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 In
the topsy-turvy world of music and the business of life tis a truism that
the dice don't roll right on the Rock'n'Roulette wheels and over at the
pontoon tables of garage punk cards are easily pulled and switched in full
view of even the most pristine vision, the oldest Specsavers customers
could even be fooled by the sleights of hand of impresarios, not to
mention the fish-brained audiences switches of allegiance.
So it is that without some preposterous marketing hype - or I
guess due to the resulting success a stroke of genius - playing on clichés
of the Southern states and / or clashing black and white outfits The
Exploders could have occupied the space that the Kings Of Leon
shuffled their way into, and that The Hives dominated, tho undoubtedly
more deservedly, for a few moments. They could still slink into the
slipstreams on the back of this release that, while a loooong way
from dribbling perfection, has a sense of a wider world outside the
stifling confines of the eternal, endless suburban garage conurbations. 'My
Country Brain' does a neat handbrake turn with inches to spare
just as The Hives limo's about to pull out to take 'em to another award
show, gunning the engine and filling the street with cloying banks of
petrol fumes and stuttering sten-gun guitars boxing in Michael Maker as he
tries to maneouvre his Mustang into clearer air out of the mushroom cloud-esque
meltdown of an impending 'Big Hair Revolution'. Once the
relevant authorities have brought a modicum of
calm to the area you can see the overall picture. 'Cowboy Jim'
is all Tyrannosaurus Rex flimsy whimsy down to Bolan-ic Larry The Lamb
vocals (tho TJ Allenders vocals are a tad more, if you will, Deirdre the
Dragon) and on both 'Stepping Out', the stand tall stand up
straight stand alone su-pearl-ative prime cut here, and 'Gods Above'
they have the frenetic, rice-shaking statuesque all glory of Thee Michelle
Gun
Elephant, in their minds eye envisioning vistas far beyond the gamut of
garage rock and in too many cases the tumbledown, weed shrouded garden
shed, adding splashes of West Coast comedown psychedelia with 'Hugh's
Lullaby' and the backward guitar sunset trance of 'Fuzz Bomb'.
But they never get too up their blue denim clad arses and when this type
of devoutly retro flag-waving can so easily turn into Reef's frog throated
ideas intolerant hive-inducing horror then the odd
more-diamante-than-diamond track might be overlooked in favour of the
stunning shop-girl-becomes-model swing of 'Stepping Out',
which would make The Maharajahs toss, turn and reform The Strollers.
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