It has always been fashionable to talk of rock 'n' roll in sexual terms, as if guitar solos and slashing chords echoed some primal drive. Often such prose has been churned out by lazy writers tapping into the masturbatory hallucinations of teenage boys, fueled by generic lead guitarists. A boy's world, a boy's fantasy. Girls entered the fantasy in a biologically cunning way - to find their boy, make him their man, to share the nest and replace the rock fantasy with the constants of mortgage and work, babies and bills. Not so with the Scramblers, Oh no. With the Scramblers it was the girls that came, the boys that followed; and not girls looking for pretty boys with poodle hair as at the other clubs. These were Women in the prime of their sexuality, drawn in by something dangerous, feeling an undeniable surging inner heat that began at home, in the bathroom getting ready, primping and pulling and adjusting and hiding and revealing; a heat that began to near-visibly palpate as they lined up at the door, clamoring over the guest list, at the bar, in front of the stage, waiting for the band... Metaphor as reality. The Scramblers were, by far, the greatest Rock'n'Roll band of their time in Vancouver. That they are not known outside the city, and probably only remembered to ten or twenty thousand in that place, is only testimony to the foul mechanics of the music business and the corrupting influence of sex and drugs and rock and roll. None of the 5 - Howard Rix, Jon Doe, Ziggy Sigmund, Ron Allan, Randy Bowman - had any pretensions about being the best musician on the planet, although they each may have had their moments. They didn't even get along with each other particularly off-stage - there was probably not a time in the history of the band where they all liked each other. But once they hit the stage - once they tightened up and locked into their special groove - they combined together as a force of nature, unstoppable, immutable, pushing the audience and themselves higher and higher in orgiastic fever, sweating and pounding and rocking like nothing existed outside of THIS moment, THIS note, THIS song. Howard Rix brought with him a deep and essential love of rockabilly, the white trash of country music, that was evident in every quivering note, every drawled aside. Even the most straightforward lyric was given added meaning by the animation of his face and body, every single muscle in his wiry frame stretching to push through to another dimension, every scream a sexual thunderbolt. Jonny's epic guitar riffs cannily combined the savvy of AC/DC with the minimalist strictures of punk, creating harmonic leads that amazingly built to jagged, fiery conclusions. Ziggy, Ron and Randy were a pounding rhythm section, and at any time any one of them could leap from the mix with a perfect melodic counterpoint, a dramatic upsurge in tempo, a thrilling crushing combination that would cause hair to stand erect, hearts to miss a beat, beer to spill... The songs on this CD are only a postcard from the past, a distant echo of the greatness of the Scramblers in their heyday. That this is all we have to remember such greatness makes these valuable momentos, terrific reminders that at one glorious time in the history of Vancouver music we were lucky enough to see The Scramblers. Laurie Mercer - Scramblers Manager http://www.heartoftexasrecords.com/ http://www.thescramblersmusic.com/