About ten years ago, back when the prefaced their name with "Velcro", The Peasants old manager, this greasy, alcoholic scarecrow of a hippy, dragged me up to his weird round apartment and played me one of their "cassette albums". Then he charged me 15 bucks for it. I thought he was going to kill me, so I paid him. So for years, whenever anybody mentioned these guys to me, I'd say "The Peasants? The fucking Peasants owe me 15 dollars." Luckily, the new record has been released both locally and in Europe, and I got copies from both places, so now we're even. The Peasants' main man Pete Cassani is like a lanky, goofball hybrid of Johnny Thunders and Jonathan Richman- plenty of spit, swagger, and guitar heroism mixed with an ear for bright pop melodies and a knack for witty, observational lyrics that cleverly address the ongoing trials and errors of a committed rock and roll burnout. Perennial buskers, the Peasants are the only sleaze rock band in Boston that actually prefer playing outdoors, out in the sunshine, mixing it up with locals and tourists alike, stopping traffic with their impromptu rock and roll street parties. Which takes a lot of balls, you know. These very same balls are on full brassy display on "Welcome...", where the sarcasm comes as thick and fast as the glam n' grease riffs and arena pop hooks. Of course, the record lacks a bit of the ambience of the live Peasants experience- you know, with the shirtless 65 year old guys clapping along, and the screaming brats adding their own tear-filled choruses, but it's still a sleaze pop party in a box that practically begs for topdown highway action.