High Five Hat tricks, or 5 bands that used their names as the title for an album and a song on it

The self-titled album is a pretty common occurrence in music—Weezer’s probably the overkill example of this, with not one, not two, but three technically eponymous albums. But this technique is usually only used once, on a band’s debut, as a “Greetings, we’re (insert band name), and don’t you forget it!” introduction of sorts.

Rarer still is what we think of as the “hat trick”: That is, a band, album, and song that all share the same name. And because hat-tricksters The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart perform at the Bluebird Theater tonight, we decided this event must be celebrated since, in the music industry, the self-regard that inspires a hat trick is rarer than Halley’s Comet.

The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart
Sometimes a band’s name is utilitarian, letting potential fans know before even listening exactly who the band is and what it’s about, like with Metallica, The Beach Boys, and Insane Clown Posse. Now, if you first heard the name “The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart” and guessed that the band sounded like “the cutesy, now-ubiquitous indie-pop sound combined with the dark-edged guitars and lyricism of The Jesus And Mary Chain,” well, you’d be wrong. It’s more like “the dark-edged guitars and lyricism of My Bloody Valentine.” Good try, though!

The name comes from a children’s story written by a friend of frontman Kip Berman, which he explains in an interview was “about experiencing life with your friends when you’re young, and appreciating that, and traveling and having adventures. And that sort of makes life worthwhile.” The band liked the name so much that it became the name of the band’s debut full-length album and, though the self-titled EP is now out-of-print and only available digitally, the song has become a live favorite.


Fat Boys
Featuring Darren “The Human Beatbox” Robinson’s vocal percussion and a ridiculously catchy bass line, this 1984 jam is a hip-hop classic. The Fat Boys weren’t the first overweight rappers (Sugarhill Gang’s Big Bank Hank gets that title), but they’re arguably the first to roll with it (get it?), telling the world, “Yeah, we’re fat, and we’re awesome.” And who could argue?

Actually, we could, though not about the “awesome” part—Prince Markie Dee is no Jack LaLanne, but we wouldn’t call him fat. (We always pictured some cigar-chomping record exec pressuring him to gain weight—“This ain’t the Chubby Dudes; this is the Fat Boys, goddammit!”) Nevertheless, the group paved the way for other overweight guys like Heavy D, Chubb Rock, Fat Joe, Biggie, and, to a much lesser extent, Chunky A, to become superstars. Some call them pioneers—heroes, even.

Sadly, the industry’s embrace of The Gossip’s Beth Ditto seems to be the exception that proves the gendered double standard. Missy Elliott, Kelly Clarkson, Queen Latifah, and most every female performer younger than Aretha and larger than a size six, seem to only be able to endure the just like us! body-image spotlight for so long before deciding that it’s way less painful to exercise or starve themselves down to the Hollywood norm than to get constantly held up as a “Look, she’s not afraid to be chunky!” role model—or to just get called fat in the tabloids all the time.

Black Sabbath
Black Sabbath was originally a psychedelic-blues band known as Earth until Ozzy and co. wrote this classic, inspired by a nightmare about a “figure in black” that bassist Geezer Butler had. Realizing it had entered dark territory not yet explored in rock music, the band chucked its former name and the blues, naming the song and group after an Italian horror film starring Boris Karloff.

The opening track on the group’s debut album, this hat trick is perhaps the band’s best moment, and a frontrunner for the title of first heavy-metal song. Tony Iommi’s evil, down-tuned guitar riff; the slow, punishing rhythm section of Butler and drummer Bill Ward; and Osbourne’s tormented screams about being tortured by Satan helped forge the DNA of metal.


Tin Machine
David Bowie’s biggest 180-degree turn, in a career full of them, is also his most hated. After the atrocious Never Let Me Down in ’87 and the subsequent epitome of ’80s excess on The Glass Spider Tour, Bowie felt his artistic career was in shambles. Deeply inspired by a young, up-and-coming band called the Pixies, he grew a beard and, along with guitarist Reeves Gabrels and the sibling rhythm section of Hunt and Tony Sales, formed Tin Machine. Thus, a hat trick was born; although, we’ve studied the lyrics and we still don’t know what a “Tin Machine” is or what it’s about.

The response was mixed, at best: The record sold decently, but was savaged by critics. The group got a horrible reception from the mainstream (which was expected), but an even worse response from the indie crowd, whose members felt the band was trying to monetize their scene. The band called it quits after one more studio album.

It might be that we’re hardcore Bowie fans (we do seem to write about him a lot), but this hat trick’s not that bad; it’s even good, in small doses. The music video below is only half the song, so maybe even the band knew this. Here’s a link to the full version if you want to give it a listen. ... No?


Motörhead
Hermaphrodite-rights spokesperson and former nerd Lemmy Kilmister has had arguably the most badass life in rock history. Starting his showbiz career in 1967 as a roadie for The Jimi Hendrix Experience, he later joined the acid-tinged prog-metal band Hawkwind before fronting the band whose music soundtracks all good bar fights: Motörhead. (Also, he’s been on a diet of whiskey and speed since ’71; his voice sounds accordingly.)

Now, to placate all the metalhead historians, we’re cheating a tiny bit here—the song “Motorhead” was written and first recorded while Lemmy was in Hawkwind, and it was released as the B-side to that group’s “Kings Of Speed” in 1975, but we’re including it because that version lacks the infamous heavy metal umlaut. You could argue back that 1977’s Motörhead isn’t technically the first album the group recorded; On Parole, recorded in ’75 but not released until ’79, also features a full-umlaut version of “Motörhead.” Well, to that we can only say that if you think you can do a better job, we have plenty of Motörhead down here on The A.V. Club office jukebox, and we’ve been itching to use it to soundtrack a proper bar fight. (Please leave technical objections to this article in the comments only. Thank you. —ed.)