PB Army- Inebriates Equivocators and Mockers of the Devil Himself *
Although
it’s been in heavy rotation at Sleazegrinder headquarters for a month now, I
will fully admit to not ‘getting’ this record in any way, shape, or form the
first time around. Lots of really cool things start that way, though- I mean,
eating pussy kinda freaked you out the first time, right? But just like
cunnilingus, you jump back in, and before you know it, yer lapping it up like a
kitten to a saucerful of milk. The source of my early trepidation is PB Army’s
inherent weirdness. They are strange fuckers, of that there’s no question. Just
look at the goddamn title for an early indication. Then there’s the singing
drummer thing, which, as far as I know, only ever worked with Canuck proto-speed
metal band Exciter, and it might not even have worked with them, but they were
too loud to tell. I’m assuming voice, skins, and point-man Keith Bergman didn’t
record the drums and vox at the same time, so it hardly matters on disc, but
still, it’s an odd set up. Ask any rock band- the singer gets the chicks, and
the drummer gets blank stares, ‘cuz nobody even realizes he’s in the band. So,
what happens when they’re one and the same? What then?While we’re on the subject of the esteemed Mr Bergman, I must mention, although PB Army are, unquestionably, a motherfucking, ass kicking, rip-snorting rock and roll band, he sounds just like the guy from Devo. The guy from Devo by way of the guy from Clutch, maybe, but it does sound like he could break into a stonerrocking rendition of “Jocko Homo” any second. Which isn’t a bad idea, really, but the point is that he sounds nothing like the prototypical hard rock singer. Instead, he’s got a highly idiosyncratic delivery- somewhere betwixt new wave robot-speak, Scissorfight styled angry bellowing, and that low octave growl that those tiny devils always have when they’re dancing around Satan in black and white cartoon musicals from the 40’s. You might not know what I’m talking about now, but you will when you hear the record.
And
hear it you oughta, because after I settled into this batcave of left-handed
supersonica, I was richly rewarded with a rollicking album full of
concrete-heavy grooves, jackhammer rhythms, and pleasantly disorienting swirls
of incidental psychedelia. Musically, it’s easy to point in a few general
directions- the aforementioned Clutch, Scissorfight, and, as logic would follow,
Puny Human. Helmet’s rigorous, mathematical pneumatics also come to mind, as
does Thin Lizzy’s warm, rich guitar tones. That doesn’t really explain much,
though, and that’s half the fun of the PB Army. See, these cars are smart,
bordering on clever, so they’d rather just throw a few clues at you, and let you
figure out the rest yourself. Of course, you don’t really have to think about if
you don’t want to. If you just close your eyes and dream of electric sheep,
you’ll roll along nicely with this record and it’s 5 minute long desert
sessions, as it strokes more than stabs, a smooth ride through hazy heat and
glowing green smoke. But if you’re into pep pills and code breaking and
conspiracy theories, you could wile away hours and days with this one, mapping
out intricate charts that time the drum rolls and chord changes, matching them
up to sea tides in Tunisia or serial killer gravesites in upstate Michigan…and
that’s not even including all the crazy-ass words Keith spouts here. I think
they’re all about the devil, although they may just be Christian rock in
reverse. And some of them appear to be travelogues for places that don’t
actually exist. It’s all part of the mad, mad world of the PB (Plebian? Peanut Butter? Powerball?) Army, and if you’re up to the challenge, then you really should check these almost Chicago, almost Detroit-based stoner-punks out. If you really want to, you can go ahead and say they sound kinda like Kyuss, in a seriously twisted way, but that’s a very small piece of the puzzle. Mostly they just sound like their own oddball selves, and if their not cult figures by now, well, maybe I’ll just start the cult myself. Bring your own Peanut Butter.
* I don’t ever wanna have to spell that title again. Christ.