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Tag: mystery lights band

More Delicious Retro 60s Psychedelia From the Allah-Las

The Allah-Las  – frontman/guitarist Miles Michaud, lead guitarist Pedrum Siadatian, bassist Spencer Dunham and drummer Matthew Correia – are one of the most tuneful and best-appreciated bands in a crowded field of psychedelic retroists including the Mystic Braves, Mystery Lights, Night Beats and a whole lot of other reverbtoned janglers and clangers. The California quartet’s latest album Calico Review is due out momentarily, meaning that it ought to be streaming at Bandcamp in a week or so. Testament to their popularity, their two-night stand this weekend at Baby’s All Right is sold out; fans in other cities on their current tour should take that into consideration in the case where advance tickets are available.

As usual, most of the songs on the new record clock in at around the three-minute mark. The lyrics channel a persistent unease, but ultimately this band is more about wicked hooks than words. This is their most overtly retro, Beatlesque release to date. It opens with the enigmatically sunny Strange Heat, driven by Siadatian’s spare, flickering mosquito leads over a muted backdrop: it’s the most Odessey and Oracle the band’s done so far in their career. They follow that with Satisfied, a very clever, rhythmically dizzying update on Taxman-era Beatles with a deliciously icy vintage chorus-box solo midway through. Then the band takes the energy up a notch with the late Velvets ringer Could Be You.

The band keeps the Velvets vibe going, but in a more delicate folk-rock vein, with High and Dry: the blend of acoustic and electric six- and twelve-string textures beats anything Lou Reed came up with in 1969. Tricky tempos and lingering twelve-string lines return in Mausoleum, which wouldn’t be out of place on a Church album from the mid-80s. Then Roadside Memorial mashes up early Yardbirds/Blues Magoos riff-rock with hints of vintage funk

The shapeshifting Autumn Dawn kicks off with a wry allusions to the most famous acid-pop riff ever, then struts along with echoes of mid-60s Pretty Things. Plaintive strings and misty mellotron add gravitas to the wryly acerbic, Magical Mystery Tour-tinged Famous Phone Figure: “What’s she got but a pretty face in real estate?” Michaud wants to know.

200 South La Brea – site of a casting agency – has a similarly sardonic feel, a return to What Goes On Velvets. The intro to Warmed Kippers hints that the song will go in a warped, noisy indie direction, then straightens out, straight back to the Fab Four. The group springboards off an iconic Dave Brubeck riff for the southwestern gothic of Terra Ignota; the album winds up with the sunny, summery, swinging Place in the Sun. The only thing about this album that’s not retro is the mention of a cellphone, a touch of funny surrealism amidst the period-perfect Vox-amped 1967 sonics.

Heaters Bring Their Envelopingly Tuneful Psychedelia to South Williamsburg

Heaters‘ new album Baptistina – soon to be streaming at Bandcamp, and available on both green and black vinyl – further cements their reputation as one of the world’s most consistently excellent dark retro psychedelic bands. What’s most impressive about them is that a close listen reveals how seldom they change chords. They can vamp out on one for minutes on end and it never gets boring because there are so many interesting things going on, texturally and melodically: repeaterbox echoes flitting through the mist, shifting sheets of feedback and jagged twelve-string guitar incisions in contrast with an enveloping quality that seems to draw on Indian classical music as much as it does classic 60s psychedelia. The trio – guitarist Nolan Krebs, guitarist/bassist Andrew Tamlyn and drummer Joshua Korf – also shift tempos on a dime, making things all the more strange and compelling. They’re playing the album release show at Baby’s All Right on August 5 at 10 PM; cover is $10.

The obvious influence is the 13th Floor Elevators, but there’s also a little early Country Joe & the Fish as well as Brian Jonestown Massacre in the mix as well as a whole slew of other influences. The sonics are period-perfect: guitars awash in reverb with a clanging, slightly tinny vintage Vox amp attack, trebly melodic bass hanging back with the drums. The opening track, Centennial, begins with a Byrdsy jangle and ends with White Light/White Heat guitar freakout .The lushly crescendoing Ara Pacis puts Syd Barrett on a Magical Mystery Tour bus, while the expansive soundscape Orbis brings to mind early Nektar.

Elephant Turner pounces along on a tricky fuzz bass riff, sinuous guitar interweave overhead. Garden Eater sets a nimbly scampering bassline over a steady, swirly stomp and then floats off into spacerock. Another catchy fuzztone bassline fuels Dali, which then sinks in a morass of trippy waves. Then the band picks things up again with Mango, referencing both the Kinks as well as early 70s proto-metal.

The resonant spacerock ambience returns as the band sets the controls for the heart of the sun in Voyager. The album winds up with the teasingly loopy instrumental Turkish Gold and then the catchy, propulsively tumbling Seafoam, Del Shannon on brown acid, winidng up with the longest, most searing guitar solo here. This is music for people who won’t settle for merely being stoned: it’s a soundtrack for getting high as a kite.

Their excellent, somewhat more kinetic previous album Holy Water Pool is also streaming at Bandcamp, for the most part. Kamikaze, a slowly simmering, echo-drenched minor-key neo-Elevators number, opens it, bass rising as the chorus winds up, twelve-string guitar piercing the reverb cloud. There’s also the loping and then frantic spaghetti western blues of Master Splinter; the careenng Highway 61 vamp Sanctuary Blues; Propane, with its spiky/drony neo-Velvets sway and artfully menacing rhythmic shifts. the jangly, catchy Hawaiian Holiday and its playful tv theme references; the uneasy Bakersfield twang-influenced Detonator Eyes; Bad Beat, a mashup of early Pretty Things, Brian Jonestown Massacre and Radio Birdman; the starlit stoner soul of Gum Drop; Honey, a Blues Magoos/Count Five hybrid; Cap Gun, which very cleverly nicks the chords from a new wave-era cheeseball hit; and Dune Ripper, part BJM, part Byrds. The band takes their time with each of these, although they don’t go on nearly as long as that previous sentence.

Darkly Glimmering Psychedelic Garage Rock Brilliance from the Mystery Lights

For the past few years, the Mystery Lights have built a devoted cult following for their shadowy, psychedelic garage rock. What differentiates them from every other bump-bump-BUMP-bump-bump, HEY band out there? They’ve got the trebly, reverbtoned vintage Vox amp sound down cold. Frontman/guitarist Mike Brandon delivers the requisite gruff, vintage soul-inspired vocals. But their songs are longer, and full of all kinds of interesting textures and touches you don’t usually find in bands who can ape everything on the original Nuggets compilation. What this band plays is a very old sound – yet they make it fresh and new and an awful lot of fun. They’re playing the album release show on June 24 at midnight at the Mercury; general admission is ten bucks. Then they’re off on US tour with fellow dark garage-psych band Night Beats.

Their debut full-length album isn’t out yet, so it’s not streaming at the group’s Bandcamp page, although fortuitously it will be available on vinyl. They go up the scale with a catchy four-chord progression to introduce the first song, Follow Me Home – with its creepy chromatic series of chords, Kevin Harris’ funereal organ and deft use of backward masking, it’s a cool update on classic 13th Floor Elevators. Drummer Noah Kohll’s flickering pulse underpins the lingering ultraviolet menace of L.A. Solano’s guitar as the band slowly makes their way through the ominous Flowers In My Hair, Demons In My Head, part Country Joe & the Fish, part late 60s Pretty Things, maybe.

Too Many Girls is funny, and pretty straight-up, in a Lyres/Fleshtones vein. Without Me is even catchier, a study in contrast between Alex Amini’s growling, melodically climbing bass and Solano’s mosquito lead lines. The stampeding Melt has a brooding flamenco tune at the center. The album’s best and darkest track, Candlelight, pairs moody minor-key organ against Brandon’s melancholy chromatic guitar lines – and then they take off on a breathless doublespeed sprint down the runway.

21 & Counting has an easygoing, swaying second-generation feel, like Rhode Island cult favorites Plan 9. Too Tough to Bear is the most trad, blues-based, Electric Music for rhe Mind and Body-type dirge here. Before My Own works the fuzztone sonics the band first made a name for themselves with. The album winds up with the uneasily swinging What Happens When You Turn the Devil Down, building to a machete thicket of guitar savagery.

On one hand, a lot of this is party music, but it’s just as enjoyable as late-night bedroom-floor or pass-out-on-the-couch music. Spin this record for a crowd of people who think garage rock is all cliches, and you’ll change a lot of minds.

Weird Night in Bushwick with Acid Dad

Went to the ‘Shweck last Friday night. It took a few rounds of shots and beers at one of the East Village’s few remaining oldschool, relatively tourist-free joints to fuel this trip to the belly of the beast. In case you haven’t been – and if you don’t live there, you almost assuredly haven’t – it’s Desolation Valley next door to Berlin after the war. Former crackhouses and future ones, since none of the spectacularly shoddy, even more spectacularly overpriced new prefab units are really meant to be lived in. They’re just lifesize game pieces for speculators who’re too chickenshit for the stock market. And yeah, as Eula’s Alyse Lamb has noted, what’s going on musically in Bushwick isn’t monolithic, and there are some good bands who play out there, and not everybody who lives there is an asshole. But so many of them are.

A publicist had sent word that a couple of good garage bands, Acid Dad and the Mystery Lights, would be playing a brand-new venue, Our Wicked Lady, just a couple of blocks from the Morgan Avenue L station, which made the night more appealing. It’s a decent enough club, although the setup is kind of weird – the stage faces the bar, with more space for spectators along the sides than directly in front. A spastic, dorky guitar-and-drums duo opened – they were awful. Then Acid Dad took their time setting up and throughout the set, interrupted it with attempts to get the sound just right – a common request was for more reverb on the vocals. C’mon, dudes, you’re playing through a Mackie and couple of JBL’s, what can you really expect?

But they were good, and they didn’t limit their recycled riffage to the 60s: the Jesus & Mary Chain and Brian Jonestown Massacre were also frequent reference points. The rhythm section was tight – apparently the bassist is leaving the band, which is too bad – and the frontman/guitarist played with a raw roar. He has good taste in equipment: a Mosrite running through a vintage Fender amp for purist tube amp sizzle. And the band stretched the songs out.

What was weirdest was the crowd. There were a couple of Russ Meyer girls decked out in the requisite black leather and eyeliner, and they were having a good time. But the rest of the crowd looked like a bunch of high school kids at their very first rock show…except that high school kids are typically full of energy and bouncing off the walls, right? These children were terrified! They couldn’t figure out if they should applaud or not, or, more visibly, whether they should be taking selfies. Meaning that they weren’t sure if they should be there. New venues usually ride a wave of buzz: was there some reason known only to the uber-trendy that made getting geotagged there a dangerous thing? Was the show missing the imprimatur of whoever decides what’s trendy in Bushwick? Obviously, it isn’t these kids deciding what they ought to be doing with all their leisure time – that would be too much work. Maybe the show wasn’t curated enough…or locavore enough, or ironic enough. Not that anybody there, other than the Russ Meyer girls, maybe, knows what irony is.

And all this raised the question of whether or not the Russ Meyer girls were just as clueless and lacking in inner direction as the fauxhemians. Maybe they were only drinking and bopping around because that’s what Russ Meyer girls  do: faster, pussycat! Go, go, go! What was clear beyond all this, after about 40 minutes, was that the Mystery Lights play elsewhere and that seeing them under less surreal circumstances would be a lot more fun. And by then it was getting dangerously close to the point where the trains were likely to go haywire (that actually didn’t happen until Saturday, which was a nightmare, and a story for another day). Not that the rest of the crowd would know anything about the subway – they take car services. Or Uber. But that’s a story for another day too.