LOCAL Album Review: The Hussy - Galore

Longtime fixtures of the recently booming garage-punk circuit here in Madison, self-described “trash-rockers” The Hussy deliver what we’ve come to love while simultaneously expanding their sound on the fourth LP Galore (released June 30, 2015).  The most noticeable change is the addition of bass, which the former-duo incorporates through the entire album.  Their stripped-down aesthetic is further bolstered by layers of guitars and effects, percussive elements, and on some tracks creative instrumentation such as violin and lap-steel guitar.  Make no mistake however, this is still a band and a record built on no-bullshit charming scrappiness.  Even while delivering some of their most immediate, hooky material to date, the DEVO-esque cheeky pop is balanced perfectly with an aggressiveness and abrasion reminiscent of early grunge bands like Mudhoney.  Bobby Hussy continues to be one of the more exciting guitar slingers going, with fuzzed-out progressions and a ramshackle (though very proficient) soloing style that cuts through the mix like a lawnmower.  The boy/girl vocal dynamic is also on full display, with impressive harmonies and defiant, carefree lyrics delivered with a grin and a middle finger.  

Galore digs its claws into you right of the bat with standout opener Asking for Too Much.  Acoustic and electric guitars mesh together and Bobby cooly laments from a deep sea of reverb in a track that has all the makings of a garage rock classic.  Things only get better with follower Take You Up.  Bob plays the crooner for two verses, channelling the deep post-punk type of drone of Ian Anderson or Peter Murphy.  Punctuated by a vocal-less chorus centered on guitar interplay, the track finishes with a soaring wall-of-sound bridge. 

Following a very solid pair of snotty punk bangers in EZ/PZ and Made in the Shade, guest musician Justin Aten’s violin takes center stage in the exquisitely somber downtempo dirge Darkness.  What begins as a sparse psychedelic arrangement of delicate guitar arpeggios and Heather’s mellow brooding gets the garage treatment during it’s second half.  Like a breaking wave the track explodes into a noisey whiteout as guitar distortion kicks in and Aten wails away on the violin in such a way reminiscent of John Cale’s viola work with The Velvet Underground.  All the while the detached monotone vocals continue, washed all but out of the mix as Galore’s side one comes to a shoegazing close.

With such a high standard set by Galore’s first side, side two tends to sag a bit as repetition sets in.  Several tracks have the feel of a band that is still struggling to capture the intensity and passion of their live performance in a way that makes for a consistently satisfying at-home listening experience.  These tracks ride purely on the guitar work, and for the most part Bobby makes it happen with an absolutely in-the-pocket performance.  Through memorable riffs and volatile soloing, he commands his distorted, livewire sound like a rock n’ roll cowboy wrangling a mad stallion.  J Mascis is the very apparent influence on his style, and there is no doubt that this display would earn a nod of approval from the legendary Dinosaur Jr frontman. 

Closing track My Bad plays like a Vivian Girls-esque neo-shoegaze as Heather’s ethereal vocals float delicately over a raging sea of feedback and distortion.  The album ends with noisey psychedelic freakout that features Bobby’s most extensive soloing before gradually giving way to pure static.  It makes for a grinding finish, but fits the album’s tone awesomely.   

Overall Galore sees The Hussy craft an incredibly listenable record that not only maintains but builds upon their established identity as a band.  Some of the more straight-forward numbers leave a bit to be desired, but at its best the album delivers brilliantly ragged psychedelia without any sense of indulgence or pretension.  It isn’t until the final track that any song hits the three minute mark, but every song is packed with dense instrumentation and production that absolutely hits its mark as almost a grungy version of Pet Sounds.  Galore is not only satisfying for those familiar with the band, but has the authenticity and execution of an album that any rock fan can appreciate.  This is the kind of record that you immediately put on a second time, while you anxiously wait to see what the band does next.

To purchase your copy of Galore, swing by Mad City Music Exchange or visit Southpaw Records

*Catch The Hussy on night two of TurkeyFest; Saturday October 24 at Crystal Corner, as they play their first show back in the states following an extensive European tour!!

New Bass Drum of Death album "coming soon"

This afternoon frontman John Barrett posted the following video on the band's blog and facebook page.   He calls it a "promo" for the new Bass Drum of Death album, referred to as simply LP2, and says that it will be "coming out soon" on Innovative Leisure Records.  This is all the information out at the moment, but it definitely seems like a reason to get excited.

As I side note I think I have to have one of those "PISS" shirts he's wearing...let me know if you find one anywhere

Album Review: Bass Drum of Death - GB City

As described by its label, Fat Possom, GB City sounds like "the soundtrack playing in your head when you're fucked up and walking home in the middle of the night".  Reminiscent of the under appreciated early 60s "frat rock" scene of the Pacific Northwest,  this is an absolutely vintage, blown-out garage rock record dripping with surfy delivery and subconscious hints of twisted psychedelia.  The album was written and recorded entirely by singer/guitarist John Barrett in his hometown of Oxford, Mississippi, using minimal equipment and even less bullshit.  

The album is especially strong during its first half.  Nerve Jamming opens with pounding, lightening-fast drums and jagged angular power chords, wasting little time before cracking open into a headbanging scream-along chorus about wasting time (ironically) and blowing minds.  The pace doesn't let up at all as BDoD thrashes their way through the title track and into highlight third track Get Found.  The tune is driven by a grinding, muscular, guitar riff as the only constant as rest of the band jolts to brief stops for the sake of jumping back in and exploding into cathartic ferocity during the final minute.  Velvet Itch rounds things off with a comparatively slower pace as the guitar and drums bang along in unison to create a groovy, earth-shaking rumble while John screeches about talking to Elvis in his sleep.

Over the course of the second side of the album things slow down somewhat, literally in the case of standout track Spare Room.  It starts with the familiar Phil Spector drumbeat, slowed to the point of desperation by a sea of guitar grime and ominously trippy five-note bassline.  The energy returns with Young Pros, a bouncy, upbeat song that in some screwy alternate universe could have been huge in the 60s. Sunny guitar hooks and serenading verses are bracketed by a sky-opening chorus featuring doo-wop backing vocals and gleeful drum fills behind John's warped croon.

While the greatest appeal of this album undoubtedly lies in its raw, primitive musicianship and garagey recklessness, the vocals do more than their part to complete the package.  John bashes his way through the songs with a droning howl, dripping with reverb and overdriven from sheer volume.  He goes on about religious girls, demonic possession, drugs, depression, paranoia, and destruction while punctuating his phrasing with absolutely brilliant moments where he erupts into screeching cracks and yelps of excitement that sound like Little Richard on acid.

I had the opportunity to see Bass Drum of Death at the 7th St Entry shortly after this album dropped, and they did not disappoint.  John lead the charge behind an untamed mop of hair obscuring his entire face, which he couldn't be arsed to brush aside at any point.  It was oddly fitting though as the faceless ball of hair spat songs in much to passionate of a way to be entirely human.  They closed the show with a manic rendition of Nirvana's Territorial Pissings, and just about left the building and everyone inside in ashes.  While nothing could convey the chaos of this band in a live setting, the album does an admirable job of replicating the vibe.

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Album Review: Neil Young & Crazy Horse - Psychedelic Pill (2012)

Neil Young and Crazy Horse is a rock and roll institution.  Together they have a way of transcending praise and criticism, and in a sense it even seems futile to analyze their work.  Neil Young's legendary anti-commercialist nature combines with the ramshackle nature of Crazy Horse to give their music a certain invulnerability; this is about them, nothing more and nothing less.  Conventional analysis is rendered weightless by the fact that they have no statement to make other than to simply assert their presence.  Never has that felt more true than when Neil decided to saddle up the Horse last year for the first time since 2003 with Americana, the ragged sing-along collection of folk classics, and its follow-up:  the sprawling double album release of Psychedelic Pill.  

The album starts off with Neil on his own, sounding like an unplugged take on his latest solo work, 2010's Le Noise.  Somber acoustic strumming accompanies the withdrawn serenade of the opening chorus, and it is almost tangible when Crazy Horse fades in (with an interesting production trick) to join the ride.  There is no turning back from there, as the crew navigate their way through the remainder of the almost half-hour sonic landscape that is Driftin' Back.  On Ramada Inn, the second of three 16+ minute epics, Mr. Young uses a long love affair as a metaphor for the band itself, as the ups and downs level off over the decades to eventually become simply a fact of their existence.

As the album rides along from there, it slips the listener into long stretches of surreal trance, locked into the slow-motion gallop of deceptively simple chord progressions.  These extended periods are punctuated by slashing guitar stabs and Neil's sneering yelps of dissatisfaction of today's culture of music consumerism.  All the while though the record is blanketed in sustained, fuzz-saturated guitars that rise up at the perfect moments to engulf the songs with warm, reassuring bliss.  

During the pensive journey you've found yourself on are a handful of shorter, more upbeat songs that serve as departures from the introspection like welcoming townships along the trail.  The title track Psychedelic Pill picks up the pace with flanged-out guitars that phase back and forth like massive jet engines swirling overhead, and lyrics about party girls in shiny dresses looking for good times.  Later on Neil takes a moment to pay respect to his personal roots with the nostalgically celebratory Born in Ontario, and acknowledge the life-altering moment of his first exposure to Bob Dylan in Twisted Road.  During these moments of lighthearted relief Neil confides that he writes music to "try to make sense of [his] inner rage", to cleanse his soul of life's tribulations and allow himself to find solace.

The album, and the band itself, rises to absolutely monolithic stature on the closing epic  Walk Like a Giant.  Young ruminates aggressively about his band's youth, how he came so close to changing the world with social revolution, but decades of weathering the storm has left him feeling like "a leaf floating in a stream".  However he refuses to give up the hope of once again walking like a giant.  During the instrumental breaks between verses the band, backed by fleeting horse whistles and tribal grunts, weaves it's way through catharsis beneath the growing ominousness of rumbling black clouds of feedback.  The skies finally open up in the final minutes as the album devolves into an absolute maelstrom.  Sheets of white noise crash down behind thunderous drumming as Neil rips one of the free-est of his trademark freeform guitar solos.  amongst the storm the band eventually starts banging in unison with a lurching pulse like massive footsteps that slowly fade into the distance.  Finally, a single quarter-note beat of the snare drum surfaces from the murk, reemerging like a lone candle amidst the chaos.  The light summons the band back for one final, wordless chorus with which Neil, as he has always been able to, finds hope within the wreckage.

Thus, the album ends with Neil Young and Crazy Horse walking like the giants that they are, with the assurance that the world can still be saved.  For as long as old Neil has The Horse at his side, the dreaming will never be over.  Long may they run.

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Track of the Day: Metz - Wet Blanket

Home recording is a beautiful thing.  Even if it the mix isn't just right, or if the processing is bad, here is a certain urgency and authenticity about a record made entirely out of one's own pocket.  Toronto trio Metz is a band that embraces that quality, but teamed up with a record label that knows a thing or two about optimizing it in Sub Pop Records.  The result is 29 minutes of artfully organized chaos known as their self-titled 2012 LP, spearheaded by standout track Wet Blanket.  Metz channels the spirit of Sub Pop's early grunge acts, particularly Mudhoney, and ups the ferocity with buzzsaw guitars that power along with overdriven feedback noise and frantic vocals delivered with manic recklessness.  

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Local SPOTLIGHT: The Fuck Knights

Ready or not, meet The Fuck Knights.  This is the type of band that you can almost sense smoldering deep within the scene, and when you finally encounter the musical trainwreck first hand, their filthy, loose cannon take on garage rock leaves you unable to look away.  GD Mills leads the charge as the singer and unconventional drummer (he plays standing up on a three piece kit), and his spazzy, paranoid vocals mesh perfectly with the manic instrumentation.  As a whole, it hits you as the aural equivalent of a mental breakdown, in the most cathartic way possible.  As you have probably figured, this is not a band that will wow you with production quality, catchy singles, or musical virtuosity.  What they will wow you with is the recklessness with which they plow through their repertoire with complete disregard for the aforementioned "qualities".  Simply put, this is down and dirty blues rock, wherein the beauty lies in the pure rawness of it- the way it was meant to be.  Perhaps the irony therefore lies in the way that they lull you into a sense of deranged comfort, only to jar you once again when songs like Knight Terrors and Abrasions take detours from the simplicity and erupt into complete psychedelic chaos. 

The story of The Fuck Knights reads almost as the stuff of legend.  It begins with drummer/vocalist GD Mills being kicked out of art school for 'destruction of school property', which led to him jamming with fellow hellions Joe Holland, Benjamin Sommers-Bachman, and David Steffens.  The Knights officially formed on August 1, 2007.  Perhaps the universe recoiled at the monster it had created, for the I-35 bridge in downtown Minneapolis collapsed into the Mississippi River that very same day.  

Shortly thereafter they put out the two-part FuKn Live! recordings, and continued their assault with a series of 7"s and Split EPs (a special mention is required for my personal favorite of them- The Recorded By Gary Burger From The Monks EP, put out by Crustacean Records of my hometown Madison, WI).  These were eventually compiled into their debut LP Let it Bleed, released on Boss Hoss Records.  While Let it Bleed certainly provides a great overview of the band, there is no doubt that their true spirit lies in their catalog of EPs and blaring live collections.  

After the bridge "coincidence"(?) one can't help but wonder what we're in store for this April, with the band taking residency of the Triple Rock every Monday night of the month (complete with Old Style and a whiskey for $5).  And oh yeah, they will be joined by Japanther on the 16th and Gay Witch Abortion on the 30th, as well as many other guests throughout the month.  Time to buckle your seatbelts folks, there's no turning back now.  

http://www.fuckknights.com/

The White Wires

Sometimes, that which may seem stale and boring in theory winds up being a pleasant breath of fresh air in practice.  Such is the case with The White Wires.  The 'Wires are an Ottawa-based garage rock trio who specialize in bouncy summer tunes straight out of 60s AM radio, with a healthy dose of garagey energy and recklessness.  Equal parts Cheap Trick and The Beach Boys, the band seems tailor-made to provide the soundtrack for your next pool party, sock hop, or anything else that demands a little bit of retro-minded fun.  Three-minute songs are almost unheard of for The White Wires; they need just enough time to bounce their way through a handful of well-crafted hooks and a little bit of self-aware snarkiness.  They came onto the scene in 2008 with a self-titled debut on Douchemaster Records, and in 2010 released the even better sophomore effort WWII on Dirtnap.

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Record Review: King Tuff - Was Dead

Every time I blink my eyes the Uptown grass seems to get greener, and the quick approach of summer has motivated me to write about one of my favorite albums for the season: King Tuff's Was Dead (released in 2008, TeePee Records).  King Tuff is Kyle Thomas, from Brattleboro, Vermont.  He is recognized by some as member of the folk band Feathers and J Mascis' project 'Witch'.  He recently decided to make a fuzzy, freaked-out album by himself, under the name King Tuff.  This, of course, is the result.  As much as summer itself, what this album represents to me is the cross pollination between punk and power pop, in the incubator that is modern indie/garage music.  It is certainly not new territory to be explored these days, but I have not heard a more authentic, refined version of it than what is on display on Was Dead.  The melodies and progressions are instantly reminiscent of the 60s rock explosion, but the context they are placed in, equal parts fuzzy garage recklessness and fuzzy psychedelic weirdness, thrust the whole thing too far "out there" for it to be anything but modern.  The production is sparse and tinny.  The guitars are clean, but certainly fuzzy.  The vocals crack and clip.  Everything is drenched in reverb.  The overall commitment to a specific vibe is admirable, and with perfect execution it makes this album nothing short of an experience in weightlessness.

Thomas has since been involved with another project called Happy Birthday, and later this year will make a re-appearance as King Tuff with a self titled album on Sub Pop Records.  

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*Shout out to he who shall be known as Shock_Troop, who brought this album to my attention.  - Check out his blog here