New York Music Daily

No New Abnormal

Tag: garage music

A Sophomore Album from Darkly Excellent Garage-Psych Sisters Good English

Darkly bristling, fearlessly individualistic all-female Ohio power trio Good English – guitarist Elizabeth, bassist Celia and drummer Leslie Rasmussen – are a blend of improbable but very good influences.

Good English’s self-titled sophomore album is streaming at Bandcamp. It opens with Carolina, a mashup of cantering fuzztone garage psych, surf rock, Black Sabbath and maybe Pat Benatar before she got all goofy. The tensely pulsing Girl comes across as the bastard child of the Detroit Cobras and the early Boomtown Rats. On the Run, with its minor keys and three-part harmonies, sounds like Pins covering the Go Go’s.

Awash in reverb and a hailstorm of cymbals, the murderously slinky Wanderer brings to mind a more stripped-down Desert Flower. Wicked Eyes starts out like the band might go in a lame corporate “R&B” direction but then veers toward Sabbath and then dark garage. The catchy Cold Winds swings along with four-on-the-floor drums and fuzztone bass, while Lion’s Kiss has the feel of a female-fronted, noisy Steve Wynn outtake from the early zeros.

The Fire Walk starts off much the same and then goes in an even more ominous direction, a surreal, twisted late-night party scenario. The album’s punkest track, Atheist is a slap upside the head of mindless belief. Battle Scar opens with a gentle unease and then hits a riff-rock stomp; the album winds up with Line of Fire, an uneasy ballad following a similar path upward out of uneasy jangle and resonance to a murky roar. This is music for people who like to carry a flask, probably own a turntable and lots of vinyl and live for hot nights in cramped little venues packed with like-minded revelers trying to keep it together until the real estate bubble finally bursts.

The Legendary Shack Shakers Bring Their Expertly Menacing Party to the Bell House

The Legendary Shack Shakers are at the peak of their long career in creepy, sometimes macabre, cynical Americana party music. Frontman JD Wilkes has never sounded more in command of the dark side of every roots rock style ever invented: ghoulabilly, southwestern gothic, garage rock, punk and blues. They’re one of the few bands alive who can match the offhandedly savage minor-key intensity of Australian legends Radio Birdman. a band they often resemble. They’ve been hitting New York regularly over the last couple of years; their next gig is a headline slot at the Bell House on April 7. Raucous southern roots/jamgrass/honkytonk band the Pine Hill Haints open the night at 9; $15 advance tix, available at the venue box office, are your best bet.

The Shack Shakers’ latest album is The Southern Surreal, out from Jello Biafra’s label, Altenative Tentacles and streaming at Spotify. The first track, Mud, is a scampering, banjo-driven ghoulgrass shuffle. Its funniest number is Misamerica. 60s noir garage as Stiv Bators would have done it circa 1979, or Radio Birdman at three-quarter speed. “Bloody lipstick all over her teeth…the queen of idiocracy…from the party line to the tv screen,” Wilkes intones.

Cold, a loping gothic cowboy ballad, wouldn’t be out of place in the Mark Sinnis catalog; then guitarist Rod Hamdallah fires off a Birdman riff as the chorus kicks in. Gloomy lyrics soar over snarling Stonesy guitars on The One That Got Away, which looks back to a classic Grateful Dead anthem. Let the Dead Bury the Dead blends tongue-in-cheek noir cabaret and punked out Tex-Mex, while Young Heart, Old Soul represents the lighter side of the band, a carefree, stomping ska number, like the Slackers with distorted guitars

Fool’s Tooth, a brief blues vamp with honking harmonica sets things up for Down to the Bone, a southern psych-soul vamp. They really mix things up here: Christ Almighty, a lickety-split update on the Yardbirds or early Pretty Things, gets followed by Demon Rum, a snidely nonchalant honkytonk piano number.

Buzzard & the Bell, by drummer Chris Whitacre, makes a creepy shuffle out of a 1920s style Greek gangster tune, like Greek Judas in English. The album closes with a similarly menacing, slinky take of the Albert King blues classic Born Under a Bad Sign. The tracks are punctuated by fragmentary, sardonic samples including a really grisly roadkill story.

Their 2003 album Cockadoodledont also got a welcome reissue recently and is up at Spotify as well. Its first track, Pinetree Boogie is dirtier than the Yardbirds but tighter than, say, Knoxville Girls. The swamp-rock CB Song offers a darker take on a silly novelty genre. Help Me From My Brain spices frantic World Inferno circus-rock with eerie Romany and Balkan riffs

Shakerag Holler welds a slyly shuffling oldtimey blues to a split-second detour into hardcore punk. Hunkerdown bounces along on a familiar Doors riff, while Clodhopper goes in a sardonic jug band direction. Bullfrog Blues mashes up Radio Birdman and an Otis Rush classic, with more of that honking blues harp.

Blood on the Bluegrass foreshadows punkgrass bands like the Devil Makes Three. Devil’s Night Auction is your basic rockabilly dressed up in a flickering Halloween costume. Wild Wild Lover offers a nod to the haphazard shuffles of the early Gun Club, while the cover of Slim Harpo’s ShakeYour Hips improves on the Stones version, although it’s not as feral as Randi Russo’s. The album winds up with the punkabilly Hoptown Jailbreak It’s good to see this back in print: you will probably get some of both albums and a lot more in Gowanus on the 7th.

A Monstrously Intense, Reverb-Drenched Album and a Greenpoint Show by Twin Guns

Twin Guns play some of the most deliciously menacing music of any band in New York. Their third album The Last Picture Show is streaming at Bandcamp. They’ve got a show coming up on February 24 at 8 PM at the Good Room, 98 Meserole St. (Manhattan/Lorimer), cattycorner from the Greenpoint YMCA. The closest train is the G to Nassau; you can also walk from the L at Bedford. Cover is $6

Frontman Andrea Sicco plays with as much or maybe more reverb than any other New York guitarist. The eleven tracks here range from horror surf, to stomping Cramps garage punk, to the occasional departure into 60s biker rock and snatches of film noir themes. The opening track, Temperature Rise has a pummeling monsterwalk groove – supplied by drummer “Jungle Jim” Chandler, whose credits include playing with the Cramps – over which Sicco layers chainsaw fuzztone riffage, a handful of spare, neat trumpet voicings and bloody, teardrop blue notes.

Fugitive cascades from a mean pickslide into a fuzzed-out attack, the early MC5 stampeding across the Great Plains, with a couple of savagely tasty horror surf interludes. Much as that band would frequently do, The First Time builds out of a vintage funk riff and makes a Frankenstein stomp out of it with tinges of ghoulabilly.

Over steady macabre sway with hints of Syd Barrett and twelve-string Laurel Canyon psychedelia, Johnny’s Dead tells the sad tale of a really popular guy who still managed to end up cold and blue in the back of a car. You might think that a song titled Maniac would be a fullscale rampage, but this one has a slow menace in the same vein as the Stooges’ Gimme Danger.

Twin Guns’ cover of Harlem Nocturne, the Duke Ellington classic reinvented as a surf tune by the Champs and the Ventures, moves like a trickle of blood down a slope, slowly congealing amid Sicco’s measured chordal blasts and shivery surf lines. The wall of reverb-tank noise that opens Trigger Jack hints that it’s going to go in a bludgeoning Link Wray direction, but instead Sicco takes it into creepy border rock, like Radio Birdman covering Calexico, up to a long, murderously sunbaked guitar solo. It’s arguably the album’s best song.

Living in a Dream has a chugging riff-rock pulse and echoingly sinister, lingering Coffin Daggers sonics. With its briskly hypnotic new wave groove, the wickedly catchy Now I Understand sounds like a mashup of Brian Jonestown Massacre and the MC5. The final cut is the title track, a slow, sad, Lynchian doo-wop ballad spun through a million doomed layers of reverb…and then it morphs into a lurid ba-bump noir cabaret-tinted sway. Compared to the band’s previous work, this is somewhat more bulked up – the addition of bassist Kristin Fayne-Mulroy was a subtle but important one for their sound. This would qualify as one of the best albums of 2016 except that it came out last year…and ended up on the best of 2015 page.

The Amphibious Man Bring Their Creepy, Cinematic New England Noir to the South Slope

Hartford, Connecticut six-piece The Amphibious Man call their music “road slaw.” It’s dark and haphazard, yet purposeful and tuneful, with enough of an over-the-guardrail vibe to make it genuinely menacing. Reverbtoned surf lines sit side by side with blasts of pure punk rock, cheap 60s b-movie mystery soundtrack sonics, coyly creepy spacerock organ, plus grey-noise synth and guitar effects that look back to the earliest days of psychedelia but also instantly identify the band’s sound as being from right now. Their latest album Witch Hips is streaming at Bandcamp; they’re playing Fifth Estate Bar, 506 5th Ave (12th & 13th Sts), in that nebulous neighborhood between Park Slope and Sunset Park on November 20 at 10 PM. Ghoulpunks Danse De Sade play afterward at around 11, cover is TBA. You can take the F to 7th Ave. and walk downhill, or the R to 9th St, which is closer, and go up.

The album’s opening track, Fischer Cat veers back and forth between swaying, reverbtoned Ventures clang and roaring gutter rock; the band layers squirrelly Mystery Science Theatre sonics under the guitars as it winds out. Jimmy – as in the leering mantra “Jimmy doesn’t like this” – would be straight-up 70s proto-metal all the way through if not for the blippy, minimalist fuzz-synth verse. South Whitney Pizza, which may or may not be about or inspired by a hometown pie-and-slice joint, has a murky 80s lo-fi new wave garage feel with its oily mudpuddle bass riffs over a steady, watery guitar tune.

The album’s best track, Halloweed, brings to mind what Big Lazy might have sounded like in their earliest days exploring lo-fi noir cinematics before they started playing out. A slow, lingering, distantly bolero-tinged noir guitar intro fuels the song’s rise toward fullscale Lynchian horror, then goes in a colder but equally macabre direction. Hartman Park artfully and enigmatically comes together out of more of that syncopated quasi-surf. The swaying, sarcastic, almost lullabyish The Devil’s Hopyard follows a similar tangent toward a hypnotically dancing back-and-forth swing. The album’s final track is the blasting Tombstone Luvin, which blends an eerily anthemic lo-fi post-new wave ambience with gritty, punk-inspired proto-metal. Guitarists Jason Principi and Mike Myrbeck, bassists Jake Downey and Jackie Hopkins and keyboardist/drummers Adam Heege and Shaun Burns get extra props for originality and ominous outside-the-box ideas. You might not think that an album that sounds like this might be one of the best to come over the transom here this year, but it is.

Irresistibly Funny, Jangly Soul-Flavored Sounds from Larry & the Babes

Larry & the Babes have a fun, catchy, snarky self-titled cassette debut album, The Dolphin Tapes, streaming at Bandcamp. What’s cool and different about them is how they mash up all kinds of retro 60s styles – doo-wop, Phil Spector bubblegum pop, soul balladry and hints of Nashville gothic – and turn all of it into an original sound. Some of their songs come across as a less punk take on what Nashville group Clear Plastic Masks do with vintage soul. And their lyrics are really funny.

“You think I’m the perfect person, but I’m made of wax…you’re gonna melt me so I’ve got to stop you in your tracks,” the singer intones on the opening cut, Perfect Person, “You shat on my tv show.” WTF?

The second track, HCDB is a charmingly jangly update on Orbison bolero-pop. The band takes a stomping detour into wah-infused garage rock with Bad Dog and then offers an amiable latin-soul shout-out to one of the world’s most annoying voices, Fran Drescher. Seriously: who wouldn’t want to “shoot the shit and eat tofu” with the actress? Um, ok. The last and most unselfconsciously pretty track is Mostess. This band sounds like they’re a lot of fun live: fans of entertaining, irreverent bands from the Brooklyn What to the Dead Milkmen ought to check them out. They’re at Palisades in Bushwick tomorrow, Thursday, Feb 19 at around 10.

Des Roar Bring Their Unhinged Menace to Rough Trade

Des Roar may look back to Phil Spector pop for inspiration, but there’s a leering, lurking Lynchian creepiness in what they do. And they’re not exactly a pop band. Punk would be a better way to describe them – in a genuine sense. Des Roar’s kind of punk goes back to bands like the Jesus & Mary Chain or even the Dead Boys, when punk meant breaking any rules around rather than playing harmless, conformist, G-rated uh-AW-oh songs, the kind of stuff that Jello Biafra calls “shut up and shop music.” They’re at Rough Trade on Feb 18 at around 11 preceded at around 10 by retro soul band the Jay Vons. Advance tix are $10.

Like a lot of bands who got their start in the zeroes, it’s been awhile since Des Roar put out an album. Their most recent one, Mad Things, came out in 2009 and is still out there, streaming at Grooveshark. The centerpiece, a real classic, is Ted Bundy Was a Ladies Man. The version here is a lot cleaner and janglier than the absolutely harrowing version on the band’s 2008 debut release, When in Rome, but the pouncing stalker blues tune fits the creepy, sarcastic lyric. “He killed 38 women in five different states, it’s getting out of hand,” frontman/guitarist Ben Wolcott deadpans. Likewise, the gleefully menacing, swaying Confessions of a White Widowed Male, a chronicle of 36 fewer murders fueled by lead player Alan O’Keeffe’s echoey slide guitar.

The brooding, amped-up minor-key new wave tune King of Cuffs raises the suspense by keeping it at arm’s length: it wouldn’t be out of place in the catalog of legendary dark NYC new wavers DollHouse. Wolcott’s deadpan menace and savage sarcasm match the blackly propulsive groove of The Ballad of Little Bangs, a gorgeous, classic late 70s-style powerpop number pushed along by Ryan Spoto’s bass and Lyla Vander’s drums.

The J&MC – who Des Roar like to cover onstage – are evoked most visibly on the careening, swaying Sparrow, a sideways tribute to a now-dead Oxycontin addict; the savage Daddy’s Girl, a kiss-off to a rich bitch who has to run away and “hide in the hills…cause nobody’s gonna take your shit anymore;” and Finish What You Started, which Vander sings. The callous When in Rome, with its faux Motown groove, keeps the cruel sarcasm front and center: “You’re just my New York City fling.” Wolcott sneers. Vander and Wolcott duet on How Much Is Too Much – it’s practically punk Abba, but too funny/creepy, especially when she threatens to throw acid in the face of any girl who messes with her guy.

There are also a couple of less overtly hostile numbers here: Baby You’re Too Young, which evokes the Clash’s cover of Booker T’s Time Is Tight, and Not Over for Me, akin to Sonny and Cher doing a secondhand Lee Hazlewood soul-blues tune but with gritty 80s production values.

Des Roar also have a Soundcloud page with a bunch of first-class singles, including the horror surf-inflected The Watchers; the downstroke punk-pop of Watch Your Step, which the Strokes only wish they had the balls to have written; the grimy Diddleybeat surf-punk Hallucinations, and the Link Wray-inspired Paranoia.

The Electric Mess Headline a Kick-Ass Triplebill at Union Pool on Thursday

The Electric Mess distinguish themselves from the legions of garage rock imitators out there in a lot of ways. For one, they have a heavier, more Detroit- and Australian-influenced sound. Much as they’ve got the swirly Farfisa organ and the stomping rhythms, they aren’t just recycling old riffs: you know, one-one, FOUR-FOUR, one, chucka-chucka-chucka, repeat for two minutes thirty seconds. And where most bands are lucky to have a single strong songwriter, the Electric Mess have three: singer/percussionist Esther Crow (aka Chip Fontaine), savagely Deniz Tek-influenced guitarist Dan Crow and bassist Derek Davidson. They’re headlining a good triplebill at 11 at Union Pool on Jan 29 that starts with retro 60s soul band the Jay Vons at 9 followed by the catchy, jangly all-female Party Lights. Cover is eight bucks.

The Electric Mess also make excellent albums. Their latest one, House on Fire is streaming at Bandcamp. Guitarist Crow’s Better to Be Lucky Than Good opens the record: it’s sort of a less frantic take on what Radio Birdman was doing with Aloha Steve & Danno, the sonic attack anchored by Oweinama Biu’s tremolo organ. The catchy, barely two-minute title track sounds like a Steve Wynn song if he’d been recording back in the 60s. Another Birdman-style sizzler, Beat Skipping Heart ponders the impact of a girl who’s both a “biscuit roller and a barrel stack.” The album’s best track, Winding Stairs pairs a swaying, brooding four-chord minor-key verse with a bittersweetly anthemic chorus. And the longest number here, Every Girl Deserves a Song, draws a jaggedly druggy line back toward the MC5 with diversions through acid-scarred Stooges wah psychedelia and Brian Jonestown Massacre hypnotics.

Esther Crow also contributes three songs. The first is the Brill Building garage anthem She Got Fangs, with its droll Hendrix quotes – does the Brill Building have a garage? In the basement, maybe? The second is Leavin’ Me Hangin, which with Craig Rogers’ pummeling surf drums sounds like a mashup of the previously mentioned Birdmen and the Fleshtones. The last one is Lemonade Man, a twisted stalker’s tale.

Davidson has five songs on the album. She’s Got Something to Say is like a tighter version of Them; Get Me Outta the Country is a galloping mashup of Blues Magoos and Reducers. The ominously vamping There’s Nothing You Can Do offers a tip of the helmet to a certain Radio Birdman classic, while The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave is a kiss-off to noodge. Davidson’s final track here is You Never Come Around Anymore, which wouldn’t be out of place on a Plan 9 album from that band’s peak era back in the 80s. Fans of this era’s best garage and psychedelic retroists like the Allah-Las will love this band.

Garage Punk Madness at Don Pedro’s in Bushwick This Saturday

Marauding garage-punk trio Sun Voyager have a split ep out with Greasy Hearts (streaming at Bandcamp, and also available on cassette, yay). The opening track, Desert Dweller, is the best one, a truly gorgeous feast of multitracked, distorted Fender Twin guitar amp sonics. It’s like a slightly less noisy version of what the Skull Practitioners do. Mind Maze, Sun Voyager’s second track, sounds like something from the Boomtown Rats’ first album if that band had switched out the punk for stoner garage production values. The last one, Let It Ride has trickier rhythms and a searing, tone-bending guitar solo out. Greasy Hearts’ three contributions to the ep include one with a Coney Island High-style late 80s/early 90s punk-metal swagger, a more trad garage tune and then a surprisingly eclectic number with echoes of both oldschool soul and vintage Sabbath.

Another heavily Sabbath-influenced track is Sun Voyager’s latest single, God Is Dead (also up at Bandcamp). Both bands are playing the King Pizza Records mini-festival which starts at 4 PM this Saturday, Dec 13 at Don Pedro’s. Sorry for the short notice, but the show never made it onto the radar here: the venue’s calendar hasn’t been updated in a couple of months.

Singles for 10/25 – Going to the Back of the Garage

No comic relief today, just dark-ish garagey sounds – Halloween is coming after all. Here’s Majestico revisiting a gutter blues sound that was all the rage on the Lower East Side twenty years ago (youtube).

The High Learys’ Clear My Mind is the Doors circa 1967 mashed up with the Kinks – cool stuff with vintage organ (soundcloud). And Seattle band Mega Bog’s Year of Patience reminds of British revivalists Comet Gain a couple of decades ago, scampering dreampop-tinged female-fronted janglerock with a little bit of Brill Building la-la’s and some real nice alto sax drenched in reverb (soundcloud).

Two Intense Guitarists Steal the Show at the Mercury

Wednesday’s show at the Mercury ultimately boiled down to great lead guitar. Expat Australian five-piece band Reserved For Rondee are tight and talented, lead player Billy Magnussen proving to be the star of that particular show. You might assume that a band opening for the Last Internationale would think segue, backloading their set with the heavy stuff. Reserved for Rondee did the opposite. Then again, like so many bands from down under, they have zero regard for convention, mixing up genres that make no sense at all together. And most of the time it worked. Early 70s stoner rock with disco bass and drums? Check. Classic Motown mashed up with new wave, but heavier? Doublecheck. But the their best stuff came early in the set, Magnussen firing off searing, lickety-split blues riffage over beats that drummer Warren Hemenway switched up effortlessly from funky to dinosaurian, in an In Through the Out Door way. Rhythm guitarist Nick Focas and bassist Tom Degnan supplied the catchy changes as Magnussen spun through volleys of icy bluesmetal, hitting his volume pedal, mixing up the reverb and delay and a little later, wailing through a vintage analog chorus effect for a deliciously shivery, watery tone.

The only song that didn’t work, at least musically, was a shout-out to the band’s new home, Bushwick. First there was some shameless borough-centric namechecking in the same vein as what bands like the Easybeats were doing 45 years ago, tossing around gratuitous American references in hopes of scoring a hit here. But then there was a surprise: the gentrifiers at the center of the song see their “boutique everything” world disintegrate and end up on the street with their less fortunate neighbors!

By the time the Last Internationale hit the stage, the place was packed. Guitarist Edgey Pires comes from the same place as Magnussen, although his brand of blues is more unhinged and raw, part Fred “Sonic” Smith, part Jon Spencer. Where Magnussen varied his textures,  trebly Fender Twin natural distortion was enough for Pires to work with, delivering highs that shrieked and whined when he wasn’t flailing his way through terse, hypnotic vamps, wielding his reverb-fueled chords and savage, bluesy swipes like a machete. Frontwoman Delila Paz began the show playing a gorgeous vintage Vox Teardrop bass, switched to acoustic guitar a little later and then put it down for the rest of the show, swaying and belting with an impassioned, throaty intensity and a wide-angle vibrato. Most of the set was new songs from a forthcoming album due out later this summer, the best of which, We Will Reign, sounded like Patti Smith fronting the MC5. Both comparisons extend beyond the music to Paz’s defiant, confrontational lyrics. Her most memorable line reflected how quickly a hippie peace-and-love vibe collapses when the cops show up and send in the stormtroopers. Strangely, Paz’s most intense moment behind the mic – an anguished a-cappella gospel interlude – was the one place where she lost the crowd. Then drummer Brad Wilk (formerly of Rage Against the Machine) kicked in and everybody shut up and listened.

Green Party Lieutenant Governor candidate Brian Jones introduced the set and explained his platform. Universal single-payer healthcare met with barely any response, but when Jones mentioned returning to this state’s previous, decades-long policy of free college tuition at New York State schools, the crowd roared. And They responded even more energetically to raising the minimum wage to $15 an hour. Jones backloaded his own little set by promising to legalize marijuana if elected and received the kind of cheers you would expect from a crowd in a city whose new mayor hasn’t delivered on his own vow to back off on pot busts.