Showing posts with label Heel Turn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heel Turn. Show all posts

Nov 30, 2018

TERRESTRIALS s/t 12inch EP

You know that really sketchy oil change stop out by the edge of the city limits? Did you know after the place closes every evening the dudes that work there chew a couple microdots and pick up musical instruments they have hidden behind the old plastic gallon milk jugs filled used motor oil?

As of a result of a battered boombox that blasts a radio station which leans heavy on some kinda Alice Cooper/Foghat and associated doob rollin' ilk, they think they're all about the same hard rock action by once the scleener fry starts its'a sizzlin', a grimy garage boogie boards a psych-ships towards a galaxy of fuschia colored streets and sapphire shaded cheeseburgers.

Ascension is quick. Judging from the gospel-tinged organ that thrust the record's opener, "Aman Düde", into the atmosphere it is launching off from some sort of place of weird worship. The title of the song alone evokes images of kaleidoscopic flashes on one blurry, gnarled hand and a ratty teenage mustache on the other.

From there the record swirls through leaded gasoline fueled space journeys of Z-movie alien abductions, laser beam zaps and wigged out punk rock squirming. The record doesn't end with them returning to earth either because the final track, "Moonblade", sounds like they convinced a hillbilly bar on some other celestial body that they're the party band that planet has been waiting for.

Taste your departure ticket at Heel Turn

Aug 26, 2018

OUTER SPACIST Illness Is A Creepin' On A Come-Up LP


I'm sure most of the readers here are familiar with the story about Lemmy getting kicked out of Hawkwind. The story goes that after he got caught for having speed on him at the Windsor/Detroit border in 1975 "the most cosmic band in the world" gave him the boot because he was busted for the "wrong kind of drugs."

One part astral chug and another part all peach fuzz/dirtbag mustached saunter, Columbus, Ohio's Outer Spacist sound as if they're bangin' round town in a rusted eaten '73 Ford Ranchero on a hunt for such drugs.

Tough luck scoring the exotic and antediluvian analgesics, the band concoct a rocket fuel made from impure elements they've gathered to set their ride into space. It's a denotative propellant guaranteed to cause lift-off but it's not going to guarantee smooth rides into zoned out galaxies. It's a messy voyage led by an inebriated captain and an aberrant crew who only function properly when gravity isn't holding them down.

On songs like "Peripheral Visions" and "Gyrfalcon Flight" it makes for a trip that sound like a Spacemen 3 backing a non-absolutely asshole and totally partying down Ted Nugent at times.



Get your ticket to trip at Heel Turn records.

Apr 3, 2017

MAKE-OVERS Try Me LP

Word on the street is that the Try Me album is the 11th record released by South African duo Make-Overs in the past 6 or so years. This album is my first time hearing them though so their whole thing is all brand new to me. Going into this simply expecting just the standard two piece garage rock thing happening song after song is a bit of miscalculation

More often than The Make-Overs are coming up with ways of knocking down a garage in full on destruction modes than they are considering ways to rock out in it.

They find some type of napalm spray gun that has feedtime engraved on it to burn the place down on tracks like "What Could Go Wrong" ,"Obviously" and "Get Lost." They drop a ton of molten metal (equal parts Proto and Death) on with things such as the title track, "It's Makes A Lot of Sense" and "In Hate (With You)."

While those was are pretty effective of decimating any preconceived notions, they're not the only ways the band has to reduce the place to pile of ruins surrounded by a toxic cloud of dust. There's things here that can also rumble it to the ground with some tribal drumbeats that border on brutal beatings and gale force punches of guitar feedback with "Take Out" and "Termite."

If your lucky though, maybe they'll just lay down that witch doctor hex they've been mastering. You'll only know for sure if you hear something like "Don't Call Us" or "Not As Advertised" off in the distance and getting closer. By then though, it'll be to late. You'll have already been disembowel and bubbling in a cauldron for tonight's stew.
www.heelturnrecords.com

Oct 29, 2016

TURQUOISE FEELING S/T 12inch EP

Photo courtesy of Turquoise Feeling's Facebook page
     The sounds of the Rust Belt. It's brash but earnest. It's normally a bit of shambles but beneath the racket there's allurement of melodic disharmony. It's the type of sound that is often found being made by people stuck in Midwest cities that are a couple hours drive away from any place "cool" but they don't really care or in towns where there's a state college. Even in the latter instance it's not made by folks who's parents are footing the bill. It's usually guys that have to work two job and schedule any higher education.
     It's the sound of the shaggy and thoughts articulated not through grandiloquent tomes but from folks that'll lend you a smoke and then converse with you about the bullshit in the world around you both. They're the cats who when put on a bill a with some national press darlings, they will play louder and harder, bumming out the Pitchfork readers there to say "I saw them back in..." if the buzz band goes any farther. They'll also get someone who's never seen the before declaring them the best band in town halfway before their set is done.
     While the landslide of rumbling bass and blood drawing guitar scratches of  the records opener "Feverfew" make evoke thoughts of NZ's Flying Nun sound at some sort of mega-unruliness such or the way "Post Partum" could be from early 80's and much more turbulent Athens, GA, Turquoise Feelings are 100% wearing their heart on the frayed flannel sleeve Rust Belt. Them being of the Ohio chapter, noises of other denizens from the Buckeye state creep in and out of their commotion then get bent into a new directive. For instance, both the former and latter above also may prick the eardrums as a Death of Samantha being cranked through car speakers being put to use after being dug out underneath of pile of discarded and vermin ridden tires.
     More closer to their home base, the mangled jangled guitar interplay of "January Sisters In Drag" and "External Oblique" are like the Cheater Slicks getting all bent of out shape on Neil Young & Crazy Horse bootlegs which means can listen to them over and over all day and most likely will. The hyperactivity of "Dreadful Things Done By Girls" and the drunken sing-songy melody got me thinking of Gaunt without really sound like them at all.
     The one thing that all the songs in common here though is that they're all like mini epics. I didn't set a stopwatch or anything, but they all pack what they want to do and say pretty quickly and too the point.
     It's been awhile since I have gone on an ALL OHIO music jag but I think it's time to do one soon and this record is going make it place among some other records from the state I tend to listen to still on a regular basis.
www.heelturnrecords.com

May 21, 2016

BLOODY SHOW Root Nerve 12inch EP

     Ohio's Bloody Show kingpin Jah Nada has a lot on his mind. With Laura of Raw Pony bashing the tubs and Sex Tide's Chris hard rockin' sick licks as reinforcements to his gut rumbling bass thumps, he doesn't hesitate letting people what he's thinking.
     Opening with "American Pimp" the record drops a lumbering bomb of thudding scuzz and rock-n-roll flash. Given the song title, anyone expecting some hustler jivin' to kick in on the mic are gonna be taken aback cuz Jah belts like a voice of annihilation here. While the listener is still fazed from that detonation, they get hit with a one-two clobber of the high powered Detroit proto-punk of "Magic Negro" (think The MC5 and Death playing at the same time while the most agitated soul shouter on the planet calls bullshit on several points of view) and the incensed "bell hooks", which gives a take most wont bother to discuss in some feminist theory course. Side one closes out with some Ohio punk rock history by giving Pere Ubu's "Non-Alignment Pact" a furious clobbering.
     The rumbling that kicks off side two's "Back On The Track" rolls into town like bikers fed on fuzz, swamp water and street fights. The enraged boogie "When I'm High"  is like some kinda 70's Ted Nugent party/fightin' jolt blasting out of a muscle car if Ted was a million percent less douchebag, stopped towing the Nancy Reagan line and listened to more Eddie Hazel and less whatever makes him going around claiming he's from a long spiritual line of bluesmen. The mood gets foreboding on "Fuckaround" with it's metallic tinged downcast goth chords and stoned disposition providing an icy pillar to make an inconsolable rap and bellow from.
www.heelturnrecords.com

Sep 10, 2015

RAW PONY "Bo Diddley" 7inch

Photo by Danielle Petrosa
     Brandishing stripped to a primeval root drumbeats, guitars that whirr like shards of a beer bottle in a garbage disposal and a bass sound that's akin to a mudslide plowing down whatever is in it's way, Columbus Ohio's Raw Pony put a lot of emphasis on the RAW.
     What's starts out as a cover/homage to the song that Bo Diddley named after himself on the a-side quickly turns into something even ol' Bo couldn't have fathomed when he was trying to appeal to the young folks in the crowd that where coming to see him in the 90s by doing some cheesy, disco synth heavy rap about just saying no to drugs and yes to challenging Saddam Hussein to a fistfight. The case here is more like the Gories recounting very intense bouts of night terrors while kicking their way out of a tin shed full of hungry and feral cats in heat.
     "Shattered" (not the Rolling Stones or Exploding Hearts song) ups the cavewoman stomp by covering girl group melodies in sludge then trying sticks of dynamite to them. Light the fuse, run and then stand back to watch it splatter.
www.facebook.com/rawponyoh

Aug 14, 2015

MR. CLIT & the PINK CIGARETTES "Wet Willy" 10inch

     If this Indianapolis combo had a job picking up people's trash they would not go around telling people they were sanitation engineers. They would proudly claim, in their best boozed up horror movie host tone, that they are GARBAGE (WO) MEN!
     Gurgling over with psychosis and sticky glops of camp, the bashin' about on some punk rock blues in tracks like "Be Home Before Dark" with it's hissing back up vocals seeming more like catty taunts, the spun way too tight boogie that's "Too Cute" and the reverberated head stomp that "Popping Bubbles" puts down resemble the Oblivians after spending a week hanging out with Japanese noise rock bands.
     At other times, such as squeeze box flourished chewy bop bouncer "What's Inside Your Lunchbox", the way the guitar on "Toy Gun" swirls like a thrash riff swimming in a birthday cake flavored vodka stupor and the B52s if they dug proto-metal more than surf music vibe on "Life's A Drag Queen", it's something like they're an AmRep band sustaining on a diet of cotton candy.
      Probably knowing all too well what goes on at the sideshow after the carnival closes for the evening, Mr. Clit & the Pink Cigarettes make a filth coated cacophony that has rats thinking twice before they go sniffing around the sewer these sounds spill into.   
     Wet-Willy is going to spend at least a good few months in my "GET DRUNK AND PLAY LOUD" pile.
https://mrclitandthepinkcigarettes.bandcamp.com