The White Liars – Pharmacia 

“Pharmacia” almost zipped right passed my radar on account of the cover, featuring a drawing of a moon-eyed, pill-popping nurse, by one ‘Lemurgurl’ (sort of a saner Dame Darcy, although that ain’t saying much- Charlie Manson is saner than Dame Darcy). “Goth-folk” art does not scream “Psychotic rock and roll action” to me, and I was ready to write this one off as some kinda indie rock junk, and just call it a fuckin’
night. Luckily for us all, I took a quick look at their website, saw all the crazy talk about the MC5, and quickly replaced the cover with a 5” by 5” beaver shot from “Girls of Outlaw Biker”. Then I popped the fucker in.

Now, here’s a good sign that you’ve got a bad ass rock n roll record on your hands- you can perfectly synch up your best throaty werewolf howl during the opening riffs of every one of these songs. I dunno what possessed me to do this (the moon, probably), but it works. And isn’t that what rock and roll is supposed to do, anyway- bring out that barely tamed beast inside, and let it run around the room gnashing it’s teeth and getting spit all over the carpet for awhile? Straight outta the sun-dappled climes of Orange County, the White Liars are a “70’s influenced disaster” (their words, not mine, and for once, these honkies ain’t lying) of a power trio, and on “Pharmacia”, they will toss you tits-deep in a sludgy sea of feedback drenched psyche-garage-space metal-rollerboogie, and they obviously don’t give a fuck whether you know how to swim through it or not. These cats remind me of the pre-fame, pre-bloated irony of Sub Pop’s salad days - not only because they possess a spooky resemblance to “Big Muff” era Mudhoney, but because none of those dudes were interested in coming up topside and seeing what’s cooking on the current musical landscape either. They just did their thing, baby, and so do the Liars. “Pharmacia” is a meaty stew of Cramp-ed creepy crawling, Stooge-y brut-psychedelia, early Alice Cooper band snarl, Monster Magnet styled drug riffing, hammerhead grunge, and overdriven garage rock. It is all these things, all at once. It’s a glorious fuckin’ mess of distortion, panic, deep rumbling grooves, and rollercoasters of love flying right off the tracks. Oh, and hazy T. Rex bliss-outs. And self-referential ego trips that’re only ironic in sticky situations. And J Lo samples. It’s all kindsa things, really, but mostly it’s a monster of a goddamn rock record. And that, babies, ain’t no lie.