More noisy garage punk amazingness, this time from Australian's own The UV Race. We're talking a COMPLETE mess here, as in glorious. Atonal, shuddering squalls of bratty, sneering pop disgust. Huggy Bear on quaaludes. Art rock that sounds like it's being made with (or by) Actual Rocks. This is pop music that makes a point of Not Giving A Fuck about pop music... or Punk Rock so giddy and youthful it simply cannot manage to look/act cool for even a second (except for smirking dude on the right side of the photo, but, y'know... guitar players. What can you do?).
Still not sold (what's WRONG with you)? Okay, here's a fast one and a slow one off the Knife Fight EP. "Frustration" (the slow one) does the same trick as "Boredom" by the Buzzcocks, both embodying and transcending its subject matter, albeit in a much more fuzzed-out, detuned Baby Sonic Youth way. "I Hate You" (the fast one, duh) clatters along on pantomime contempt, until all the noise drops away at the one minute mark to reveal the sax bleats that have been subliminally giving the song its hook. FUCK, I wish I'd thought of doing that.
Knife Fight has two more amazing songs on it, and is still probably available at yr local Punk Rock Emporium. The real news, however, is that th' Race have just put out a full-length called Homo which is SUBSTANTIALLY BETTER than the EP. Which you'd better believe took some goddamn doing. Go grab it so's it can dominate any top ten lists you plan on making this year.
Here are Tyvek. They represent that elusive "Hope For The Future" thing that us Jaded Rock Creeps are all the time chasing. They are that rarest of all creatures, a Garage Punk band that actually has two ideas to rub together (did I seriously just write that? Christ, what a prick. We're in a goddamn Garage Golden Age, there's so much rad shit going on! There's amazing stuff coming out by Black Time and The UV Race and Human Eye and Hygiene and TV Ghost and).
So what's the deal? Well, Tyvek have done two albums so far, both great. The first (self-titled) one is "shambolic" in that it sounds like the Velvets and Swell Maps but tougher, and catchier, and very noisy and wasted. There's lots of meandering atonal interludes between songs, which would be kind of a pain in the ass if the catchy "proper song" parts weren't SUPER compelling. Which they are, obvs. The second album is called Nothing Fits and it's on In The Red Records, who seem determined to sign at least seventy-five percent of the Bands That I Like, so that's an early Christmas Tip for you goofs. Nothing Fits is a goddamn BEAST of an album. It's like the first album, but boiled down into a thick paste. All the noisy bits have been stuffed INTO the songs, and all the tunes and energy and wit are ultra-concentrated. Are Tyvek still "experimental"? Yes, but only if said experiment can be completed within the confines of a minute-and-a-half punk barnstormer. Fucking amazing.
This is how you do it, kids. Smart, but not pretentious. Tough, but not neanderthal. And changing styles from album to album without losing yr identity is one HELL of a good look. I'm super excited for the next album.
Here's four Tyvek songs for you: "Burning Building" (the hands down best song on the first album), "Frustration Rock" (one of a gang of contenders for second place on the debut, beating out its pals because of some sharp lyrics and some mid-song counting, which I am a sucker for), "Underwater 1" (my favorite off Nothing Fits), and "Potato" (also off Nothing, and yes it really is about cooking potatoes. Mostly.). All four are total rockers. What kind of joint do you think I'm running here?
It seems like only yesterday (it WAS yesterday, is why) that I was walking around "the office" bitching about how much I hate it when hip-hop acts perform with live bands. Well. Clearly, an exception must be made.
These guys are Death Grips. The drummer is the dude from Hella. They're probably my favorite thing as of Right Now (1:38 PST, July 17 2011) and they can Do No Wrong. You should probs hurry over to their website, which hosts a ton of amazing videos and a free download of their mixtape, Exmilitary.
What will you be getting? Oh, I'm so glad you asked.
You'll be getting scorched earth lyricism ("Secret order, elitist horde of creeping fire, seizing power, riders of the lupus hour") that still manages to be uplifting and energizing (in a bleak, desperately fucked way). You'll be getting totally dusted beats and giant walls of avant-noise. And you'll be getting some SERIOUSLY intense performances... like Wu-Tang Clan turned up five notches or M.O.P. turned down two. Some lesser scribe said Exmilitary was like getting yelled at by a hobo for forty-five minutes, and I think that was supposed to be some kind of insult. Whatever, square.
This is a rich, deep album. Despite the overall theme of tooth-grinding intensity, there's a surprising amount of tonal variation in the songs. Sure, it's mostly neck-snapping Break Shit Music, but Death Grips also tackle moments of existential contemplation, wild joy, and even bravery and dignity. Also, these dudes (and lady) are exactly the kind of Pop Music Obsessives I want making beats. Sampling Black Flag and The Doors and The Crazy World of Arthur Brown? Building a whole song out of Link Wray's "Rumble"? Fuck yes please and thank you.
If you think you can live without an album that references both EPMD and The Minutemen, you are clearly the Greatest Fool In The World, and I can do nothing for you. The only sane response to Exmilitary is to send Death Grips all yr money and begin holding yr breath for the proper album release. I want a West Coast tour ASAP.
Full disclosure: it is entirely possible that the back of my head features fairly prominently in the above video. While I understand that giving a glowing write-up to my pals in Rib Cages could be seen by some as a shameless fame-grab, I assure you that it is nothing of the sort. Yes, the back of my head BADLY wants to be famous. No, that is not my motivation for writing this piece.
Instead, I write to address an imbalance that has been giving me the fits lately. To wit: if the media is to be believed, my city's (Portland, Oregon) music scene is full of fucking WIMPS. The Decemberists. The Shins. Stephen "Pencil Neck" Malkmus. Modest FUCKING Mouse. This is to say nothing of the legions of soundalikes (And And And, my Pavement records and I are looking at YOU), folk-rock candyasses (Shaky Hands, you PUSSIES) and out-and-out ABOMINATIONS (Sallie Ford And The Sound Outside).
But! This perception is FALSE, I tell you! Rock and/or Roll live and breathe in Portland, despite what those demented scribblers of the Music Press would have you believe. Rock (and/or) Roll of the sort embodied by RIB CAGES.
What we're dealing with here is yr basic garage-rock with a few crucial innovations. One! The guitar (played by "Nation") is an electric twelve-string, so every chord is turned into a blizzard of noise and chaos. Two! The rhythm section ("K-SE" and the more reasonably-named "Josh") play like they are fucking POSSESSED, with the end result that Three! the tempos never dip below "blistering". Which, for those of you who remember this earlier lesson, goes a hell of a long way to making your band "awesome."
My gift to you today is the only Rib Cages 7-inch that made it out before the band's (temporary?) dissolution (if any of my readers are in the Chicago Metro area, please tell K-SE to get his ass back here so his band can start demolishing clubs again). Four songs. Seven minutes (not even). Flawless victory. You should buy a copy from 'em so yr not a total deadbeat.
In related news, The Best Show on WFMU recently played "Lock Horns" from this very 7-inch. I think this is the best thing that has ever happened to anyone I know, ever, and YES that includes your stupid marriage/kid/promotion/Nobel Prize. This is the goddamn Best Show we're talking about. Congrats, boys. I'm super jealous.
Picture it: Olympia, 1998. The Make-Up are in town to do their post-situationist Fake Soul puppet show and I am the kind of guy who WILL NOT MISS THAT PUPPET SHOW. There is an opening act, because that is how These Things Go. The opening act is (somewhat unfortunately) called The Starlite Desperation. They are a shamelessly recidivist blues-inflected rock band. They have a singer named Dante who has really high cheekbones and wears his silk shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned. They rock effortlessly and don't give a fart about politics. While Ian from the Make-Up disguises his sexual come-ons with a massive dose of Critical Theory, The Starlite Desperation opt for sped-up Gun Club riffs and a whole lot of strutting and pouting. It is not a very good disguise. Olympia Washington realizes that The Starlite Desperation are trying to fuck her. Olympia Washington is displeased. In the extreme.
I, fool that I am, love the shit out of The Starlite Desperation. I dance Right Up Front By The Stage. I Give It Up. And then I wonder why none of the vagina-having population of Olympia will talk to me. Perhaps I have an incomplete understanding of Critical Theory.
So, here we are in 2011, and is anybody still listening to their Make-Up albums anymore? I think not. Instead, please give this highlight reel from The Starlite Desperation a try. Included are two jams each from their first two albums (Show You What A Baby Won't and Go Kill Mice) and the Hot For Preacher seven inch. While it's totally inspiring and politically awesome that most punk bands just formed yesterday and can barely hold their instruments AS A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE, th' Desperation sure make a valid case for Knowing How To Fucking Play. Witness the effortless drum/guitar dialogue on "What I Want" and the EPIC (eight minutes plus) "Go Kill Mice". Dig how quickly "New Year's Bathroom Magic" goes from pretentious amateurism to manic perfection (hint: 52 seconds). Consider that "Messed Up Head" was released by the same label that dumped The Locust on an unsuspecting public, and marvel at how much better The Starlite Desperation have aged than their wimp-violence candy-ass sci-fi meth head contemporaries.
And. Then. Bask in the utter perfection that is the Hot For Preacher seven inch. Produced by the legendary (ex-Gun Club, Ex-Bad Seed) Kid Congo Powers, this is one of the finest Rock Singles Of. All. Time. Subliminal screams. Echo and swagger. Vocal hysteria. Feedback. And, at two minutes twelve, some of the BIGGEST GODDAMN GUITARS it will ever be your pleasure to meet.
And the b-side ain't too shabby, either.
So. Blues-rock. Without irony. Overt sexuality. Again, without irony. We used to call this rock n' roll, and we used to not think so goddamn much.
HEAVY CHAINS /// STONED STRIPPER from
Patrick Cruz on
Vimeo.
Above, find the video for "Stoned Stripper" by Vancouver punk super group (ugh) Heavy Chains. You'll be getting Andrea from Nu Sensae, Anne-Marie from White Lung, and Brodie McKnight from Sex Negative. They've got this EP thing called A Very Real Hell and it's pretty goddamn fantastic.
Basically, Heavy Chains take the classic "Grunge" formula and deconstruct it into punishing, warped, incoherent minimalism. And as long-time readers of this fine publication can tell you (hi, mom!), I like punishing, warped, incoherent minimalism QUITE A BIT.
The video track is the closest that Hell gets to standard songwriting, in that it actually has lyrics. The vocals on most of the other songs are just bloodcurdling shrieks, usually slathered with a heavy coat of crazy outer-space effects. The guitars and bass are ostensibly rooted in classic grunge tropes (mid-to-late seventies metal, psychedelic blues/punk) but the riffs are approached with such brutal repetition that they cease to offer the listener any reference points, so the only guides to where the songs are going are the drums and those awful, awful screams. Oh, and the guitars have crazy outer-space effects on them, too. Taken as a whole, it's like listening to old Nirvana albums while caught in a particularly violent hurricane.
So, here's "Shit Burning Piss Tubing" and "Commo Wire" off A Very Real Hell. No, you don't get the whole album. It just came out! Go buy it from Nu Sensae and White Lung, they're ALWAYS on tour, and god knows they can use the money.
There is a question that every practitioner of the rockwrite has learned to fear: "So, who's your FAVORITE BAND?"
On its surface, this query is innocence itself. All I do around this joint is opine about musics. Surely there must be one I like the best... the toppermost of the poppermost, as the Limeys like to say. It should pose no trouble at all to name that Blessed One... hell, one might even expect such action to give me PLEASURE.
But. Such things are not simple. Such things are not Clean Cut. After a few decades of immersion in The Rock Game, most scribes find their tastes becoming... mercurial, I suppose. Rather than One True Love, we find a series of dalliances, changing our affections to fit a certain mood or fancy.
All of which is a lot of poncey bullshit cooked up to keep from answering a question that you, in all honesty, did not ask: Who is my favorite band? Well, this is where things get awkward (it is?). Because I must now admit (in mixed company) that my favorite band (at least twenty percent of the time) is a bunch of racist, misogynist, homophobic cowboy art-punks. From Scotland. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you... The Country Teasers.
Calm down. Be still. Cease your sputtering, "What... do you mean to say... how can you... are YOU... if... but then... ARE THEY REALLY?!" Yes. They are. And no. Or, at least, not entirely.
Perhaps singer/guitarist/mastermind Ben Wallers puts it best when he says "There is no bias on my hates... I will pick you all off, one by one, as you walk through the gates." Or perhaps he puts it best when he says "We are the Hitler of comedy, and everybody else is the Jew." Or perhaps "Personally I think, and this is just my point of view, ALL HUMAN LIFE SHOULD BE DESTROYED."
The Country Teasers exist in that magical place where one is so exhausted by the horrors of the world that a sob turns into a hysterical laugh. Where, upon viewing the grand agonies and tiny tortures that humans visit upon each other daily in the guise of "civilization", one sneers, takes a sip of whiskey, and says, "Aw, fuck it, what the hell." And then begins to laugh, long and loud and clear.
So, can one fault an artist for holding up a mirror to society if the reflection is TOO ACCURATE? TOO UGLY? Not when the artist is HILARIOUS. For such are The Country Teasers. All this misanthropy and gloom would be indescribably tedious if handled with po-faced seriousness (Michael Gira, I'm looking at you) or fake-macho aggression (Whitehouse, I'm looking at you), but the Country Teasers remember the cardinal rule of Being Offensive: You can get away with anything as long as you're funny.
So, what have we got here? Why, it's my own primitive stab at a Teasers Career Retrospective... a "Best Of," if you will. No, it cannot hope to capture the full glory of their vision. No, it cannot give a proper accounting of the subtle nuances (yes I said it shut up) that allow their songs to transcend shock comedy for the realm of the absurd, the triumphant, and (yes, even) the tender.
To business. First album, The Pastoral Not Rustic World Of Their Greatest Hits gives us a cover ("Stand By Your Man", which is always a chortle when a bloke sings it), a pseudo-cover ("Black Cloud Wandering"), and a stone-cold fucking classic ("Anytime, Cowboy") which serves as fine advice for any young couple hoping to manufacture a happy relationship in These Modern Times. The lads are in basic art-garage-country mode on this one. A fine effort, but it pales in comparison to...
And with that, I take my leave of you. Thanks for yr patience. A terrific interview with Wallers is HERE. Good night.
