Recording review - Bohannons, Black Cross, Black Shield (2015)

Missed connections and missing links

^2.25/5.0

Did you ever have one of those first dates that started out so promising, but then left you checking your watch, waiting for it to be over? It's like the person could hold it together for the first five or six minutes, but no matter how intriguing and cool they seemed then, the rest of the evening had them unraveling until you wondered if that first impression was just a fluke. Maybe you even began to question your earlier enthusiasm. That's exactly where I find myself with Bohannons' Black Cross, Black Shield.

The title track starts out awesome, opening with a heavily compressed guitar riff joined shortly afterwards by a harmonized guitar in the foreground. The tone has the visceral slam of AC/DC, but with a mellower retro blues rock pace. The reverberating vocals line up quite nicely with that, giving me a good idea of what it might sound like if Mick Fleetwood fronted a Black Sabbath tribute band. The droning guitars and thick pentatonic riffs conjure up a raw intensity. The bridge turns to old school psychedelia, reminding me of Status Quo's "Pictures of Matchstick Men", and I'm caught up in the hypnotic swirl of distorted guitars. The best part is that it keeps showing kaleidoscope flashes of almost recognizable riffs: a touch of "Iron Man" here, a smear of "Sister Ray" there.

So, six minutes in, I'm thinking this could be the start of something great and I settle in for more. The Bohannon brothers' twin guitar assault continues on "White Widow". The classic rock vamp at the start isn't as catchy as the first track, but the band still plows into the full sound with enthusiasm. The music is pretty decent and the lead near the end throws in some speedier runs, but the initial attraction is starting to fade, in large part because the lyrics can't hold the song together. They sing the lines with gusto, but it's hard to pull a linear theme from lines like, "Who's to say you're out of touch/ Just because you feel so much/ I just got born/ And then I died."

From here, the die is cast: the solid guitar work can never quite overcome the vague or repetitive lyrics. Bohannons slog through a string of hard hitting garage rock, but they never find the momentum that seemed so natural on the title track. Songs like "Dias de Los Muertos" or "Lightning and Thunder" plod along and never really deliver any satisfaction. The best of the lot, "Death and Texas", has a righteous Neil Young shred (in fact it's fairly derivative), but the platitudes about illness and loss offer little insight: "To watch you fade / Day by day / Has got me a little down on God / And his mysterious ways."

I toughed it out to the end, hoping I could salvage some of the magic of that initial taste. The final tune, "Red, White, Black and Pale",  is a doom-filled, apocalyptic vision but it doesn't measure up to anything Mike Doughty wrote for his recent ambitious musical, Revelation: A Rock Opera. So, no magic miracles to save the day. It's rare to turn so sharply from hot to cold on an album like this, and I began to doubt my memory. Was I suckered in somehow at the start or did Bohannons lead with an uncharacteristically strong tune? Unlike a disastrous date, there was an easy way to check the facts. I steeled myself, hit replay, and dove back into "Black Cross, Black Shield".

On the second listen, I still enjoyed the song's classic metal grind and dynamic pacing, but I also noticed some cracks in the facade. In particular, the similarity between the chorus and Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle", became impossible to ignore, even though the band cloaks it in wailing guitar tone. That revisit makes it easier for me to send Black Cross, Black Shield on its way with no regrets. It's not fundamentally flawed, but we're just not compatible after all.

Recording review - The Underground Railroad to Candyland, The People Are Home (2015)

DIY thrash in bittersweet little doses

^3.0/5.0

The biggest promise of punk rock was how it challenged the excesses of progressive rock. By reasserting music's folk roots, punk sucker-punched master musicians and their egos to assert that anyone could try their hand at it. It needn't take talent to start a band and there were no record executives to impress. Audiences rewarded the bands that created the most enthusiastic shows or vented the most spleen or had the most outrageous songs. The downside was that there was plenty of mediocre crap to wade through, but it was worth it to come across a group that had captured something special.

Of course, it couldn’t last; new wave and synthpop soon softened out the rough edges. Years later, pop punk resurrected the ideals of DIY thrashy fun, but raised the musical standards to favor a stronger degree of technical skill. Harmonies were encouraged and the songs were less likely to become train wrecks. Still, some acts like Green Day showed larger flashes of artistic ambition. The Underground Railroad to Candyland is no Green Day, but they hold true to an old school appreciation for simple garage rock structure seasoned with a solid anarchistic streak. Their new release, The People Are Home, favors short songs that step up, make their point, and move on. The playing is fairly competent, but the band shifts their perspectives like changing tee shirts, all the while keeping one foot in the garage.

The album leads off with “Dead Leg”, which digs up some found sound from an old Tom Vu real estate infomercial. The tight beat drives the cheery contrast between Vu’s hype (“You don’t have to ask your boss for a raise anymore, you can give yourself the best raise of your life: come to my seminar”) and the band’s biting response (“Look at the lids, how they don’t blink/ See how he’s dead inside.”). These wordy verses set the stage for the next sarcastic missile, “The Grownups Will Have Their Say”, which steamrolls through a sneering send up of adult advice and condescension. And like a teenager tuning out his parents’ lecture, it’s hard to really pay that much attention to the details.

By the time you get to “In Case You Dunno”, though, the spaces get wider and the lyrics get more repetitive as they turn from sarcasm to more visceral forms of expression. But frustration and worry are just passing phases, too. Like a set of vignettes from Short Attention Span Theatre, the ideas The People Are Home are a bit underdeveloped, and the Underground Railroad to Candyland relies on premature endings to salvage some pieces that barely get going, like the utterly simplistic, “You Don’t Like the Summer”.

The album closes on its strongest track, “Th Ppl R Hm”. The rhythm is compelling, some of the imagery clicks nicely, and it has some unexpected little treats like toy piano fills and subtle horn accompaniment. If all of these songs summon the chaotic rush of teenage existence, then this tune is summer vacation. Because The People Are Home captures that mixed up sense of angst and exploration, it serves as a good descendant of punk’s initial promise.

Concert review - Southern Culture on the Skids with the Revelettes

7 May 2015 (Shubas Tavern, Chicago IL)

^4.75/5.0

Fort Collins, CO has a decent music scene and I often make it down to Denver for shows. This time, though, I went a little further afield. My friend, Brent, invited me to Chicago to see Southern Culture on the Skids, and I couldn't say no. In a stroke of brilliant timing, I arrived for possibly the nicest two or three days Chicago has had since before the winter. The days were warm and clear and it was a pleasant evening walk from Brent and Lu's place to Shubas. The venue was relatively small, but SCOTS' enthusiastic fans made it a party evening. Great music, killer weather, and warm hospitality made this a wonderful vacation trip.

The Revelettes

Finding the right opening act is always a challenge . Most bands are either thrown together by the venue or they partner up for a tour, but that doesn't always turn out well. Sometimes the problem is that the audience resents anyone that makes them wait for the headliner. Worse, the opener can foster the wrong mood and make it harder on the main act. Southern Culture on the Skids solved that problem handily by bringing in local go-go troupe The Revelettes as their cheerleading squad.


The show started with a pair of  dancers shimmying in retro campy style accompanied by pre-recorded music. Then, the remaining three Revelettes tag teamed in for the next song. After a bit of choreographed fun, they got down to business. SCOTS has recently re- recorded their 1994 album "Ditch Digging" and the Revelettes brought up an audience member to help teach us all some dance moves for the title track. The volunteer picked up the steps quickly and soon fell directly into formation with the troupe. She had such a good time that she stayed on stage for the remaining songs.


The fun vibe and enthusiastic dancing made this a perfect warm up for the band and, later, we'd get the chance to prove we remembered the "Ditch Diggin'" steps.

Southern Culture on the Skids

Southern Culture on the Skids had a casual start as bass player Mary Huff and guitarist Rick Miller sauntered out first and picked up their instruments. Huff briefly launched into Lynn Anderson's "(I Never Promised You A) Rose Garden", but it was just a tease before Dave Hartman came on stage on drums and the show officially began with the sharp-edged twang of "Skullbucket". Huff's solid bass vamp gave Miller all the foundation he needed to shred his way through the surf-style instrumental, and the crowd reveled in the bright distortion of his overdriven Silvertone.


As the set progressed, I was struck by the communal feel between the band and their fans. They somehow bridged the relaxed celebration of a Southern pig roast and the congregational fervor of a faith healing service. Even as they tapped into a campy sense of fun, the trio imbued the songs with a respectful intensity. They smoothly flowed from surf to garage rock, chicken-picked pedal tones to thrashy punk rhythms, and bluesy vamps would give way to honkytonk country. The crowd tracked every twist and turn, intimately familiar with the songs, ready to sing along or feel the beat deep in their bones.


SCOTS' playful attitude was at the forefront, with the tongue-in-cheek Southern themes of the lyrics and the band's stage presence and appearance. They pulled out some of their classic audience participation moves: volunteers distributing oatmeal pies from the stage and launching fried chicken into the crowd during "8 Piece Box". It was fun to watch Miller get a mischievous twinkle in his eye before he launched into those songs whose title says it all, like "Liquored Up and Lacquered Down" or "Put Your Teeth Up On the Window Sill". And while his green visored fishing hat and Huff's bouffant wig may have played to some campy stereotypes, they wore them comfortably, with little sense of affectation.


But while we all laughed with them at the silliness and spectacle, it was clear that the band and the fans took this music seriously. Surf numbers like "Meximelt" locked into a psychedelic swirl, driven by Hartman's relentless tribal drum pounding while Miller intently channeled the legendary Dick Dale with a brambled wall of guitar notes. "Papa Was a Preacher, But Mama Was a Go-Go Girl" could have been a one-joke tune, but the honkytonk rhythm cradled Huff's twangy vocal, and it wasn't hard to think that there's a grain of truth in that: SCOTS understands the surety of the preacher, the physicality of the dancer, and the balance to love both equally.


After the show, the band wandered out to sign autographs and chat with the fans, many of whom had seen them the night before in Berwyn. Plenty of performers do the meet-and-greet ritual, but even here SCOTS distinguished themselves. Rather than rush people to clear through the lines, they took the time to connect with each one. They'd humbly deflect the gushing praise and try to have a real conversation.Audience members understood that and waited patiently, knowing they'd get their chance to reminisce about their favorite show or tell the adventure of how they had made it to the venue that night. It was great way to show why, on stage or off, Southern Culture on the Skids are a class act.


More photos on my Flickr.

What's cool? White Reaper, "Make Me Wanna Die"

Breaking up never sounded so easy

White Reaper's secret super power comes from the the synth-pop keyboards that sneak in during the first break of "Make Me Wanna Die". Up until that moment, it's easy to pigeonhole them as another set of low--fi, power-pop garage rockers from somewhere in the U.K. The punk sneer and throbbing downstroke guitar are anchored by a dead simple beat and pulsing bass -- it all sounds fine, but when the Cars-style synth riff drops, the poppy bounce is completely unexpected. Another surprise is that despite singing with a slight British accent, Tony Esposito and the band are from Louisville, Kentucky. I'm guessing they spent a lot of time listening to the Sex Pistols and the Ramones, but they've found their own unique balance.



"Make Me Wanna Die" is a mixed up little gem, but in a fun way. It's a break up song, celebrating that moment right after the split is out in the open, when all you want to do is walk away and put it behind you. The relentless beat captures that discomfort and restless impatience, but the poppy keys say that they knew it was never going to work out anyway, and we should all just get over it.

White Reapers full length debut, White Reaper Does It Again, is due out in mid-July. That will be a treat.

What's cool? No Valentine, "Bowl of Cherries"

In praise of simplicity

When Link Wray played "Rumble", it was never about capturing a virtuoso performance. Ray Davies didn't set out to make a poetic masterpiece with "You Really Got Me". "I Want to be Sedated" didn't arise from the Ramones agonizing over an aesthetic ideal. All of these powerful songs were based on artists tapping into what they could play and how they felt. They're simple songs, but their no-frills approach makes them universal.

Like the long chain of garage and punk rockers before them, No Valentine locks into that same mindset. Cindy Pack's simple pentatonic riff on "Bowl of Cherries" is instantly familiar and gives the track a perfect serving of distorted guitar jangle. Mike Linn on drums and bassist Laura Sativa provide a pounding accompaniment that only pauses periodically to give that riff room to ring out again. Pack's lyrics are full of dead simple truisms about life sucking, but the tune never sinks into nihilistic surrender. Instead, Pack settles for detached annoyance and takes a couple of shortish solos that echo the song's small scale frustration.



It's easy enough to imagine that every teenager with a guitar has written a version of this song at one time or another and there are plenty of well-known examples on this theme. It's also true that No Valentine isn't breaking new sonic ground like Wray or the Kinks did. But it doesn't matter if you've heard this sort of song before; the punch lands because you already know it in your gut. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt, it just lowers your defenses, letting the band waltz in with swagger and just the right amount of sneer.

It's a good lead-off track for No Valentine's new EP, Can't Sleep, which is chock full of cathartic rockers. Drop by their Bandcamp site and give them a listen. Aside from "Bowl of Cherries", I also really liked the closer, "You Don't Care". 

What's cool - Beech Creeps, "Sun of Sud"

Mood music for garage rockers

Some times call for contemplation and calm. Other times, what you really need is intellectual stimulation. "Sun of Sud" won't help in either of those situations. Instead, it's a prescription for the flip-side, when gut churning physicality is necessary to quiet down the monkey brain. It's an adolescent sound, full of throbbing tension, angst, and frustration. It's primitive, riff-driven rock and roll at it's purest. Beech Creeps tap into a timeless vein of visceral punch -- Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath before they grew old, Iggy Pop rolling around in broken glass, and Kurt Cobain screaming his transcendent self-doubt.



Okay, maybe that's overselling it a bit, but this song reminds me of garage jams, where the rumbling bass, screeching distortion, and pounding drums weave together in a thick psychedelic swirl and become a mantra that holds the outside world at bay. More importantly, it makes me want to pull out my Les Paul right now and set my ears ringing with the warm wash of overdriven tubes.

Beech Creeps eponymous debut album comes out on March 3. The only other sample I've found is "Times Be Short", another fun track that's similarly noisy with guitar grind and sneered vocals. While that song doesn't have the same intensity of "Sun of Sud", I'm looking forward to hearing more of what these masters of meditative mayhem have to offer.

Recording review - Acid Baby Jesus, Selected Recordings (2014)

Psychoactive dandelion seeds propagated from the past
^3.5/5.0 

Imagine the scattered groups in the 1960s that invented the various flavors of psychedelia. Even in their wildest trips, they probably never dreamed their legacy would still be around some 50 years later, popping up all over the world. Driving that point home, Greek tripsters Acid Baby Jesus have taken up the retro freak flag, adding their own modern touches. Selected Recordings shows that they've studied the past for more than just the surrealistic band-naming conventions and that they can occasionally rise above their sundry influences. Fragmented reflections of The Animals, It's a Beautiful Day, and the Zombies flicker around the edges, but Acid Baby Jesus also tap into more modern garage psych sounds like Thee Oh Sees and Nobunny. While Selected Recordings is a pleasant retreat from reality, the first half of the album is strongest, with better production and arrangements.

The trip peaks early with "Diogenes", which is full of the jangled chimes of sunshine psychedelia. It offers a good mix of Beatlesque meditation, Northern California haze, and Pink Floyd disorientation. The initial guitar riff is reminiscent of The Velvet Underground, but the vocals quickly take us into the direction of "Within Without You" and the instrumental breaks slip into "Careful With That Axe, Eugene" angst. The band meanders around the droning Indian scales and windchime rhythm, but the song never loses its pop orientation. A purist might complain that it's all a bit derivative, but it's a pleasant introduction to the band.

The sound gets a bit heavier with "Row By Row", which is a bit more typical of the album, with bass driven grooves providing the foundation for the guitar to provide the sonic warpage. The real gem of the album comes a few songs later with "Ayahuasca Blues (Unmanned Drone)". The droning sitar buzz, detuned guitar, and pensive bass conjure up a dimly room, fogged with incense smoke. The vocal chants create a tribal tone, but the classic psychedelic elements are accompanied by a more modern industrial edge. There's a low hum of chaotic grey noise that builds throughout the all-too-brief four minutes. A paranoid ear might hear it shift from mere sitar feedback to shouting children, birds massing, or brakes squealing. While it's not a recommended soundtrack for bad trips, it is the most intense piece here.

The rest of the album is filled out with plenty of messy garage rock and the occasional change up, like the folk psych simplicity of "You & Me". While Acid Baby Jesus never quite break enough fresh ground to become my new favorite band, Selected Recordings stands up well to repeated listening and they've got a few more tricks than some of their peers in contemporary neo-psychedelia. The only change I'd make is to drop the closing instrumental, "All of Your Love". It opens with ambient reflections of detuned guitar that promise a dreamy surrealism, but it quickly resolves into a shuffle beat space-folk vamp with jaw harp boings and a quirky feel. The bait-and-switch colors my opinion, but the truth is that title never finds a home in this cartoony tune. That's a minor gripe, though.

Fresh single - Meatbodies, "Mountain"

Neo-psychedelia with a hit of a Adderall

One of the best things about punk music is that the short song format encourages a kind of focus, especially for the bass. A jazz bassist can meander along and surf the chord changes, but punk forces him to lock into the drive, ignoring all distraction. The dark throbbing insistence at the start of "Mountain" lives up to that ideal. When the drums and guitar kick in a dozen seconds later, it doesn't matter that they take us off into a neo-psychedelic groove, that bass has made it clear that this is serious shit and you'd better be buckled in. The vocals add a poppy lilt, but they float over the top without detracting from the murky grind.



Band leader Chad Ubovich has been out there working the sidelines of the garage rock scene for a while, playing with Ty Segall and Mikal Cronin among others. The Meatbodies' self-titled album is a respectable step into the spotlight for him. This track dips into thick tone of Black Sabbath and other classic acid-rockers, but sampling some of the others from the album, you can hear a great mix of trippy head music and over-driven garage rock. But that punk energy pervades the tracks and keeps them nice and taut. 

Recording review - The Electric Mess, House on Fire (2014)

Vivid performances and smoldering personality will take you back
Browsing through retro-inspired rock band offerings is like picking your favorite movie franchise reboot. Occasionally, an album strikes a nerve, but nothing can really replace dropping the needle on The Velvet Underground and Nico, sinking back into thrashy joy of The Pretenders, or sampling the cream of late '60s psychedelic pop bands from Northern California on a Rhino collection. It's hard for younger bands to slide in deeply enough to get past the simple surface characteristics, and those that come closest to the elusive feel rarely have enough personality to be memorable. The Electric Mess beats those odds and adroitly covers the musical dive while lead singer Esther Crow and her drag alter ego, Chip Fontaine, provide the personality to close the deal. Their last album, Falling Off the Face of the Earth (review), was notable because the band's clear love of primitive rock came through in beautiful fidelity . On House on Fire, they capture the raw energy of the garage more strongly than ever, with emphasis on raw. Although these tracks never devolve into muddiness, the engineering isn't quite as crisp and nuanced as Falling. But The Electric Mess makes up for it by bringing a vivid spark to their performance that puts the listener right at the edge of the stage, looking up in wonder.

I've already talked about the lead single, "Better to be Lucky Than Good", with its Lou Reed characters and story line propelled by Patti Smith proto-punk. Fontaine's smoldering voice scratches like a warm woolen blanket, selling the song with jaded nonchalance. It's a strong piece to lead off the album, but it also turns out to be fairly representative. Its big finish barely leaves time to catch your breath before they launch into the tight power pop rock of the title track. This time, Dan Crow's guitar paces restlessly within a cage of organ fills and vocals. In constant motion, Crow occasionally lets it loose enough to wail or throw itself against the bars, but when the solo comes around, it's clear that he hasn't run out of ideas as tears his way across the fretboard.

Later, on "Get Me Outta the Country", Crow's guitar slips off the leash and romps its way to Shredsville. This would be a great tune to catch live, to feel the primitive rite intensity and just hang on for the ride. But even while the lead slips out into the weeds, the rock steady drum work and anchoring bass hold it together. The Electric Mess wraps up the tune with a fade-out ending, a technique that's fallen out fashion, but this captures the loose unwinding that a live version would expand upon.

Lead singer Esther Crow spends most of House on Fire in her Chip Fontaine drag persona, with his hoarse growl and macho attitude giving the songs an earthy grounding. On "She Got Fangs", Fontaine's rough huskiness is the focal point against the moody psychedelic sway. His tale of seductive entrapment and then becoming the hunter himself is a simple enough story, but his swagger recalls Van Morrison fronting Them on "Gloria". While he hits his strongest stride on the thrashy blues sprint of "Beat Skipping Heart", my favorite Fontaine moment is the campy and theatrical spoken word section on the "Leavin' Me Hangin'", where he calls out his quarry, "Girl, I wandered the streets looking for you. Saw a couple of your friends, all tarted up. They lied and said they didn't know where you were . Girl,you ain't no Queen of Sheba and I ain't no piece of liver. But you never deliver." It's another case that calls for the live experience to see how far he'd push it.

Esther Crow takes her first real break from Fontaine on "There's Nothing You Can Do", which features keyboard player Oweinama Biu on lead vocals while she drops into a supporting role. Biu summons a good sense of desperation that fits the mood of the piece and it's a nice change to hear the two of them singing together.

House on Fire wraps up with a little bit of a bait and switch. "Every Girl Deserves a Song" initially sounds like a wild instrumental coda to the previous tune, but the minute long vamping builds to a climax only to fall into a delightful Mod pop song. Esther Crow summons her inner Cher (a la "The Beat Goes On") and brings a touch of hippy girl soul to her singing. Her laid back vocals gloss over the jarring disconnect between the frantic intro and the opiated groove, providing a warm embrace of lotus-eating bliss. Her lyrics bridge Summer of Love pop and its hidden underground scene, "Why don't you bring some Percocets / To help me cool my jets / Why don't you bring an unapproachable vamp / Just to round up the tone of my amp." Dan Crow's wah-wah guitar and Biu's ringing organ tone complement the song with their own patchouli-scented textures. Along the way, the tune also conjures the perfect psychedelic descriptor in the phrase, "Fizzy Bacchanal", which is begging to become a band name at some point. After the amphetamine immediacy of the other tracks, this gentle letdown is a sweet closing note from whatever alternate past that The Electric Mess is channeling. Rather than conflict, it recharges the listener enough to tackle "Better to be Lucky Than Good" all over again to ride that tiger one more time.

Recording review - King Tuff, Black Moon Spell (2014)

Arch humor from a garage glam creepster

Here’s the pitch: We’ll raise T. Rex’s Marc Bolan from the dead and partner him up with the Cramps, then polish the act to create the perfect bubblegum pop band for a Saturday morning kids’ cartoon series. Call it “So King Tuff!” What makes the act so irresistible is that Kyle Thomas, King Tuff’s alter ego, has found an ideal balance point between tongue in cheek irony, lo-fi garage glam, and creep-show trappings. Thickly distorted guitars and pounding drums provide a battle-axe edge to Black Moon Spell that grounds his lilting vocals and occasional forays into psychedelic excess. Or maybe it’s the other way around and arch humor and goofy lyrics keep the walls of noisy rock jams from sinking into the sludge. Either way, the combination results in an intense but fun listening experience, where the songs themselves aren’t necessarily that impressive, but they’re thoroughly entertaining. For example, “Headbanger” follows its croaking, demonic intro with tight, eighth note chunks of guitar just to set up the poppy, teenage love song lyrics, “Me and you, we got a true connection/ I knew it when I saw your record collection.” A shared love of Black Sabbath and Judas Priest is the only sign King Tuff needs to recognize his soulmate. The smooth, pop hook chorus repetition, “Bang your little head,” is propelled by a metalloid guitar riff that summons a sweet tang of cognitive dissonance. It’s simultaneously fluffy and visceral, and it’s also completely silly. With lines like,”Shaking off our clothes on the grave, where rock and roll was buried/ Making out to ‘Make Me Shout,’ in the back of a cemetery,” it’s impossible to take it seriously. Except the music is so compelling…

Of course, King Tuff doesn’t jump straight to the punch line. Black Moon Spell opens with a run of less campy tracks. First, the title tune includes a solid instrumental section that establishes his hard rock credentials. Then he tosses out a low budget, entry level rocker and some acid-soaked garage psychedelia to soften the listeners so “Headbangers” will hit all the harder. That sensibility rescues the album from pure parody; King Tuff has the discipline to tone down the wink and nod for enough of the songs so that when he drops the subtlety, the listener is primed for it. It also helps that the oddball songs don’t follow a strict formula. On the one hand, “I Love You Ugly” sounds like a T. Rex interpretation of Tuff Darts’ “(Your Love Is Like) Nuclear Waste” that bleeds off all of the bile to leave behind a residue of simple non-judgmental love and left-handed compliments. By contrast, the raw rocker “Madness” leads with a ridiculous boast, “King Tuff is my name/ I got madness in my brain/ Pleased to meet ya/ I’m gonna eat ya/ Cause I’m batshit insane,” which turns out to be his idea of a pickup line.

While the humor forms the core of Black Moon Spell‘s attraction, the camouflage tunes have their appeal as well. Probably the best track on the album is “Black Holes In Stereo”, which cleverly repurposes record album spindle holes as a pathway to transcendence. The verses are wordy, backed with a poppy, up-tempo beat, but the chorus kicks it into overdrive with a single line mission statement, “There’s a black hole on your stereo/ And all you gotta do is go, go, go…” The echoed mayhem of that last word repeats like stars slipping away from a rocket hitting warp speed.

Near the end of the album, King Tuff loses some of his focus with a couple of sun-dappled psychedelic tunes that call back to his earlier releases, but don’t quite fit here, despite being quite pleasant. He also chose to close out the record with a straight ahead retro rocker rather than going for the laugh one last time. Regardless, the essentially weird mix on the album isn’t diminished by either of these decisions. If this were a cartoon, I’d be tuning in just to see where King Tuff would go next.

(This review first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Fresh single - The Electric Mess, Better to be Lucky Than Good

Hi-fidelity thrash

There's retro and then there's living  in the past. On first listen, The Electric Mess' old school roots are obvious: Velvet Underground, Radio Birdman, Patty Smith, and early Pretenders. But where most bands just settle for low-fi derivation and the occasional homage to lost gods, The Electric Mess are vibrant throwbacks to back when the raw energy of those bands was fresh. It's like the difference between sepia toned photos or saturated Polaroids and a crisp digital photo; when we think of the past, we confuse our perspective with how it really was. So, it's easy to think that the world was more monochrome 75 years ago, because we're used to black and white pictures. But life was just a colorful then. A chunk of the fascination with low-fi, muddy sound is that those old records were over-saturated and never captured the crisp edge.

Two years ago, I locked onto Falling Off the Face of the Earth by The Electric Mess, in part for the clean fidelity they brought to garage rock. It's been a long wait, but this year, they've followed up with a new album, House on Fire. I haven't heard it yet, but the first taste is definitely more-ish.



Their latest video (written and directed by bass player Derek Davidson) is Warhol-esque mini-film with broad stroke characters, graphic novel jump cuts, and stylized violence. As a film, it's entertaining, although I would have liked an instrumental intro behind the first fifty-odd seconds of scene setting. Once the first thrashy chords slap your face, though, the frantic energy kicks in like shot of adrenaline. Lead singer Chip Fontaine/Esther Crow summons Patti Smith's hoarse sneer, but the lyrics could easily be a lost Lou Reed classic.

Bands constantly reinvent themselves or get caught up in new shiny sounds, so it's refreshing to hear The Electric Mess digging deeper into their core strengths. Craig Rogers' rapid-fire drum work is still solid and his fills slip into overdrive for the chorus bumps. The bass is just as relentless as it slips between throbbing root notes and snaking melodic riff. Both instruments stand out clearly, without being eclipsed by Dan Crow's speedball lead guitar. His ragged tone matches Crow's rough singing like a jab paired with an uppercut. The clarity of the mix is key. Instead of a cheap sonic Instagram filter providing the illusion of rawness, it's easy to abandon your ears to the driving energy of the music.

What do they say, "The first taste is free?" Well, I'm hooked and now I've got to hear the rest of  House on Fire.

Recording review - Sleepy Sun, Maui Tears (2014)

Concept album? Only beguiling distortion and balanced jams

Too many neo-psychedelic bands mistake freeform anarchy for true psychedelia, thinking that a confused and disoriented listener is functionally equivalent to one who’s been transported. Others assume that they can alchemically transform formulaic progressions into gold if they wrap them in enough distortion and echo. On Maui Tears, Sleepy Sun rises above their lesser peers, delivering a phenomenal album that invites hours of quality replay time. Pick your favorite headphones or, better yet, let it shine out through a good set of mains and share it with your neighbors. The songs are built upon interesting structures, offering plenty of depth to support open-ended jams that never become untethered or trapped in their own bubble. The band has also honed their dynamic sense over the last couple of years to accommodate cathartic growls and ringing highs, but also open spaces with nuanced details. The individual songs offer plenty of opportunities for sonic indulgence, but the pacing and variety across the tracks make this a wonderful collection. The musical feel is consistent even if the tunes vary quite a bit, which uncovers another wise decision—Sleepy Sun also avoids a third trap common to the genre: relying on a simple unifying theme. Concept albums are cool, but the risk of cliché or pomposity is daunting.

The album opens with “The Lane”, a tune that the band has had in their live set for a while now. Jangling guitars channel exultant sunshine and show off the core of Sleepy Sun’s sound. Matt Holliman and Evan Reiss harmonize their two guitars, blending melodic lines into a shifting current of warm fuzz and overdriven tubes. The two parts lock into formation and then split apart before finding common ground again. Underneath, the bass takes on a skeletal hint of rhythm guitar to round out the aural spectrum. The Velvet Underground influence is there in the droning undertones, but Sleepy Sun favors a sweeter balance. The echoing juxtaposition of competing parts is filtered through a distorted shimmer and then stuffed into a thoroughly saturated mix. Frontman Bret Constantino’s vocals contribute to the VU comparison, sunk deep within the mix and draped with slapback echo like Nico’s parts. Distant and buried, it can be hard to wrench the lyrics free, but when they come through, the imagery is heady. On the thoughtful bridge, Constantino sings, “In a pool of roses, we could swim/ It’s only a grand illusion of our earthly whim, a glimpse.” Glimpses are enough to beguile.

The second track demonstrates the power of contrasts. After “The Lane” crashes down, “Words” rises immediately. This time, the twin guitars are clean and acoustic, each one fingerpicking its own chord voicings to build the gentle interlocked structure. The stereo separation splits the two, making it easy to distinguish them. A slab of electric guitar surfs in with the vocal, crackling with buzzing overtones, but, despite the crunch, the acoustics are still clear and strong. The combination leaves the song open for interpretations: a delicate surface can’t quite hide the grind of doubt and conflict. Or maybe the structure is what keeps the negativity in check. Either way, the complexity offers enough distortion to connect to the earlier track but this song finds its own direction.

Part of the album’s appeal also lies in the band’s development. This slacker psychedelia phase has bloomed since singer Rachel Fannan left the band in 2010. Fannan contributed a folk-rock flavor and her voice could be haunted or playfully innocent. Losing her forced Constantino’s personality to the surface: a raw need for a grand gesture, swaddled in oblivion-seeking waves of sound. Where 2012’s Spine Hits (review) set the foundation for the band’s evolution, Maui Tears solidifies the aesthetic while expanding their palette and control. Songs like “11:32” may start with a chaotic snarl of feedback, full of thunder and whine, but they harness that energy with a solid, mid-tempo drumbeat that powers a guitar riff that’s as unswerving as a fixated three-year-old. The verses punch like Jack White sitting in with a no-name garage-psych outfit. The music swirls before dipping into the mellow bridge, redolent with melting whammy bar detune. The spacy interlude celebrates a moment of hang time before falling back into the drive. It’s a tribute to the band’s collective vision that they can pull off these shifts without losing coherence or momentum.

The album closes with a climactic opus. The title track runs well over 10 minutes and channels Pink Floyd’s “Careful with That Axe, Eugene” along with fragments of early King Crimson, Led Zeppelin and Porcupine Tree. From the simple bass line at the start, accompanied by light stickwork rhythm, to the acid-burned guitar jam in the middle, it’s a long, meandering trek along the fringes of a questionable head-trip that culminates in a tribal rite finish, mediated by hallucinogens. Complete with flute solo. It’s the perfect bit of excess to wrap up the album and inspire yet another round with the demons.

(This review first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Recording review - Bass Drum of Death, Bass Drum of Death (2013)

Originality from the heart of the garage

Bass Drum of Death makes its home deep in the heart of the garage. Listening to their self-titled second album, it’s easy to pick up a contact buzz of gasoline huffing and carbon monoxide, exacerbated by a case of tinnitus as workbenches rattle in sympathy with guitar feedback. Blown out speakers and concrete-echo vocals are lovingly captured with the lowest of fidelity. The band started out as a solo project for John Barrett, although drummer Len Clark came on board for the first album, GB City (2011). While they have mastered the simple, shouted vocal line, a relentless, jittery pace, and walls of blunted distortion, two things distinguish them from their retro, noise-loving peers. The first is their technical competence: starts and endings are cleanly executed, the snare work is impeccable and, despite the heavily compressed sound, they fit in some decent dynamic shifts. The second difference is that while they may use punk-infused garage rock as their jumping-off point, they’re willing to play with the style, branching out to color it with thrash pop, grunge and new wave.

Even when they start with a traditional foundation, like on “I Wanna Be Forgotten” and “Such a Bore”, they find interesting directions. “Such a Bore” is built around the tag from the classic, “Gloria”, but Bass Drum of Death binds the classic riff to a new melody. The tempo modulates throughout the tune, starting with the steady drive of the main section, then picking up speed during a meltdown lead before dragging back for a brief breakdown and then resetting. The genre is rife with sloppy bands that can’t keep time, but in this case, the precise coordination between the instruments demonstrates the band’s intention.

The most interesting tracks go further afield, finding unexpected influences. I particularly enjoy “Shattered Me”, which sounds like a muffled version of Team Spirit. They capture the same flavor of optimistic, retro thrash-pop, and the twinned guitar lead is spot-on. The lyrics are a bit tricky to discern, but offer some nice phrases, “You and me/ Perplexed and out of sleep/ I’m vexed and move into my own.” Another standout was “No Demons”, which borrows a taste of Nirvana grunge, twisting “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in on itself to create a disaffected jam, shot through with drained anxiety.

Bass Drum of Death is a progression from the band’s debut, adding bass guitar into the mix, but the name continues to be a bit of a bait-and-switch. Most of these songs could still use more bottom end; tom and snares dominate the drum parts. The exception is “Way Out”, which is the strongest track on the album. Despite matching the compression level of the rest of the album, the kick drum and bass guitar finally stand out, grounding the tune. It’s a relatively sophisticated piece, with separate sections that sound like lo-fi indie rock rather than simple garage rock. The heavy opening beat sets up a see-saw guitar riff which drops into a grinding rhythm. The vocals have a punk sneer, but off-kilter guitar fills add a thin layer of disorientation. The resulting blend offers some nice surprising turns.

The success of bands like Thee Oh Sees and Ty Segall has led to an inundation of follow-on acts. Bass Drum of Death’s originality is promising. Their biggest limitation is the ridiculous level of compression which mutes their energy. They shouldn't abandon the lo-fi, noisy elements of their sound, but a little more headroom would make their bass drum more lethal and give the songs more punch.

(This review first appeared on Spectrum Culture)

Concert review: Peace with Team Spirit and Twin Peaks

3 June 2013 (Larimer Lounge, Denver CO)
After meeting the guys from Team Spirit at South By Southwest (read the interview) and catching two of their sets, I was excited to see them again. I wasn't familiar with Peace before the show, but I listened to a couple of songs online and liked the polished post-punk sound.

My only regret for the show was that the crowd was awfully sparse. They made up for it with enthusiasm, especially a couple of guys that drove up from Texas.

Twin Peaks

The first thing to keep straight is that there are at least two bands out there called Twin Peaks. The heavy pop version hails from Chicago. This show featured Denver's indie-rocking four-piece. They were a good fit for this show. Their embrace of noisy, classic rock drive and close-formation guitar riffs warmed up our ears for Team Spirit's twin guitar attack, while the heady new wave jams occasionally drifted towards an art rock feel, foreshadowing Peace's set.

While quite good, their studio work doesn't begin to represent their live sound. On stage, the cathartic clash of guitars dominates the mix, showing some fairly heavy influences. Additionally, their drummer gets a freer range to explore some inspired syncopation. I was impressed with how fluidly they surfed between hard-hitting classic rock and trippier, layered wanderings.

Front man Addison Friesen conveys intensity and focus during the songs and a looser self-deprecation between songs. Actually, the whole band came across as fairly earnest without any affected naïveté.As the final song built to a peak, the whole band radiated a simple happiness. The band's stage presence was relatively static until the big ending; then, Friesen flopped onto his back in front of the drum kit, still wringing waves of noise from his guitar.

Team Spirit

Team Spirit's EP and associated videos offer a good sense of the band's irreverent attitude and musical mindset, but can't quite encompass the wild exuberance of their live show. In constant motion, front man Ayad Al Adhamy would fall back from the mike, then hunch forward over his guitar. All of his movements were played large, as if he was on a grander stage. Every time I've seen the band, Al Adhamy has found one big gesture to serve as a climax, like crowd-surfing as while singing. At this show, he kicked some beers out of the way and came out into the audience as one lucky fan played human mic-stand.

The other three guys may have shown a little more restraint, but they were hardly wallflowers. Bass player Toby Pettigrew held to a Zen calm when he was just playing, but he confronted the mic during his backing vocals. Tightly coiled, he pounded out a staccato punch of notes. Guitarist Cosmo DiGuilio's casual confidence reminded me of Johnny Ramone as he swapped between ringing guitar riffs and a rapid-fire downstroke rhythm.

Team Spirit's songs are best described as pop-infused garage rock, played with an emphasis on classic rock era twinned guitars. Playing live, they amped up the songs with punk bravado and barely constrained thrash. They kept the crowd on edge as they whipsawed from rhythm shred to perfectly aligned guitar passages. Mike Addesso's drumming pushed the extremes, supporting the changes with his own shifts between flashy cymbal/tom work and syncopated phrasing that echoed the guitars.

Team Spirit continues to be one of my favorite bands to see live. I'm looking forward to watching the band grow into their potential, with longer set lists and bigger crowds to inspire them. The band is already working on extending their set list. They pulled out a couple of new tunes and talked about their recent recording sessions.

Peace

Birmingham band Peace has already garnered a ridiculous level of hype from the British press, with The Guardian suggesting that they're the future of Indie and gushing write-ups from NME. Trend-spotting press here, like Filter, have also climbed on board. The band's debut release, In Love, satisfied expectation without triggering a backlash, so they're on track to tackle the rest of the world with a club-level tour of the U.S.

As I mentioned, I had listened to a couple tracks before the show. "Wraith" reminded me a bit of the Arctic Monkeys' danceable indie rock with a funkier guitar riff. "1998", their cover of Binary Finary's trance classic, reinvented the robotic beat as a Pink Floyd space jam. The divide between these two songs suggested a diverse set. Peace delivered on that promise, with bandleader Harry Koisser giving many of the songs a psychedelic edge, his stereo guitar mix mutated with heady echoes and other effects. In contrast, the band's rhythm section anchored most the songs with a steady, driving beat.

Peace had a chameleon-like sound, appropriating bits of U2, the Cure, as well as The Stone Roses and a host of other retro Britpop bands. The set list meshed well, but kept the audience engaged with a shifting palette of styles. Their live version of "1998" emphasized the Pink Floyd "Careful With That Axe, Eugene" bassline and the processed sound of Koisser's guitar took on a keyboard role. Drummer Dominic Boyce was phenomenal, taking the beat into jazz experimentation with prog-style bombast. Rattling echoes, guitar ululation, and the enveloping throb of bass made this a peak moment in the show. The rumbling bass set up the transition to the next track, "Toxic", which had an early Radiohead sound.

After the thrashing playfulness of Team Spirit, Peace's stage presence did seem a bit mild mannered, but both bands found noisy islands of catharsis that made the Larimer Lounge feel like a full concert hall.

More photos on my Flickr.

Recording review - The Men, Open Your Heart (2012)

Garage punk rockers with a predilection for psychedelia

I first heard The Men when they released their Record Store Day single, A Minor (review). That track serves as a good intro to what this band does well. Over the course of eight minutes it builds an extended hypnotic trip that culminates in a harder edged heavy metal grind. That balance of soft and hard is the core of the band's musical approach.

Open Your Heart offers a cathartic session of low-fi garage rockers bordering on punk, stirred together with therapeutic waves of layered psychedelia. The playlist encourages a kind of clench-release, starting with the driving retro rock of Turn It Around. The thrashy energy and frantic pace hits like the Kinks on speed. The solo kicks off with a guitar tone stolen from the Guess Who. The song's second solo sets up an instrumental breakdown whose tom punches set up the heavier punk slap of the second track, Animal.

After the manic energy of these two tracks, The Men break their pace to explore their trippy side. The contrast between the opening tracks and Country Song is staggering. It's not just the tempo change, it's an aesthetic shift that creates a huge feeling of release. Country Song sounds like More era Pink Floyd jamming with Jerry Garcia. Like an outtake from the soundtrack to Zabriskie Point, sun glared steel guitar filtered through heat shimmers of tremolo fill out this desert bleached psychedelic jam. Repetitive and slow, it folds in layers of lethargic haze. The Men use a trick from A Minor and fade out into a new song to extend the track. This tacked-on segment is a minimalist whirling chord instead of A Minor's acid rock jam, but it's still interesting. The simple wash subsides into the looping meditation of Oscillation.

Open Your Heart then resets into higher energy music with Please Don't Go Away. This time around, they branch out into some interesting variations. Later, the title track channels the raw emotion and desperate need of Paul Westerberg and the Replacements. The guitar thrash and fill heavy drum work are insistent. The Men revisit that sound a couple of songs later on Cube. This time more of the raw punk flail and heavier guitar lead shine through the track.

The rhythm and flow of Open Your Heart create a contrasting consistency that intensifies the cathartic feel of the music. Like a sharp inhale paired with an extended exhale, there's a natural balance.

As an aside, A Minor is available as a bonus track if you buy Open Your Heart on iTunes.

Recording review - The Electric Mess, Falling Off The Face Of The Earth (2012)

Distorted and fuzzy, but never low-fi - garage psyche perfected

Many bands aspire to the retro haze of garage psychedelia, filling their tracks with a messy wall of guitar fuzz and driving beats. Emphasizing the garage side, they revel in the sloppy catharsis of low-fi sound.

But The Electric Mess achieve a perfected form of the genre. Lovingly engineered, Falling Off the Face of the Earth proves that garage psych credibility doesn't require low-fi sonic fuzzballs. Instead, the recording reveals every detail from Esther Crow's hoarse rasp and its tasty reverb placement to the hyper throb of Derek Davidson's twisting bass lines. The leads are smooth and balanced as they trade between the richly overdriven guitars, with their perfect vintage tone, and the trippy organ as it braids a heady chain of wheezing notes.

Esther Crow occasionally offers a sweet female vocal, but usually fronts the band with her drag alter ego, Chip Fontaine. With a cocky swagger, Fontaine's gruff voice alternates between sly innuendo, macho posing, and flirtatious teasing. Fontaine's persona reaches its peak on Nice Guys Finish Last, as he outlines his plan to turn into a cad to get the girl. Rough and ready, his attitude sells the songs.

The clarity of the mix doesn't tame the edge of The Electric Mess' sound. They draw on a host of classic influences: Soft Machine, the early Doors work, ? and the Mysterians, the 13th Floor elevators, and Velvet Underground all come to mind at various points on Falling Off the Face of the Earth. On I Didn't Miss You At All, Oweinma Biu's lead vocal sounds like Roky Erickson. The vocal arrangement pits his voice against Crow's and together, they create a whipsaw energy. The beat is steady as the guitars lay down an acid shred groove. The anarchy of Dan Crow's guitar solo is supported by Davidson's hard rocking, melodic bass.

On Tell Me Why, the tweedly organ line recalls ? and the Mysterians, but the beat is hyper intense. The Electric Mess creates a headlong rush punctuated by great slow-down moments that open up the song for a brief break before the breakneck pace is reasserted. Biu's keyboard solo drifts further out into space, dragging the rest of the band along. Fontaine channels his inner Elvis near the end of the track before the song's inevitable meltdown. This is three minutes of garage psyche perfection.

True to the genre's psychedelic roots, "The Girl With The Exploding Dress" is filled with trippy lyrics:

You've probably seen her before
On your favorite dancing floor
I won't mind if you take her hand
Just try to understand
She's got x-rays in her eyes
She's blinded lots of guys
If I were you I'd keep my glasses on

Craig Rogers' drumming is densely packed with fills as he propels the track forward. It's the kind of over-the-top playing that can only work when the whole band falls tightly together to hold the groove together. The Electric Mess makes it sound trivially easy.

CD review - Royal Baths, Better Luck Next Life (2012)

Dark children of Velvet Underground offer lo-fi deathrock psychedelia

Better Luck Next Life is a soundtrack to a wicked rite, summoning spirits to stalk among us. In particular, the spirits of Lou Reed, John Cale, and the rest of Velvet Underground. Royal Baths' detuned, distorted sound is haunted by Lou Reed style vocals, a touch of Reed's droning guitar, and chaotic abandon.

This is no tribute band, though. Royal Baths may push their garage rock psychedelia into V.U. head space, but they always hold back from the Velvet Underground's total sonic surrender. This gives their songs a deeper self awareness and intent.

On Burned, they sound like throbbing, percolating darkness. The track starts with a sound somewhere between Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd and acid etched rock. During the bridge, the guitar vibrates like a fork in the fan blades, recalling European Son. At the same time, the singing balances two voices filled with detachment. As the relentless Bo Diddley beat spasms like a restless leg, the strange ecstatic rite builds. I love the intensity of the sound, as the guitars clash and flail.

Most of the tracks have a sonic immediacy, like Royal Baths is playing right in the room. This fits well with the retro feel of the album.

Better Luck Next Life works hard to maintain its very dark vibe, occasionally even veering towards creepy. Where Velvet Underground flaunted their drug and S&M to shock listeners, Royal Baths is more direct, sometimes raising a kind of sociopathic evil in their transgressive lyrics. Even when the sound suggests a trippy ecstasy, the lyrics skew towards more sinister subjects.

Take Black Sheep: the song starts somewhere between Bauhaus and the music from Dr. Who before establishing a trippy, psychedelic verse. The vocals ping pong, splitting the lines:

I grew up rather well off -- raising hell
I gave up faking gratitude -- can't you tell?
My good friends seem to bore me -- don't ask me why
One by one, my lovers leave me --I never cry

The lyrics quickly grow more malevolent. But Royal Baths take it further. Eventually Black Sheep, along with a few other songs, push the deathrock themes too earnestly, drifting towards parody:

Bloody landscapes are my daydreams -- bodies fall
If I could touch the hem of Satan -- I would crawl

Despite loving the music, I think Royal Baths is trying too hard to shock, to the detriment of their songs.

Still, there are plenty of evocative tracks like Harder, Faster. The languid, swaying beat and the underwater Doors groove create a moody, late night feel. The repetitive bass line throbs like insomnia while the slide guitar sounds like the foggy swirl of voices in your head. The sexual focus of the lyrics matches the hypnotic haze of the music.

Royal Baths may be soaked in darkness and tension, but the jangle of guitars offer a cathartic release, as well.

October singles

It's time again to collect some music that caught my ear this month. Check out some funk, a couple of very different lo-fi retro songs, and some synth pop flavored rock. Pick your poison.

Greedy Cherry - No Excuse (from EP)

Bass player Michael Conrad recorded his EP under the band name Greedy Cherry. After graduating from the Berklee College of Music, he assembled a talented crew of musicians matched to each track of the project. Conrad took an experimental approach on the EP, jumping from style to style. The flow, especially on the first three tracks, is surprisingly coherent.

Lead off track No excuse was my favorite song from EP. The solid funk groove opens with a Temptations style bass line, but once it gets underway, it incorporates tasty guitar work and beautiful organ lines.

Funk often plays with a tight rhythm by slipping a little behind the beat, then catching up to create a kind of hang moment. Greedy Cherry extends this into a suspended hold. Check out the dub drop at 0:19. Everybody drops out except the keys for a full measure. As the organ holds a chord, the next 4 seconds float long enough to sound like a track glitch before slipping back in. It's all in the timing.


Bare Wires - Back on the Road (from Cheap Perfume)

I can't click through my inbox without tripping over yet another band strutting out their lo-fi, garage tone trying capture some retro cred. All too often, the band is just a muddy mess or, worse, they're somehow pretentiously sloppy. Yes, garage rock is lo-fi, reverbed, and twangy, but the real thing bottles lightning and can raise the hair on the back of your neck.

Oakland's Bare Wires understand this in their DNA. Not only do they hit that sweet fuzzy sonic spot, they get that live, all-at-once energy. Where their competition can sound right if the playback volume is high enough, Bare Wires sounds righteous at any volume.

Back on the Road starts out like the Animals with a dash of Who. The high tension beat and formal rhythm guitar evoke Roky Erickson - not when he's battling his demons, but when he's exultant. The hardest thing about listening is not picking up my guitar to play along.

Bare Wires just dropped their latest album, Cheap Perfume, on October 18 (Southpaw Records).

Mark Sultan - In Future Worlds (from the double release, Whatever/Whenever I Want)



Before you even watch the video, you owe it to yourself to read Mark Sultan's rant declaring war on rock 'n' roll. It's as heartfelt as any classic SubGenius rant, begging us to kill rock'n'roll to save it. This is how Sultan pulled me into his sphere. Reading about him, I figure he's some kind of snake-oil selling genius, but he's wormed his way into my brain.

In Future Worlds bridges garage psychedelia and doo-wop. Unlike Bare Wires, Sultan's version of the garage is anything but effortless. But the quirkiness is still compelling. The lyrics play with abstract imagery, and Sultan's voice shifts between intoned verses and the Del Shannon style chorus. Like the song itself, the video romps in joyful excess.

Continuing the complexity, Sultan has released two vinyl albums, What ever I Want and Whenever I Want, along with a compilation CD, Whatever/Whenever that pulls 7 tracks from each album.

The Gift - RGB (from Explode)

The Gift is a four piece band out of Portugal. They've made their mark back home, but now they're ready to grab some attention here in the States. Their latest album, Explode, released here last month and they had a quick cross country tour before heading down to Brazil.

RGB shows off their lush synth pop infused sound. The synthesizer riff and washes set the hook, but a solid rock beat kicks in to shift the feel from electronica to pop. The interlocking guitar lines and heavy drum work mesh smoothly with the synth underpinnings. Sónia Tavares' voice is strong, deep, and fluid.

Grab the free download and enjoy the Gift's polished sound.

CD review - Brian TV/Cold Coffee (2011)

A brain divided offers interesting musical perspectives

I covered Das Black Milk's Talk to Your Body last year, which featured an odd mix of post punk and lo-fi psychedelic sounds. Now two of the members have released a "split cassette" together with their respective side projects. Brian Emmert's Brian TV and Nathaniel Kane's Cold Coffee fit together like the two separated hemispheres of a brain. To some extent, they showcase their respective contributions to Das Black Milk's sound.

After listening to both of these EP length parts, it motivated me to pull out Talk to Your Body again, first for the context and then just for enjoyment.

The two projects are available on BandCamp (Brian TV/Cold Coffee)

Brian TV

Brian TV represents the right hemisphere of the project's musical brain. As such, it evokes a strong right brain response. On Automatic, the first track, I was instantly happy the moment the laid back beat kicked in. It spoke to some kind of subconscious escapist within me.

Automatic's groovy psychedelia sets up a carefree, lazy feel. The lyrics are simplistic a la Syd Barrett, but Brian TV is more musically structured. A chiming interlude rings in between the verses, emphasizing the heady vibe. This wasn't quite as produced as Tired Eyes from Das Black Milk, but it had a kind of simple purity.

This shows off Brian TV's musical approach, following an early psychedelic model. Emmert uses a pop foundation and then subverts it. Jiggly organ parts are paired with distorted guitars in a noisier version of Das Black Milk's typical sound.

Shifting mood, the next track shifts the mood. Chaingang Boogie has a stark arrangement of toms, bass, and a meandering organ line supporting a heavily reverbed vocal. It's not quite a Devo-style deconstruction, but it's close.

Back to psychedelia, Beverly Hills starts out as an uptempo garage psych rocker, but the breakdown bridge aspires to Pink Floyd trippiness -- check out the floaty organ and spacy lead. Then the beat reasserts itself into garage rock. The remaining tracks work the garage sound to perfection.

The beauty of garage psychedelia is that it's less polished than its rarified kin, allowing a deeper emotional response to the flow. Brian TV captures this beautifully.

Cold Coffee

In contrast, Cold Coffee appeals more to the left brain. The sounds are interesting and the tunes work at being artfully quirky. Kane's group emphasizes the other, new wave side of Das Black Milk's sound. It's like a lo-fi version of XTC crossed with Pere Ubu style experimentalism.

Opening track, Consolation Faces has some of XTC's early pop-oriented bounce with a twist, albeit with a mushier sound. The odd, angular melodic line in the chorus is a shout for attention, which is typical of Cold Coffee's songs.

Old Blood pushes the sound the furthest. A jerky beat, quirky singing, and chromatic lead noodling come together in something like Zappa's early Lumpy Gravy experiments or David Thomas' more outside work with Pere Ubu. This is anything but casual listening music, but the musical shifts are challenging and interesting.

Cold Coffee won't be everyone's cup of sushi, but it serves as shot of ginger to counter Brian TV's visceral trippiness. Follow the BandCamp links above and check out the music.

CD review - Xray Eyeballs, Not Nothing (2011)

Xray Eyeballs are so garage that you can hear the lawnmower and gas can in the corner adding their own sympathetic vibrations. Their sludgy mix is thick with guitar fuzz and subway wall vocal echoes. Like Thee Oh Sees, Xray Eyeballs pound their way through low-fi garage rock. The standout difference is that they have an affinity for early '80s post punk riffs.

Front man O. J. San Felipe assembled the band out of fellow Golden Triangle bandmates, Carly Rabalais and Jay High, along with Rop Style and Allison Press. San Felipe has worked overtime on promotion, saturating the band's Brooklyn home with "Ghost Girl" design t-shirts and hyping a sexy/disturbing video for Not Nothing's lead off tune, Crystal.

Crystal starts out with a post punk groove that shoots straight to garage as soon as the guitar comes in, heavily tremoloed and echoed. The voodoo torture story line for the song (moral: don't snag any choice vinyl out of someone's hands at the record store) evokes the Cramps, although the underlying music is bouncier. In fact, despite the static infused sound, Xray Eyeballs sound fairly tight.

Things get more interesting on the second track, Nightwalkers, which leads off with a low-fi jangle steal of the main riff from Modern English's I Melt With You. Then, the guitar line from Egyptian Magician hits a similar 1982 vibe, albeit drenched in distortion. These post punk touches give the band the bulk of their character to stand out from other garage rock thrashers.

The singing is marginally clearer than fellow garage noisers like Thee Oh Sees, but the muddy, distant vocals is Not Nothing's weakest element. They're buried down too far in the mix, sometimes contributing little more than sneer. It's best to brush them away and focus on the pop beats, post punk riffs, and noisy guitar.