Page 32 - the NOISE September 2012

Buck!; Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy’; Ex-Cowboy.
Curtis Mayfield, Aretha, etc etc records cannot be reproduced in any way that is at all even a fraction as exciting as the real deal. I’ve heard a lot of bands try. In Arizona, I’m looking at Black Carl and Cold Shott, (but Cold Shott is more of a straight up tribute band.) The band that I’ve heard come closest is Wisconsin’s Kings Go Forth.
The Right Now are the latest to attempt this soulful rhythm and blues sound. And, drunk, at a bar or some sort of place, yeah, I’m on the dance floor, no doubt about it, shaking the der- rière that God has granted me. But this record- ing is so middle of the road, the lyrics so loaded with po mo clichés (“You left so many mes- sages on my phone”) I’m bored before track four even closes out in the emotional break- down you know it’s bound to. I think the main problem here is only two tracks clock under three minutes. (And six are over four minutes.) Let’s take moment to look at your Sam Cooke and Otis Redding records. How many of those songs take more than two and a half to get their broken heart or devotion to love across, and your booty shaking or your eyes leaking?
While time is not, the production on here, is very tight. Ripe for remixing and sampling. Would Kanye and Jay-Z have made a decent record together if not for Otis righteously sam- pled? Or are we just too far past that cultural moment already? Long essay or nip this in the
Treasure Mammal’s own live hit, “Bromance, ” and LA’s Whitman provides a solid dancey acoustic apt Southern California blues.
The payoff comes on the last track when the Minibosses bring in the big guns, the entire gun show, I Hate You When You’re Pregnant, himself, and they sturm and drang through the original Nintendo version of Batman as if it was the best rock opera ever written. Touches of Maiden, Thin Lizzy and Queen guitar and bass shred under the ultimate in dumb lyrics that I have to assume Phil Buckman wrote the bulk of which when he was playing the game while he was in sixth grade. With nary an ironic wink, the song is a near nine minute scorcher that makes that fake band Dethklok sound like the Carpenters.
I can’t see anyone but Gil himself claiming to love all these tracks, the lineup is so diverse and uneven, but the comp is worth getting for the cover art, the good tracks (whichever you decide those to be) and as a document and too-small sample of the Southwest’s two most ridiculously huge cities coming together and bringing it like the diverse thriving un- derground that exists in both shopping plaza- parking lot-freeway hellholes this side of the
and disappeared). In 2006, they absorbed the power duo Big Business to become a mighty double drummer juggernaut and create an even more hellish sludgy racket that will kill your plants, frighten your pets, irritate your neighbors, and make the ceiling tiles fall on your head.
Their latest project is Melvins Lite, which (temporarily) replaces the Big Businessers with Mr. Bungle’s Trevor Dunn on bowed standup bass, an instrument uncommon to hard rock. Luckily he’s a maniac on that thing. He even gets his own “Eruption”, titled “Inner Ear Rup- ture”, two minutes of Dunn sawing away solo.
Freak Puke is one of those weird curve- ball Melvins albums normal people hate. Not “grunge” enough (or “something” enough). It’s a sound for which there is no convenient genre
or label. No hits either, unless some brave clas- sic rock radio programmer adds The Melvs’ swampy take on Beatle Paul’s “Let Me Roll It.” I’m not holding my breath.
In September and October of this year, Mel- vins Lite plan to hit all 50 states and D.C. in 51 days, a Guinness Record. The fourth-to-last show of the tour is at the Crescent Ballroom in Phoenix on October 22. They’ll probably be on the edge of exhaustion but that’s OK because they play REEEAL slow.
Californian Ty Segall has only been on the scene since 2005 (solo and with various side projects) and already his discography is longer than my arm. The lad’s veins pump late ‘60s ga- rage rock, a damn good place for any musician to start. His previous releases carry a strange lo-fi Van Dyke Parks Produces The Beatles vibe, but Slaughterhouse is a whole new stack-o-wax.
The names Black Sabbath, Hawkwind and The Stooges have been tossed around describ- ing this album, and as lofty as that sounds it’s not too far off. Slaughterhouse is overdriven, noisy, loose, chaotic, riff-laden and tuneful from first track to last. It never lets up. Segall does his progenitors proud: “Wave Goodbye” is built on a riff The Melvins would smile at and say, “Ah, yesss. You have learned well.” Like Freak Puke, Slaughterhouse ends with a ten minute free-form implosion.
And it’s loaded with gems, most notably the Fred-Neil-via-The-Fabs cover “The Bag I’m In”, the three songs that clock in around 1:30, and the sublime “Tell Me What’s Inside Your Heart”,
the feel good hit of the year and a fine addition to the rotation of any radio station or I-Pod.
The only misstep is the sloppy first take Bo- Diddley-via-Captain-Beefheart cover “Diddy Wah Diddy”, which could have been a mam- moth punk rock nugget had Ty and band both- ered to play it right. “Hey gang, let’s do a half- assed version of a rock and roll classic we barely know the chords or lyrics to and piss all over it! Whee, we’re punk!” The studio chatter sounds fake as well. It’s near the end though, and by that time you won’t care because the rest of this record is so bitchin’. Great cover art too.
Hard rock rules. If people STILL don’t get it, play Slaughterhouse and Freak Puke at them
loudly and repeatedly until they do.
Ex-Cowboy s/t EP Self-Released
jjj
— TBZ
Rio Grande.
Melvins Lite
Freak Puke
Ipecac
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Ty Segall Band
Slaughterhouse
In the Red
jjjjj
— FC
Ex Cowboy is Tucson’s Michael Huerta and friends. Yes, he does wear a mesh trucker cap, but I’d put this in more of the mopey folky El- liot Smith vein, rather than some sort of honky tonk country or attempt at.
Eating black bean and cheese taquitos from Trader Joes and taking in these pleasant acous- tic guitar chords and atmospheric steel guitar swirlings, downer jams for this Sunday after- noon feels good.
There’s at least one Joyce Carol Oates refer- ence.
At five songs, this is about perfect for how little the mood changes. Like with the taquitos, I usually do six at a time, which is usually one too many. It’s a total coincidence, but the mon- soon clouds are storming in like some sort of advertisement for the end of the world, and I have a processed food treat, and Ex-Cowboy as
bud? Nip.
V/A
Bringing It Together Like Pangaea
Kingdom Mammalia
jjjj
— FC
Steve Nash is on the Lakers. Who would have thunk it? Seriously?
A Los Angeles meets Phoenix compilation brought together by Phoenix’s Treasure Mam- mal’s Abe Gil. Gil opens the proceedings with a Celine Dion cover and it’s an uneven, shakey rollercoaster from there. Hawnay Troof pro- vides a track that never quite catches the dance groove it should, Andrew Jackson Jihad give Gil a throwaway track about a meth smoking teacher that sounds a lot like the plot of that Ryan Gosling movie. It still manages to count as one of the best tracks on the comp. On the backside, Roar provides a fantastic cover of
soundtrack, well, I could do worse.
Buck!
The Tempo
Self-Released
jjjj
— FC
Hard rock lives, just don’t call it metal. Here’s two examples of how to do it right: One from the auld folks and one from the young’uns.
The Melvins have been flying under the ra- dar for almost 30 years. Some say the band in- vented grunge, but they ain’t taking the heat for that. Guitarist Buzz Osborne and drummer Dale Crover have worked with dozens of col- laborators and a ridiculous Spinal Tap-like pa- rade of bass players (their last one went crazy
Bravely going where no Flagstaff band has gone before, Buck! go on another sonic ad- venture. I was completely lost about how to describe this new batch of songs until track 7,
32 • SEPTEMBER 2012 • the NOISE arts & news magazine • thenoise.us