellencamp's chord structures are amazing) sell every single song.
    But even if the rest of the album -- which includes love songs and cheatin' songs too -- wasn't so great, two songs would completely justify you getting this record NOW. They are both focused on the physical abuse of children, but they couldn't be more different. The first one is "Saturday," an outwardly jovial burner about a nine-year-old who hangs with his grandparents having fun that day every week: Captain Crunch, baseball on TV, plastic army men, watching The Cars on Midnight Special with Wolfman Jack, the whole nine yards. Only after you listen to it a couple of times do you hear the lines dealing with WHY he's so happy to be there: "Close my eyes, count three, and pray / Mama you ain't gonna hit me again." Whiplash!
    And the closer is a chill-inducing indictment called "Big Man." In this piece, Mike D.'s narrator calls out a father for being a big huge asshole to his five-year-old self: "And I will survive you / Hallelujah! / And I will love bigger than you / And I won't do all the bullshit you did do" (and here the pauses are crucial) "I will not be a big man / I will not be a big man / Like you!" Yeah, brother, testify! I'm right there with ya. To hell with that old bastard, he wasn't shit, you're a better man, keep on walking and hold your head up. Wow I love that song.
    It's a good album. A little short, and a little too calculated in places, but I Can Lick... is gonna be huge real soon.

    The Portland country-rock band's debut CD "Creepy Little Noises" is distinguished by some nifty arrangements and sonic touches, but most of all by singer Mike D., who sounds like a cross between Mick Jagger and an extremely nervous Ronnie Van Zandt..

    "I've tasted blood," Mike D (Stumptown scene stud, not Beastie Boy) snarls in the intro to his band's new debut album, Creepy Little Noises, and by the time his cronies in I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch in the House kick in moments later, you can practically hear the plasma dripping from his jowls. With truly demonic harp licks from David Lipkind squealing along to the take-no-prisoners backbeat, and in-your-face lyrics like "It ain't gonna matter what Adolf Hitler did or what John Lennon sung five billion years from now," D sounds like he's on a suicide mission to prove that his group lives up to the drunken boast of its moniker. Even when he switches from electric to acoustic guitar, the intensity does not let up. (He's also credited with playing bass on "The Hamm's Can Full of Rice.") It's a remarkably clear and dynamic recording, which more than does justice to the surprising subtlety D can muster. The vocals sometimes recall some of Axl Rose's throatier moments, or peak-junkie-period Steve Earle, with vowels twisted into an improbable twang: "Heaven," for instance, comes through as "hyeahvohn." But beneath the bluster lie some songs of substance, with humor and personality to burn. (JR).

Menace