For the past three weeks I've been afloat. Beguiled by a certain piece of music that cannot be ignored. It's hard to imagine, the pains of creating a piece of music that pulses with soul, enchantment and life without coming off as too indulgant. I don't sense those stresses in The Acorn's first full length album "Glory Hope Mountain". Rather, I envision the band members with closed, searching eyes and a slight grin as they let their music search them out and flow through their fingers in sweet, earthy acoustic rhythms. This Canadian indie folk group has perhaps succeeded in this album so overwhelmingly simply because they were in love with the concept and search for their subject's story. A focus that's hard to achieve, but can most definitely be found with inner peace and acceptance. Glory Hope Mountain is a concept album, telling the story of band member Rolf Klausener's Honduras-born mother, Gloria Esperanza Montoya (the title being a rough translation of her name).
The arrangements aren't needlessly complicated. Each track is constructed from the ground up with honeyed strings and exotic percussion, the real treat being Rolf Klausener's gentle and hopelessly magnetic narrative. If you're not on your toes at times, you'll find your mind wandering freely into a euphoric spell. As the album progresses we're offered some real surprises that plant beautiful little seeds in your subconscious. Slight electronic lines and melodies throughout, layered and delivered in such a way that suggests we're being welcomed into a nostalgic hope chest of Rolf's. Little compositions helping to convey that nameless feeling which encouraged this collection of music in the first place.
Find this album where you can and listen to it when nothing is to interrupt you and background noise is minimal. Nothing is to be taken from the first journey through, it's an experience that if appreciated with eyes closed and your mind at ease, you will feel the air beneath your feet.
4/12/09
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - American X
The boys in black leather return once more. With them they bring a small collection of songs that didn't make the final cut of their latest release, Baby 81 which was their most accessible album to date. What does a return to form mean for them? Non-conformity. While Baby 81 was a very good dose of rock and roll at its sharpest, it didn't showcase the best of their abilities, but merely hinted at them. Their post-apocalyptic doom laden guitar static was sacrificed for innovative bluesy hooks and their writing took a more tongue-in-cheek play-on-word approach with songs like Took Out A Loan and Lien on Your Dreams. They're all very good, especially live, but it all leaves you somewhat unfulfilled near the end, longing for something more organic and oh so much more deadly.
Well low and behold, the boys haven't lost their rebel spirit, they've just kept it on the downlow. Right from the beginning we're introduced to an earth shattering drum groove similar to something you'd hear on a chaotic dancefloor and definitely offbase with anything they've put out before. The song consists of just three solid lines; "I ain't ever seen the likes of you before, I'll be your ever-loving cure," and "You're my ever-loving cure." The sole purpose is to inspire you to move, find that lover of yours. Make good on the guitar's sludgy groove and grind together; heal one another. It's the end-all of love songs and it doesn't need an insurmountable amount of verses to convey that. Just a notion.
Coming off that high we're placed in a subtle soundscape, one which would seem impossible to find on a driven album like Baby 81. But it's familiar and trusted territory when considering their first two albums. Vision, 20 Hours and Last Chance for Love (the latter being a contemplative instrumental that brings the album to a close) are all songs that brings back their atmospheric tendencies and it's good to hear, you can almost sense their sigh of relief and tension easing up as they let their instruments elude sonic restraints and speak to us in wonderful foreign tongues while Robert frees us from our own minds with this unplugged lyrical ability.
"This life is pure fiction, no more reality! Your body's your affliction, your soul cannot release!" he bellows with a wild conviction I've never heard Robert touch upon in any previous song. The Show Is About To Begin is one of two centerpieces on this collection. An iron clad titan thundering into the arena with guitar riffage I'd have to say wouldn't be possible without Josh Hommes' contribution to the genre of rock and roll. Pure sonic doom colored blood red. As NME put it, "It's music to slaughter Highway 69 hitchhikers to." It's a damn shame this piece wasn't included on the initial release of Baby 81, it might have given songs such as 666 Conducer some much needed company and catapulted the album into the position of greatness it deserved. Oh well.
Along with this heavyweight comes another song I'm wild about. Whenever You're Ready. Starting with a murky gutter wading guitar line and the repeated mantra "I'm ready for you, all ready for you. Come and get me darlin', you know I'm gonna getcha darlin'" it marches along with a military drum beat that's like a punch in the neck of inaction. With this comes Peter Hayes, overt fan of the beat poetry movement of the 50's and 60's, opening up to us with a piece of spoken word that plays like an ode to determination and patience and god damn it's exciting to hear such creativity and innovation flow so freely in music like this. "Although he had no "need" he had great want and could not. His mouth frozen from grief, he saw his breath climb out eager to carry on without him. He knew he'd have to wait and he knew what for." His words so plainly spoken evoke images of a journeyman climbing a sun burnt mountain of impossible scale, ever reaching for this love, ideal; something to transcend his existence, one step closer to completion. And yet, it slips his grasp. Another day. He'll be ready.
As the song draws to a whisper, it's plain to hear that these guys have a vision to offer and want nothing more than for us to share it. I'd say they were partially immersed into the wrong generation, yet another part of me likes to think they're saving us from the mediocrity we've been cursed with in today's music conglomerate. They're on a journey of realization like everybody else in this world and I encourage them to expand their vision outward, as far as it can possibly reach because they've generated quite the fanbase to hold it upward in ways the business absolutely cannot and will not.
Well low and behold, the boys haven't lost their rebel spirit, they've just kept it on the downlow. Right from the beginning we're introduced to an earth shattering drum groove similar to something you'd hear on a chaotic dancefloor and definitely offbase with anything they've put out before. The song consists of just three solid lines; "I ain't ever seen the likes of you before, I'll be your ever-loving cure," and "You're my ever-loving cure." The sole purpose is to inspire you to move, find that lover of yours. Make good on the guitar's sludgy groove and grind together; heal one another. It's the end-all of love songs and it doesn't need an insurmountable amount of verses to convey that. Just a notion.
Coming off that high we're placed in a subtle soundscape, one which would seem impossible to find on a driven album like Baby 81. But it's familiar and trusted territory when considering their first two albums. Vision, 20 Hours and Last Chance for Love (the latter being a contemplative instrumental that brings the album to a close) are all songs that brings back their atmospheric tendencies and it's good to hear, you can almost sense their sigh of relief and tension easing up as they let their instruments elude sonic restraints and speak to us in wonderful foreign tongues while Robert frees us from our own minds with this unplugged lyrical ability.
"This life is pure fiction, no more reality! Your body's your affliction, your soul cannot release!" he bellows with a wild conviction I've never heard Robert touch upon in any previous song. The Show Is About To Begin is one of two centerpieces on this collection. An iron clad titan thundering into the arena with guitar riffage I'd have to say wouldn't be possible without Josh Hommes' contribution to the genre of rock and roll. Pure sonic doom colored blood red. As NME put it, "It's music to slaughter Highway 69 hitchhikers to." It's a damn shame this piece wasn't included on the initial release of Baby 81, it might have given songs such as 666 Conducer some much needed company and catapulted the album into the position of greatness it deserved. Oh well.
Along with this heavyweight comes another song I'm wild about. Whenever You're Ready. Starting with a murky gutter wading guitar line and the repeated mantra "I'm ready for you, all ready for you. Come and get me darlin', you know I'm gonna getcha darlin'" it marches along with a military drum beat that's like a punch in the neck of inaction. With this comes Peter Hayes, overt fan of the beat poetry movement of the 50's and 60's, opening up to us with a piece of spoken word that plays like an ode to determination and patience and god damn it's exciting to hear such creativity and innovation flow so freely in music like this. "Although he had no "need" he had great want and could not. His mouth frozen from grief, he saw his breath climb out eager to carry on without him. He knew he'd have to wait and he knew what for." His words so plainly spoken evoke images of a journeyman climbing a sun burnt mountain of impossible scale, ever reaching for this love, ideal; something to transcend his existence, one step closer to completion. And yet, it slips his grasp. Another day. He'll be ready.
As the song draws to a whisper, it's plain to hear that these guys have a vision to offer and want nothing more than for us to share it. I'd say they were partially immersed into the wrong generation, yet another part of me likes to think they're saving us from the mediocrity we've been cursed with in today's music conglomerate. They're on a journey of realization like everybody else in this world and I encourage them to expand their vision outward, as far as it can possibly reach because they've generated quite the fanbase to hold it upward in ways the business absolutely cannot and will not.
Musical Discoveries
Dead Moon - In The Graveyard: now THIS is garage. Just good grunge-laced garage rock and roll, very raw and imperfect, sentimental and balls nailed to the floor all at once. This is the stuff dangerous summer nights and memorable makeout sessions were made of in the late eighties, early nineties years of the northwest.
I was turned onto these fellas by Andrew Loomis on the night of the Green River reunion show. He's the ex-drummer whom was kicked out two years beforehand. hahah ah well. So I kept my eyes open and low and behold, their album came into work today. I like!
Morphine: Bootleg Detroit at St. Andrew's Hall March 7, 1994: Morphine was simply badass. No other word to describe it. Sandman's uber onstage cool was art in itself, like that of whacky alternative country grand dad Howe Gelb, he lived in another dimension entirely; his words whether in song, onstage banters, or simply speaking to the audience oozed dramatic poetics. This with their completely unconventional rock band outfit substituting guitar for a full time bass and saxophone just made for a fresh experience few would dare to tread. This particular show is no exception to their remarkable existence.
I was turned onto these fellas by Andrew Loomis on the night of the Green River reunion show. He's the ex-drummer whom was kicked out two years beforehand. hahah ah well. So I kept my eyes open and low and behold, their album came into work today. I like!
Morphine: Bootleg Detroit at St. Andrew's Hall March 7, 1994: Morphine was simply badass. No other word to describe it. Sandman's uber onstage cool was art in itself, like that of whacky alternative country grand dad Howe Gelb, he lived in another dimension entirely; his words whether in song, onstage banters, or simply speaking to the audience oozed dramatic poetics. This with their completely unconventional rock band outfit substituting guitar for a full time bass and saxophone just made for a fresh experience few would dare to tread. This particular show is no exception to their remarkable existence.
Lee Miles - Heathen Blux
Lee Miles has a band. No longer the lone ranger, he’s found a collective that taps into his inspiration and does it true justice. Being a passionately earthy fellow, this album is a purging of all things held dear and a violent assault against obstructers of the human spirit. It’s a true exercise in the broad expanse of our beloved Americana. The country western stomp of Johnny Cash and Bobby Bare, the crushing lyrical bite of Bob Dylan and the poetic sneer of alternative-country pioneer Howe Gelb. The songs are laden with a delicate undercurrent of electric guitar twang that crawls beneath the skin and brings the songs to a stark realization.
These are songs written for the people by a man who lives by the sweat of his brow and does so with a keen sense of observation and an acute realization of what is truly ours. Songs written for those who choose to exist beneath the tumultuous current, a place that allows us to exercise our personal freedoms as living beings on this earth with little resistance. “Ophelia, Ophelia you blackened my eye. You’ve given me wrong in a time of right and I thank you. I make little livings. I’m stealin’ and beggin’ just waitin’ for endings.” Here is understanding of the beauty, struggle, the moments of despair and all the glorious triumphs in between, welcoming hardship and pain with open arms not as a setback, but as an opportunity for self-check and realizing what little we have to lose with our mundane worries. It’s a hard concept to truly come to terms with, but as evident in Heathen Blux, living the nitty gritty simple and uncertain is a damned challenge but nothing on this earth will ever prove as rewarding.
These are songs written for the people by a man who lives by the sweat of his brow and does so with a keen sense of observation and an acute realization of what is truly ours. Songs written for those who choose to exist beneath the tumultuous current, a place that allows us to exercise our personal freedoms as living beings on this earth with little resistance. “Ophelia, Ophelia you blackened my eye. You’ve given me wrong in a time of right and I thank you. I make little livings. I’m stealin’ and beggin’ just waitin’ for endings.” Here is understanding of the beauty, struggle, the moments of despair and all the glorious triumphs in between, welcoming hardship and pain with open arms not as a setback, but as an opportunity for self-check and realizing what little we have to lose with our mundane worries. It’s a hard concept to truly come to terms with, but as evident in Heathen Blux, living the nitty gritty simple and uncertain is a damned challenge but nothing on this earth will ever prove as rewarding.
nothing is true, everything is permitted
freedom is to be found only in the sensation of acting, of self (and thus world) creation, of the realization through practicing the old saying "nothing is true, everything is permitted." [example: the revolutionary finds freedom in the experience of totally transforming society, and thereby making himself - not just simply in the removal of restrictive forces.] to experience this, one must be capable of doing anything at anytime - remember the story of achilles and the tortoise: the tortoise asks achilles: "are you free, achilles?" and achilles responds: "of course i am free! i'm achilles, a god among men, and free men at that. i can do anything i want!" "so," queries the tortoise, "could you kill me?" "easily! i am achilles, the invulnerable" (not so, as it turned out, but anyway) "hero of greek myth and legend - and you are a tortoise." "so kill me," challenges the tortoise, matter-of-factly. "but you are my steadfast friend, my bosom companion, my comrade! i could never kill you!" protests achilles. "exactly," whispers the tortoise, suggestively, and achilles shudders. the moral is that in a situation where all meaning is already attributed, freedom is irrelevant, for all your possible actions are already determined. freedom is to be found only in the new spaces, in the brand new moments when fresh elements come into play and you have to re-create yourself from scratch. one must remain in practice if one is to be a revolutionary. one must constantly destroy and re-create the self, must push limits and break every rule and limitation. the problem with all this is that the exercise of total freedom is bound to conflict with your (or other's) desires. the answer to this, of course, is simply that we must create a world in which everything that is possible is also desirable - so that such a thing as "sin" will no longer be conceivable, and there will be no reason for guilt, no possibility of hypocrisy or conflict between desires. in the utopia, our revolution (MYTHICALLY SPEAKING, of course) will create everything, and anything will be possible - and good, for our hearts demand NOTHING less than total freedom. i shouldn't have to resist anything, any temptation; therefore i must make a world of temptation without shame - a world empty of fast women, top 40 pop music, organized religion, and fancy, elitist bourgeois restaurants, for example!
The Gutter Twins - Saturnalia
"oh mama, ain't no time to fall to pieces," words of caution, hope for strength. The first verse we're introduced to by a weathered voice, one of two contributors throughout the album; Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli. The running theme is quite similar to squeezing a stone to death for some trace of blood; while we can't possibly understand how there might be even a vestige of hope in this search that defies some of the most basic common sense, we somehow find promise in an inexplainable form. The search isn't a pretty one. In fact, it's quite a dirty affair and these two gentleman don't shy away from it in the least. What makes it a unique experience however is that we aren't deprived the aspect of these strange, beautiful, uplifting moments in between and it's quite welcome, for how can we appreciate the good or bad if we don't shine equal light upon both?
These boys are well into the middle of their lifetime and they're absolutely at the top of their musical form, delivering us a palatable varied album full of dark, borderline gothic rock mood pieces. Songs by men who aren't sure if they're entirely willing to sign their dirty selves over for redemption by the god almighty or what have you.
These boys are well into the middle of their lifetime and they're absolutely at the top of their musical form, delivering us a palatable varied album full of dark, borderline gothic rock mood pieces. Songs by men who aren't sure if they're entirely willing to sign their dirty selves over for redemption by the god almighty or what have you.
Deer Tick - War Elephant
What ever happened to the songwriter? Are they falling behind the curtain of the "band", a collective unwillingness to speak too loudly for fear of who's nerves you might scratch or an inflated ego taking over? Is it because we've lost the willingness to write with our voices and chosen to speak universally instead? Are we too concerned with leaving songs far and wide open so that EVERYONE might find something to relate to? What is left to wonder and marvel at when writing so commonly? I haven't an answer for any of these questions, but I have found an anomaly. A band of musicians by the name of Deer Tick. The voice behind the band laments in a brutally honest manner over the complicated times, helpless desires and revenant faults that make him all too human, but more than that, the band is a living and breathing thing that excites the senses. Each musician seems to play a lovingly creative hand, making it a detailed and pained but celebratory look at things. I don't think anyone can feel as empowered and alive as when listening to 'These Old Shoes' and placing our hearts in the hands of this simple but high flying tale of beautiful determination. Hailed as an other worldly return of country western fare, I think I will go well out of my way to see these boys play when the opportunity arises.
The Brian Jonestown Massacre - Thank God For Mental Illness
Many are sick of this 60's revivalist movement that's infiltrated the American music scene and with good reason. Most of it can only claim to be a half-hearted regurgitation of a very influential sound that has since evolved. Shouldn't this be considered a huge step backwards? In some regards, yes, because few have convinced us that they're worth their salt and done anything new with it. We wouldn't be so accepting of a new man in black rewriting Johnny Cash songs and claiming to be the 21st century jesus, would we? That said, we really can't neglect some exceptions..
Meet The Brian Jonestown Massacre, a band of musicians dogged at every turn. With more than 40 members having come and gone since its inception you would assume their sound would have to be a train wreck but Anton Newcombe, the brainchild of the entire outfit is an entirely different breed of musician. It's been said that if he could clone himself ten times over and exist as one solitary band he absolutely would. He has a vision, an idea, an ever churning factory of beautiful sound he absolutely can not compromise on. His ability to play over 80 musical instruments masterfully is a testament to that. This has, of course, created conflict and many see him as a despicable character, myself included. I've personally felt his wrath and it should be unforgivable on some people's counts, but it's so hard to neglect what he does so well.
Anton has been hailed as the true father of the revival, the man who doesn't just love this era of sound, he lives in it. Let's listen to the flood of impassioned harmonica on the track 'Ballad of Jim Jones' and the verse "I walked from New York and back from L.A. I lived on a mountain and once by the bay," we get the feeling we're listening to a man out of place and time. These words aren't meant to be entirely autobiographical but they do ring true and he embraces this freedom loving lifestyle. A man who makes good on the words that he writes, not having any true home, just his entourage, his travelling family. There are definitely those who call Anton the worst kind of plagiarist, I couldn't disagree more. He's laying out the tune of his soul and that's all that could be asked of any musician anywhere. Perhaps it's this chaotic form he embraces which hinders the band's ability to achieve any level of success but upon listening to any one of their albums it's apparent that any element of control or organization forced on them just might tip the scales and sour something brilliant.. What has fueled and maintained the band's existence for such a long period though is Anton's fresh ability to bring these sounds about in an updated form, forging two eras of influence seamlessly.
The band's proudest moment may perhaps be the recording of 'Thank God For Mental Illness,' an album that cost 19 dollars to make, "including cab fare." It's a work that is so raw and brimming with spontaneous mayhem and brilliance it captured me from the very first track. We're treated to inspiring and punchy 60s pop folk fare at its very best while crossed with the experimental tendencies of spacemen 3 and even traces of glam goodness along the lines of T. Rex. Not to mention the contemplative 30 minute plus track 'The Sound of Confusion' blending lo-fi recordings of city life with subtle drone rock to cap the fountain of Anton's endless inspiration, it's a strange way to end an album and took a bit of courage to dive into but I was strangely surprised with the end result. Is it for everybody? Absolutely not. Having discovered this album during a very long and ponderous greyhound bus ride, I can say with certainty that I wouldn't trade it for a thing.
Meet The Brian Jonestown Massacre, a band of musicians dogged at every turn. With more than 40 members having come and gone since its inception you would assume their sound would have to be a train wreck but Anton Newcombe, the brainchild of the entire outfit is an entirely different breed of musician. It's been said that if he could clone himself ten times over and exist as one solitary band he absolutely would. He has a vision, an idea, an ever churning factory of beautiful sound he absolutely can not compromise on. His ability to play over 80 musical instruments masterfully is a testament to that. This has, of course, created conflict and many see him as a despicable character, myself included. I've personally felt his wrath and it should be unforgivable on some people's counts, but it's so hard to neglect what he does so well.
Anton has been hailed as the true father of the revival, the man who doesn't just love this era of sound, he lives in it. Let's listen to the flood of impassioned harmonica on the track 'Ballad of Jim Jones' and the verse "I walked from New York and back from L.A. I lived on a mountain and once by the bay," we get the feeling we're listening to a man out of place and time. These words aren't meant to be entirely autobiographical but they do ring true and he embraces this freedom loving lifestyle. A man who makes good on the words that he writes, not having any true home, just his entourage, his travelling family. There are definitely those who call Anton the worst kind of plagiarist, I couldn't disagree more. He's laying out the tune of his soul and that's all that could be asked of any musician anywhere. Perhaps it's this chaotic form he embraces which hinders the band's ability to achieve any level of success but upon listening to any one of their albums it's apparent that any element of control or organization forced on them just might tip the scales and sour something brilliant.. What has fueled and maintained the band's existence for such a long period though is Anton's fresh ability to bring these sounds about in an updated form, forging two eras of influence seamlessly.
The band's proudest moment may perhaps be the recording of 'Thank God For Mental Illness,' an album that cost 19 dollars to make, "including cab fare." It's a work that is so raw and brimming with spontaneous mayhem and brilliance it captured me from the very first track. We're treated to inspiring and punchy 60s pop folk fare at its very best while crossed with the experimental tendencies of spacemen 3 and even traces of glam goodness along the lines of T. Rex. Not to mention the contemplative 30 minute plus track 'The Sound of Confusion' blending lo-fi recordings of city life with subtle drone rock to cap the fountain of Anton's endless inspiration, it's a strange way to end an album and took a bit of courage to dive into but I was strangely surprised with the end result. Is it for everybody? Absolutely not. Having discovered this album during a very long and ponderous greyhound bus ride, I can say with certainty that I wouldn't trade it for a thing.
Lee Miles - 1,000 Lions
Music can be like a temperamental flower waiting to blossom. It takes patience for the beautiful payoff. Most cannot appreciate this necessity and dismiss it. This is where Lee Miles comes. His gentle harmonies can be dismissed quite readily but if one could simply take a moment out of their busy life to listen and soak up the soulful rays that shine so brightly in an album like 1,000 Lions it can enrich the seemingly meaningless fleeting moments of our lives.
Mr. Miles has given us an album, a vision of the world as he sees it and it's not something to be taken lightly. Every piece is a wistful journey that invokes a portrait of life, each one subtle and different. The instruments are all played by Lee himself, and that is some dedication that I greatly admire. He has a keen ear for the visions, moods and emotions each instrument can unlock because each note seems to me like a perfect, logical improvement on the last creating a euphoric experience once each piece has delivered its message. Not excluded from these instruments would be his voice, a strong asset. He fuses the everlasting spirit of Nick Drake with such comanches of country western folk as Willie Nelson and Woody Guthrie. Gentle, peaceful and observant and yet, an essence of command, boldness and authority that can be summoned readily. There is no rush or panic, his voice so at peace, it only begs the question "what the hell was ever the rush?" The qualities that snatch the heart by its strings and carry it through the air so wistfully shine through in songs such as "Birmingham", the highs and lows that feel so absolutely right it makes you want to snatch a loved one and cling to them for love and life.
There is also something to be said about the songwriting. Consider the contrast between song titles "Wait For Thee" and "Encounter With A Crackwhore in Mid-September". It most definitely begs a second, if not third glance. It's in this poetic tongue-in-cheek wit that leads me to believe Lee isn't out to write beautiful yet inevitably dispensable songs. He has a voice that demands attention and his songwriting maintains it quite well, finding a strange balance between beautiful, light hearted melodies and surprisingly dark subject matter. It just brings to light a vision of life that could be remarkably enlightening. I find the ability to write a song a glorious gift; a privilege that most modern songwriters don't utilize to the best of their abilities. To manipulate emotions and expand minds with your unique vision of life is an exciting idea. Your soul can be soaked up by hundreds of thirsty listeners looking for an answer to some formless question they don't even know how to ask.
The Dandy Warhols - Earth To The Dandy Warhols
What will space age stoners be listening to in the not too distant future? Hopefully something a little more intelligent than The Dandy Warhols. Yes, the mirror kissing hipsters are back from a hiatus thats given them lots of time to come up with quite a few nifty drug puns and work them into catchy drone rocking electronica infused riffs. Don't believe me? Just listen to the nausea-inducing 'Valerie-Yum' with its lovable and ridiculous chorus. If that doesn't do it for ya, Mr. Taylor-Taylor (yes, the man with two last names, bite your tongue) has been working his regurgitational muscles as far as he can without infringing on anyone's copyrights just for you and I. Give a listen to 'Wasp in The Lotus' for a genuine return to the ballsy shoegaze that peppered their beginnings. Chorus driven rockers like 'Mis' Amigos' and 'Talk Radio' are feverish enough to inspire anyone to move joyously and 'Love Song' offers a genuinely surprising guest appearance with the chop-elder Mark Knopfler offering his unique hand, even if panning out with modest end result.
There are still some numbers that flaunt so much arrogance it owes Taylor-Taylor a punch in the face. The funk-driven 'Welcome To The Third World' comes to mind, but most inexplicable to me is the 14 minute 'Musee D'Nougat' which consists of nothing more than light synth against a barely audible commentary on candy bars. The synth has a calming effect that could be appreciated under the right circumstances but it's far too drastic and strange a misstep for an album of such driven songs. On the flip side, I must make mention of the epically compact 'The Legend of The Last of The Outlaw Truckers AKA The Ballad of Sheriff Shorty.' Here is where their creativity has been hiding. Lyrics belted with an inferno of whiskey (and methamphetamine) soaked attitude, it's a joyous blitz of sheer style so obscenely entertaining I would tote it as a genuine highlight of their career. It's almost self-defeating, I would love to see more inspired pieces like it but this is where the Dandies will always remain nothing more than novelty. I've never heard such an unfocused band before and it leaves a horrible capper on their potential. Dare I ask that they grow up and get serious about their musical career? Or would that put a damper on their party and kill it entirely?
I don't quite understand what it is that makes their self-loving drug anthems not just okay, but actually enjoyable. Call them a guilty pleasure, it's a question that boggles me more with each release and honestly, their charm has definitely begun to wear thin. But alas, that doesn't make their effort a failure. It's par for the course, meet the Dandies. It's the band you love to hate and yet, absolutely can't stand loving. When you've decided you want a band you're less conflicted by, check out The Lovetones. With similar musical ambitions and great drive, they're doing very well for themselves and should not be missed.
There are still some numbers that flaunt so much arrogance it owes Taylor-Taylor a punch in the face. The funk-driven 'Welcome To The Third World' comes to mind, but most inexplicable to me is the 14 minute 'Musee D'Nougat' which consists of nothing more than light synth against a barely audible commentary on candy bars. The synth has a calming effect that could be appreciated under the right circumstances but it's far too drastic and strange a misstep for an album of such driven songs. On the flip side, I must make mention of the epically compact 'The Legend of The Last of The Outlaw Truckers AKA The Ballad of Sheriff Shorty.' Here is where their creativity has been hiding. Lyrics belted with an inferno of whiskey (and methamphetamine) soaked attitude, it's a joyous blitz of sheer style so obscenely entertaining I would tote it as a genuine highlight of their career. It's almost self-defeating, I would love to see more inspired pieces like it but this is where the Dandies will always remain nothing more than novelty. I've never heard such an unfocused band before and it leaves a horrible capper on their potential. Dare I ask that they grow up and get serious about their musical career? Or would that put a damper on their party and kill it entirely?
I don't quite understand what it is that makes their self-loving drug anthems not just okay, but actually enjoyable. Call them a guilty pleasure, it's a question that boggles me more with each release and honestly, their charm has definitely begun to wear thin. But alas, that doesn't make their effort a failure. It's par for the course, meet the Dandies. It's the band you love to hate and yet, absolutely can't stand loving. When you've decided you want a band you're less conflicted by, check out The Lovetones. With similar musical ambitions and great drive, they're doing very well for themselves and should not be missed.
Tyler Jakes - Rocking Hoarse Calypso
Son House has said that you can do anything with the blues, even so much as sing it in church. We probably wouldn't want to be singing Tyler Jakes' blues in church, however. His red right handed gospel is far too free at heart to be confined to such a place; in fact, it'd be an insult to the spirit of his music. "We gotta rise" he bellows repeatedly in the very first track of his album 'Rocking Hoarse Calypso'. It's his ode to life the only way he would think about living it and it's a beautiful thing to behold because listening, it's so hard to believe we'd accept anything less ourselves. Call it what you want; rock and roll, blues, gypsy folk punk, noise, revolution rock, transonic death. It just doesn't matter, it feels good though.
Tyler's got a full band this time around and you can feel it all beneath you so tape your glasses to the table. The full extension to Tyler's hand, his guitar takes center stage and I haven't heard as many glorious riffs and licks in a rock and roll album since Kurt was shredding…yes, every passing moment brings us further from that glorious time in history when rock and roll still reigned supreme. Tyler's still got his verbal pistol cocked though, even more so than his first official effort 'lo-fi Matter'. Pieces such as 'Death Valley Surf Safari' and the red eyed madman blitzkrieg of 'Ballad in Plain F' inspire such a clear flow of revolt into your veins its hard not to start throwing things and craving destruction in the name of personal freedom. Meanwhile tracks like the wanton and wicked '114th Street Devil Woman' and the indelible slide guitar action on 'Pretty Up Our Love' remind us why the blues were the centerpiece of America's music explosion for such a long time; songs about those temptations that maintain our imperfections and yet keep life well worth living. The trophy of this album I must confess my undying love for would be the reworking of a track I heard on his original country western-esque demo titled 'I Can't Take Anymore'. Unlike anything I've ever heard before, these are the real gypsy blues if I ever heard them. Belted with such unbridled masochistic passion for more of this surrealistic torture, more life is lived in each verse of this song than in the entire life of some:
"I got old, tired and cold dancing with a chimney sweep,
Waiting outside for his Ukraine bride, I was counting pharmaceutical sheep.
The devil gonna come with a pen for a thumb, a saw tooth grin and a bottle of rum,
Sayin' 'sign on the line, behind the door there's a drive through shrine,'
And I can't take anymore."
The album's a work of love and pain, but doesn't once curl up and submit to any beatings from anybody. This dog bites back. Tyler's perspective is a refreshing one and I would strongly recommend both of his albums to simply broaden your musical palette and extend your peripheral vision of the world around you, but most of all, keep his name in the back of your mind because nobody can ever tell when or where he will pop up and wreak havoc.
American Princes - Other People
You know those albums that you've decidedly hated the first time around? You know, it just doesn't click. It's a mess of unfamiliar noise. Take it out, move onto something more familiar. Then bam, two or three days later you're kicking around thinking about that album with biting curiosity. Were you unfair? Only one way to find out. You pop it back in with a grimace and like a flood light that chokes your pupils to pin pricks, all of a sudden you're astounded by just how wrong you were. That is exactly the surprise I've been graced with listening to American Princes' fourth release, 'Other People'.
My initial reaction was that these boys have listened to too much David Bowie and given too little thought on what they have to offer over their influences. The trick with this album is that it takes time to soak in and appreciate the neatly packaged nuances that make their music a joy. Be it the ticking time bomb of sonic doom they keep strapped to their chests or the heart-on-your-sleeve choruses on tracks such as 'Real Love' and the melt in your mouth 'Watch As They Go'. These boys have done their homework to be sure. No, their sound is really nothing terribly new. It's mostly familiar territory and while we can't regard their assault as anything pioneering, they're terribly good at what they do and it'd be unfair to deny them the tune of their souls. Listen and you will find traces of nefarious alternative innovators like Boys Next Door and their bad boy swagger laced with the dramatic bare-it-all goodness of David Bowie and the shaky baritone of Robert Smith. Here is glam rock royalty rebirth in a post-apocalyptic society; our new romantic era. Presenting songs that will surely inspire pumping fists against neon lights unlike anything we've seen since 1987.
Langhorne Slim and The War Eagles
Langhorne Slim and his band of War Eagles are a cheery bunch of musicians and they're proud to be writing love songs. No we're not just talking about the gag-me-with-your-heart hopeless tales of unrequited love. Romance has many facets that are often deprived of fair light, but with Slim's full country outfit they aren't afraid to tackle these sides of romance with an admirable passion. They stomp their feet to their own beat and you can hear it well. Chances are the contagious zeal with which they play will have you doing the same.
Jumping into this album I wasn't sure exactly how to weigh it. So many musicians today take their work and emotions far too seriously and that's precisely what I was geared for. Imagine my surprise when the album's slapdash to-hell-with-it-all approach finally sunk in. It's a lot like taking a pair of scissors to an upside down inside out mess of knots and cutting the whole thing free without an ounce of hesitation. The instrumental attack has the potential to put one off slightly. It nearly did me with the kooky upbeat variety (listen for some accordion action) but as the album pushes onward the folksy imperfect yawl of Mr. Slim manages to form a beautiful kinship with his players and high strung critical thinking seems to become irrelevant. His voice is pretty non-traditional and your local tenor might cringe a little but the delight here is exactly in that; absolutely no need to impress a soul, this music has a healing purpose well beyond that.
I believe a lot of folk have been deprived of country's true beautiful colors with this era of "she thinks my tractor's sexy" pop fare. Classic country was the common man's celebration of heartbreak, hard times and life sung with such jubilant carelessness it smoothed all life's jagged edges over quite nicely. Langhorne Slim's self titled album is a celebration of all that. This album isn't coming across with a grand message to the universe. All it would care to offer us is some pure joy and I think that's more than we could ask for. So this is where country's gone...
The First Link
A good friend of mine, a heavy thinker with little outlet like myself, has introduced a concept that I like quite a bit. I have to say these concepts are by no means new, I just find myself grasping them in ways which would have been impossible not long ago. Without going into too much detail, the universe at large is the product of thought. For every chain there must be a first link. The cosmos as grand as it lie could not be set into motion without a good thrust by a creative force. It’s not as simple as some grand white bearded fellow whisking his finger into a thick batter of stars, not by a long shot. The creative force itself cannot be contained within any box that the human mind can handle without going completely mad! Sadly this will remain nothing more than an idea barely tangible, but it’s a grand one!
The potential that lies in thought just cannot be fathomed. Perhaps the best example would be in Jesus Christ. Of course this opens me up to a whiplash of criticism and instant dismissal but his example of thought set into creative motion is so absolute and pure it could have very well paved a new map in the sky of stars as we know it. It wasn’t nearly a matter of convincing any feeble human mind of his potential, for it was never a question to begin with. He simply was. And that absolute certainty served as a bright new sun to his followers. A path to boundless potential unlike anything we farm animals can comprehend. The idea has been mutated horribly since the inception of that first grand link, for little better and mostly worse, (we humans have a funny way of doing that) but the potential is as vital as ever before, although not as accessible in this day in age, being so predisposed to the depression that is our workaday getchadown-and-out-and-fee
The potential that lies in thought just cannot be fathomed. Perhaps the best example would be in Jesus Christ. Of course this opens me up to a whiplash of criticism and instant dismissal but his example of thought set into creative motion is so absolute and pure it could have very well paved a new map in the sky of stars as we know it. It wasn’t nearly a matter of convincing any feeble human mind of his potential, for it was never a question to begin with. He simply was. And that absolute certainty served as a bright new sun to his followers. A path to boundless potential unlike anything we farm animals can comprehend. The idea has been mutated horribly since the inception of that first grand link, for little better and mostly worse, (we humans have a funny way of doing that) but the potential is as vital as ever before, although not as accessible in this day in age, being so predisposed to the depression that is our workaday getchadown-and-out-and-fee
..l-like-a-good-for-nothing-..loser society. So go at it. Have a good thought or two. Turn that fuckin tv off.
Now lemme hear it! I jumped the gun on many taboo subjects and I wanna see the shit hit my windshield everybody!!!
Now lemme hear it! I jumped the gun on many taboo subjects and I wanna see the shit hit my windshield everybody!!!
SHOW RECAP; Duke Spirit and Eagles of Death Metal; HALLOWEEN NIGHT
Rock and roll is a funny thing. The base is a delectable gumbo of lifesaving qualities that'll put any modern anti-depressant to shame. Timeless and absolutely infectious, if life were a cancer, rock and roll would absolutely be the cure. With that, the authority of rock has been challenged it seems by a surge of emotional scholars that might be taking themselves a bit too seriously. In a search for purpose, direction and self-important artistic integrity we've left behind the carefree swagger that rocked our hips as well as the essence of rebellion reassuring us that life is damn well worth living. Of course, there is a place and demand for all walks of song, but in the natural progress of things it's left a yawning void in the very mechanics and motives of our beloved rock and roll. Yes, modern masterpieces such as OK Computer and The Moon and Antarctica are quintessential to the direction of our great musical monument but when all that glutinous lyrical questioning-the-great-unknown begins to mount, it's good to pop in some Sticky Fingers just to remind us that yes, everything's going to be okay. So on that note, I would like to thank the great powers-that-be for Jesse and his Eagles of Death Metal.
There's nothing quite like it, watching Jesse strut onto the stage in full form; tight and bulging denim jeans, aviator shades, finely combed handlebar mustache and long greasy hair slicked straight back. Walking down the street, anyone in their right mind would jeer thoughtlessly at this fellow and quite possibly throw a couple insults his way but for a solid two hours, he prowls the stage like a god sweating ecstasy pheromone and by god, male or female, you're under his spell. Sex appeal of course being a key element in any great rock and roll act; he's got it down pat. The Eagles of Death Metal have been going at it for a good 11 years thanks to the grand incarnation of the infamous Desert Session gigs. Their first album didn't actually make a splash until 2004 but the holy power of rock was somewhat of a life saver for Jesse, whom Josh Homme remarked as a complete wreck after a sticky divorce in the late 90's. The tables have been reversed and in fact, they've been thrown out the window; shattered glass, splintered wood and all. Anyone that attended the Wonder Ballroom on October 31st can attest to that.
It was perfect. Halloween loomed over a cold and rainy Portland and it seemed the kids were out of luck; if only life were as simple as rescheduling. For the 21 and over crowd however, the solution was stupidly obvious. Costumes; Wonder Ballroom; The Duke Spirit; Eagles of Death Metal; Rock and Roll! The lineup was an inspired one. Word caught the town like a tinder-dry forest fire and the ballroom quickly reached maximum capacity. It seemed somewhat ludicrous and yet strangely appropriate that three-fourths of the male crowd were sporting fake staches in support of their man Jesse. They could only dream of such a finely groomed blossom of moustache. It almost felt like a grunge convention with the concentration of flannel and facial hair but with that, a fair balance of ghouls, banana outfits and yes, a lustrous Jessica Rabbit pushed for center, all eager to sweat and rock their hips. The brilliantly British Duke Spirit took stage and for about an hour the square block that is MLK and Russell Street quaked something fierce.
I've always felt some deep vein of soul with The Duke Spirit's music. Their sound is like that of Jefferson Airplane crossed with a very bluesy Sonic Youth. The painful lament of catty vocalist Liela Moss against the sludgy southern tinged double guitar attack has left a thirst for blood in my mouth; it truly sets them apart from their influences. I will come right out and say that Liela stole the show; ripped it clean out of the talons of the talented masters of shred at her side. She carries herself like a vindictive goddess assuming the chassis of a woman who's seen the worst facet of man and oh, how betrayed, bitter and pissed she is. The subject matter is quite dark and trickles with tragedy but the ever present grind of guitar and the fury of Ms. Moss left us feeling far from helpless in the face of doom. Pointing incriminatingly with her words to the crowd during such songs as 'Love Is An Unfamiliar Name' and ‘Darling, You’re Mean,’ we felt judgment being rained down upon us, whether or not we called it upon ourselves or some inherited guilt bestowed on us by our forefathers, not a damn thing could divert her wrath. Eternal damnation could easily have been slipped into our drinks that evening as we were drawn in by her mad spectral twist about the stage and not many would have cared, it felt quite amazing actually. It was downright depressing to watch Leila and her band mates part the stage for the main course to follow but I have to say, it was a strange twist of fate I selfishly claim as my own good luck that Leila joined me at the front of the venue, dancing and swinging with me under the napalm halo of guitar. Rock and roll taketh no prisoner!
With that, the great chain bearers marched on stage, the key to our souls finely tuned and firmly strapped over their shoulders. Dave Catching, stoner rock aficionado and co-owner of the desert rock musical nerve center Rancho De La Luna in Joshua Tree, California stood over us in classic Catching form; bottle cap glasses, goofy shirt and blue jeans with his quintessential mini-hawk like a hopeful sprout of grass lining the cracked desert soil. Following close behind, Joey Castillo of Danzig and Queens of The Stone Age fame on drums, Brian O’Connor, a towering and magnanimous fellow striking some magnificent similarity with the pillow-smothering Chief on bass and, of course, the man behind the superlative falsetto, Jesse ‘Boots Electric’ Hughes taking center stage. The fans were rabid, red-eyed, foaming at the mouth. Dave, stroking his guitar pick like a juicy steak, leaned back and ripped the earth apart. Some wait years for a show like this. Hand crafted devil horns plucked the air as Jesse prowled the stage in all his sextacular splendor, howling wickedly for more guitar to whisk his groove onward. Many have commented on the strange anomaly that’s nearly plagued The EODM outfit. The live shows have become a tried and true cult phenomenon while their recorded material just can’t seem to capture the same essence. I admit it’s true. Albums like Death by Sexy are sure fun, but the dynamic between the band on stage is volcanic. Every single player rips a hole in time itself, turning the world as we know it inside out. Throw in some molten guitar duels and solos, plastered fans dancing on stage (or grinding on Dave and Jesse), stage dives, beer spraying every which way, oh, and bras twirling through the air and yeah, you’ve got a rock and roll show unlike any Portland has seen since the glorious grunge days.
The songs ran as seamlessly as Jesse could handle without being overcome with zeal and keeling over. It’s very much unlike him to go further than twenty minutes into a set without taking a moment to truly honor the woman in the house, but the blitzkrieg intensity of the audience was something nobody could foresee. After hammering the city block for a solid hour with new gems and old favorites alike, the band had to take an on-stage recess just to regroup and pay their dues to the cherished female presence. Jesse stood in disbelief as his followers rumbled with a mere flick of his wrist. It was a good night for him. He has given and we couldn’t have been happier to return in spades. And even so, with two encores, each bursting with three fire spitting goblets of song, we could have easily defeated time and arrested the morning hours. No such luck. All great things must find their balance and come to their beautiful end. Like bidding a cherished Wiseman a fond farewell, Jesse took a bow and was off to answer that far off call hundreds of miles away. It takes an iron stomach to tackle life so luxuriously. What we were left with was something grand indeed.
It seems with these small and wonderful things in this life, we can only hope for the magnificent bursts of beautiful flame to last and hope that’s how the cookie crumbles downward. But as The Gun Club preached in returning from the mountain with the Fire Spirit’s beautiful light beaming in our head, “no-one will expect all of me, so the fire…will stop.” And so it is with rock and roll. It’s our duty to feed that wild famished flame and forget not what a little bit of rebel spirit can do. Feed your local musician, attend your local shows! Jump, shout, move your feet and let your fists be recognized as they chug away. It’ll do good things to your head and surely inspire others to join the march.
There's nothing quite like it, watching Jesse strut onto the stage in full form; tight and bulging denim jeans, aviator shades, finely combed handlebar mustache and long greasy hair slicked straight back. Walking down the street, anyone in their right mind would jeer thoughtlessly at this fellow and quite possibly throw a couple insults his way but for a solid two hours, he prowls the stage like a god sweating ecstasy pheromone and by god, male or female, you're under his spell. Sex appeal of course being a key element in any great rock and roll act; he's got it down pat. The Eagles of Death Metal have been going at it for a good 11 years thanks to the grand incarnation of the infamous Desert Session gigs. Their first album didn't actually make a splash until 2004 but the holy power of rock was somewhat of a life saver for Jesse, whom Josh Homme remarked as a complete wreck after a sticky divorce in the late 90's. The tables have been reversed and in fact, they've been thrown out the window; shattered glass, splintered wood and all. Anyone that attended the Wonder Ballroom on October 31st can attest to that.
It was perfect. Halloween loomed over a cold and rainy Portland and it seemed the kids were out of luck; if only life were as simple as rescheduling. For the 21 and over crowd however, the solution was stupidly obvious. Costumes; Wonder Ballroom; The Duke Spirit; Eagles of Death Metal; Rock and Roll! The lineup was an inspired one. Word caught the town like a tinder-dry forest fire and the ballroom quickly reached maximum capacity. It seemed somewhat ludicrous and yet strangely appropriate that three-fourths of the male crowd were sporting fake staches in support of their man Jesse. They could only dream of such a finely groomed blossom of moustache. It almost felt like a grunge convention with the concentration of flannel and facial hair but with that, a fair balance of ghouls, banana outfits and yes, a lustrous Jessica Rabbit pushed for center, all eager to sweat and rock their hips. The brilliantly British Duke Spirit took stage and for about an hour the square block that is MLK and Russell Street quaked something fierce.
I've always felt some deep vein of soul with The Duke Spirit's music. Their sound is like that of Jefferson Airplane crossed with a very bluesy Sonic Youth. The painful lament of catty vocalist Liela Moss against the sludgy southern tinged double guitar attack has left a thirst for blood in my mouth; it truly sets them apart from their influences. I will come right out and say that Liela stole the show; ripped it clean out of the talons of the talented masters of shred at her side. She carries herself like a vindictive goddess assuming the chassis of a woman who's seen the worst facet of man and oh, how betrayed, bitter and pissed she is. The subject matter is quite dark and trickles with tragedy but the ever present grind of guitar and the fury of Ms. Moss left us feeling far from helpless in the face of doom. Pointing incriminatingly with her words to the crowd during such songs as 'Love Is An Unfamiliar Name' and ‘Darling, You’re Mean,’ we felt judgment being rained down upon us, whether or not we called it upon ourselves or some inherited guilt bestowed on us by our forefathers, not a damn thing could divert her wrath. Eternal damnation could easily have been slipped into our drinks that evening as we were drawn in by her mad spectral twist about the stage and not many would have cared, it felt quite amazing actually. It was downright depressing to watch Leila and her band mates part the stage for the main course to follow but I have to say, it was a strange twist of fate I selfishly claim as my own good luck that Leila joined me at the front of the venue, dancing and swinging with me under the napalm halo of guitar. Rock and roll taketh no prisoner!
With that, the great chain bearers marched on stage, the key to our souls finely tuned and firmly strapped over their shoulders. Dave Catching, stoner rock aficionado and co-owner of the desert rock musical nerve center Rancho De La Luna in Joshua Tree, California stood over us in classic Catching form; bottle cap glasses, goofy shirt and blue jeans with his quintessential mini-hawk like a hopeful sprout of grass lining the cracked desert soil. Following close behind, Joey Castillo of Danzig and Queens of The Stone Age fame on drums, Brian O’Connor, a towering and magnanimous fellow striking some magnificent similarity with the pillow-smothering Chief on bass and, of course, the man behind the superlative falsetto, Jesse ‘Boots Electric’ Hughes taking center stage. The fans were rabid, red-eyed, foaming at the mouth. Dave, stroking his guitar pick like a juicy steak, leaned back and ripped the earth apart. Some wait years for a show like this. Hand crafted devil horns plucked the air as Jesse prowled the stage in all his sextacular splendor, howling wickedly for more guitar to whisk his groove onward. Many have commented on the strange anomaly that’s nearly plagued The EODM outfit. The live shows have become a tried and true cult phenomenon while their recorded material just can’t seem to capture the same essence. I admit it’s true. Albums like Death by Sexy are sure fun, but the dynamic between the band on stage is volcanic. Every single player rips a hole in time itself, turning the world as we know it inside out. Throw in some molten guitar duels and solos, plastered fans dancing on stage (or grinding on Dave and Jesse), stage dives, beer spraying every which way, oh, and bras twirling through the air and yeah, you’ve got a rock and roll show unlike any Portland has seen since the glorious grunge days.
The songs ran as seamlessly as Jesse could handle without being overcome with zeal and keeling over. It’s very much unlike him to go further than twenty minutes into a set without taking a moment to truly honor the woman in the house, but the blitzkrieg intensity of the audience was something nobody could foresee. After hammering the city block for a solid hour with new gems and old favorites alike, the band had to take an on-stage recess just to regroup and pay their dues to the cherished female presence. Jesse stood in disbelief as his followers rumbled with a mere flick of his wrist. It was a good night for him. He has given and we couldn’t have been happier to return in spades. And even so, with two encores, each bursting with three fire spitting goblets of song, we could have easily defeated time and arrested the morning hours. No such luck. All great things must find their balance and come to their beautiful end. Like bidding a cherished Wiseman a fond farewell, Jesse took a bow and was off to answer that far off call hundreds of miles away. It takes an iron stomach to tackle life so luxuriously. What we were left with was something grand indeed.
It seems with these small and wonderful things in this life, we can only hope for the magnificent bursts of beautiful flame to last and hope that’s how the cookie crumbles downward. But as The Gun Club preached in returning from the mountain with the Fire Spirit’s beautiful light beaming in our head, “no-one will expect all of me, so the fire…will stop.” And so it is with rock and roll. It’s our duty to feed that wild famished flame and forget not what a little bit of rebel spirit can do. Feed your local musician, attend your local shows! Jump, shout, move your feet and let your fists be recognized as they chug away. It’ll do good things to your head and surely inspire others to join the march.
Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster - Royal Society
So what exactly would manifest if, say, Nick Cave and Iggy
Pop joined together in perfectly nasty rock and roll whoopee? I think the end
product would be a little rock and roll devil child known as The Eighties
Matchbox B-Line Disaster. Their place and purpose on this earth is a nasty path
walked with a dashingly sinister grin. Start with a delectable serving of
twisted bedtime narratives peppered with inspiration from the likes of Brothers
Grimm and other gothic ne’er-do-wells, throw in a dash of thrash and slash
manic lunacy and you’ve got the album Royal Society. These fellows aren’t trying
to be bad, they simply exist on the toxic ingredient with which they were
conceived and that’s what makes them so incredibly legit.
The album seems to be split like some two-headed serpent slithering
up through the bowels of Hades. The first half; crunched and jingly tales of
caution and madness dipped in a witch’s brew of devil’s hymns. But where ‘The
Dancing Girls’ creeps to an unsettling close ‘The Fool’ takes over and a second
personality takes hold, grinding the psychobilly fanatics of The Cramps through
a thrash metal coalition of country fried western and the best of British garage
rock. “Give me your heart cuz I feel like the tin man!” Lux Interior would be
proud. The songwriting gives the impression these lads put pen to paper in some
thick wooded cabin listening to the darkest of Black Sabbath’s catalogue. The
songs ‘Puppy Dog Snails’ and ‘Drunk on the Blood’ come to mind with their demented
chorus recalling some of the most impish of medieval folklore.
versatility and potential. It’s hard to describe in words the atomic force
behind the mad preacher vocals riding the guitar like a ghostrider tearing
straight out of hell. It’s a soundtrack for that long infernal drive through
Death Valley on a summer day. Pop it in and fly like a bat straight outta hell!
My hands have been nailed to this album for more than a year and the zest hasn’t
worn. It’s time tested and just as exhilarating. Find it somewhere, get it
imported, it’s a tough one to find but very worth the search. It’ll put faith
back into the void of great rock and roll acts.
Entrance - Prayer of Death
The future of the blues. Death rattle poetry dipped heavy in the deep, dark, thick batter of sonic hell, I don't think I've been this excited about a musical find in a long time. This is The Gun Club meets Sonic Youth and The Cramps if Jeffrey Lee Pierce had foreseen his ill-fate a year before his untimely death and had time to construct his magnum opus.
From the very first track, Grim Reaper Blues we're ensnared with intrigue by the nefarious ambient strings that creep in and then like spiked lashings we're knocked out by the enormity and desperation of this guitar. Once the initial shock and excitement of this epic track settles in, the banshee wail of Guy Blakeslee knocks us in the back of the head and off our feet once again. And the record continues as such, relentlessly surprising us with its ferocity. Its a big sound and very ambitious piece, working string arrangements, violin, and even sitar into the mix with a very big result. It's an otherworldly experience. The music transcends the feel of a modest band laying down blues licks and brings forth visuals of the darkness swimming about in blakeslee's head. All his work previous was child's play. I wonder if this album has been on his mind all along or if it just bubbled over restlessly. Regardless, it's absolutely enthralling.
The Entrance outfit seems to be shrouded in mystery. Not much at all can be found in the way of news or tour information, it truly seems to be a vehicle of ambition and whim for Blakeslee, releasing music when he wants and however he wants. More power to the fellow, it makes his career all the more captivating.
From the very first track, Grim Reaper Blues we're ensnared with intrigue by the nefarious ambient strings that creep in and then like spiked lashings we're knocked out by the enormity and desperation of this guitar. Once the initial shock and excitement of this epic track settles in, the banshee wail of Guy Blakeslee knocks us in the back of the head and off our feet once again. And the record continues as such, relentlessly surprising us with its ferocity. Its a big sound and very ambitious piece, working string arrangements, violin, and even sitar into the mix with a very big result. It's an otherworldly experience. The music transcends the feel of a modest band laying down blues licks and brings forth visuals of the darkness swimming about in blakeslee's head. All his work previous was child's play. I wonder if this album has been on his mind all along or if it just bubbled over restlessly. Regardless, it's absolutely enthralling.
The Entrance outfit seems to be shrouded in mystery. Not much at all can be found in the way of news or tour information, it truly seems to be a vehicle of ambition and whim for Blakeslee, releasing music when he wants and however he wants. More power to the fellow, it makes his career all the more captivating.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)