A
suitably named bunch here, filling that great void with another set of
darkly stoned psych trash trips belched from the failing exhausts of
middle America's garage land of Nuggets-nursing teens and woulda-beens.
Starting off with a great feedback squawk, running from pillar to post,
pounding the roads with the swing and stomp of 'Psychotic Reaction',
riding high with a cocksure sneer and a Sky Saxon shriveled paper voice,
vocalist Aubrey Nehring prancing in front of his bedroom mirror
imagining he's leering out of the TV screens of an earlier war damaged
America in an orange shirt, green waistcoat and purple velvet pants no
doubt, shaking his, er, tambourine suggestively for all those little girls
while the guitarist plays his 335 too high on his chest...it's also too
quiet and overall the organ is too prominent. If the organ was removed
from a track like 'Don't Wanna Go', or had less of a focus,
and there was some ghostly slide guitar wobbling over the top like a junky
finding a vein there'd be an eerie Gun Club / Spacemen 3 fog coming up the
river. As it is they float around in the air and drift off without you
really noticing, like another roach in an ashtray. Best track is possibly
the bluesy swing of 'Luanne', a late night lilt that Jim
Morrison would've lusted after. Perfect point for spliff heads too as it's
on fairly early, by which time the short term memory will have all but
gone if they ain't in slumber. I'm thinking it wasn't a very bright idea
whoever it was who allowed them the rope to record sixteen flaming songs,
unless it was a collective decision to record everything just incase they
don't get any more chances. I guess there'll always be room on the garage
grind circuit in a few hearts, and yes, behind a few blue and/or invisible
eyes, for such bands no matter how much water they tread in attempting to
trace that elusively ephemeral and errant something that'll make them rise
out of the sides of the psych quarry of pebbles.
________________________________________________________
A
suitably named bunch here, filling that great void with another set of
darkly stoned psych trash trips belched from the failing exhausts of
middle America's garage land of Nuggets-nursing teens and woulda-beens.
Starting off with a great feedback squawk, running from pillar to post,
pounding the roads with the swing and stomp of 'Psychotic Reaction',
riding high with a cocksure sneer and a Sky Saxon shriveled paper voice,
vocalist Aubrey Nehring prancing in front of his bedroom mirror
imagining he's leering out of the TV screens of an earlier war damaged
America in an orange shirt, green waistcoat and purple velvet pants no
doubt, shaking his, er, tambourine suggestively for all those little girls
while the guitarist plays his 335 too high on his chest...it's also too
quiet and overall the organ is too prominent. If the organ was removed
from a track like 'Don't Wanna Go', or had less of a focus,
and there was some ghostly slide guitar wobbling over the top like a junky
finding a vein there'd be an eerie Gun Club / Spacemen 3 fog coming up the
river. As it is they float around in the air and drift off without you
really noticing, like another roach in an ashtray. Best track is possibly
the bluesy swing of 'Luanne', a late night lilt that Jim
Morrison would've lusted after. Perfect point for spliff heads too as it's
on fairly early, by which time the short term memory will have all but
gone if they ain't in slumber. I'm thinking it wasn't a very bright idea
whoever it was who allowed them the rope to record sixteen flaming songs,
unless it was a collective decision to record everything just incase they
don't get any more chances. I guess there'll always be room on the garage
grind circuit in a few hearts, and yes, behind a few blue and/or invisible
eyes, for such bands no matter how much water they tread in attempting to
trace that elusively ephemeral and errant something that'll make them rise
out of the sides of the psych quarry of pebbles.