After a nearly 16 year hiatus, the innovative and sometimes reviled indie rock quartet, Thee Volatiles, has been rocking again with disarming energy and intensity. The band, which came of age in the late 1980s underground East Village DIY club scene, scripted the self-deprecating middle-class vulnerability of the '80s and 90s just as sharply as Dylan sketched the conspicious middle-class dreams of the '60s. And seeing them live, after all these years is like stratching a itch you didn't know you had. The band returns to form: Kevin Delaney, with his reckless, take-no-prisoners lead guitar, 20 years later still spews out some grossly beautiful racket- equal parts Kiss babyfood-metal, Robert Quine art-mangle, and pure-pop trash. Front man Dewar MacLeod, an aloof fuck-up much like Delaney, still lets loose his timestamped and heart-wrenching, unconcerned howl. Momo Blandino, just 13 when she joined, still rocks her airborne rock star poses and thumps punkily, flashing her I'm-too-young-to-know-better glance at the college boys. Sitting in for the now deceased Remy Martin is Timmy Smith, hunched over his drums, pounding away like somebody was chasing him...He was still in short-pants the first time Thee Volatiles took the world by storm. There was never much tawdry glamor with Thee Volatiles; just raw nerves, and thankfully, we can all now start stratching once again. GW Bridge, New York Press Weekly 9/3/13 You can hate Thee Volatiles on Facebook. You can watch them on YouTube.