Jan 17, 2017
That's not the case though.
If these Pittsburgh agitators are cruising in anything on city streets, it's an assault vehicle. Something lumbering and impenetrable. Something doesn't stop at traffic lights and something the cops can't shoot the tires out on. It rolls over top of anything that might get in it's way and, as the title track can attest, basks in the sound of crushing metal and broken glass.
Heavy on an AmRep tip, anything that ever once resembled a brown weed boogie on "Dead Magician" has been boiled in lead and then anodized. If you scratch at the surface of the record's closer, "Pig Of Hell", til it is raw, you may find something bordering on straight up, old school metal but by then the infection will have already started to set in, making everything all black and oozing with pus.
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Nov 16, 2016
In Fur Helmet's case it's a bit of both.
Comprised of some of the rabble that make up NYC's band's like JJ Doll, Hank Wood & the Hammerheads and Pleasure Industry among others, the band takes the swamp punk of the Scientists and the Gun Club, kick it around until it's pocked with few new dents and ripples while staying fully aware, as the opening track "Ether" shows, that there's plenty of beauty that lies in the forefathers bent dingy grooves and negative attitude boogie .
Eschewing deliberately lo-fi recordings that plenty of the bands that hone this sort of sound for something more sonic in adds a bit to the grit and grime trip. The swirling blare of "Void Drip" makes the brain think it is actually going to disengage from your skull and acid biker scuzz of "Lunar Tomb" will have looking over your shoulder thinking death wheelers are hot on your trail and wanting to introduce you to Satan.
Even when the psych trip seems it is entering some type of calm after a storm like on "Curse", the skies still seem like they could start dripping with blood and needles. Things probably ain't gonna get much easier nowadays considering the way the less that 25% of this nation decided a couple weeks back so many are considering other planets. Prepare yourself for a long travel through the galaxy with "Soaked Skull" on the headphones. Just remember though, once out in the nebula the doors back into the land of gravity might be locked when you return.
Jan 24, 2016
Those things along with cannabis and jugs of California table wine seemed to be their diet of earthly delights and kept them fed. Pinko though sounds like they've embarked on a foraging adventure to regions beyond the voids of this planet to find things that go with expand their subsisting regiment. While the band has been no stranger to grooving things past six and to almost ten minutes from time to time in the past, there was always a template of straight up thing that, for the sake of not splitting to many (long) hairs, that's hard rock. The shortest of the three jams on this go round, the close to eight minute "Puff", begins by blasting asteroids with laser guided fuzz guns before drifting in some heavy atmosphere where dayglo imps thrive on oxygen that's been enriched by the Devil's lettuce.
The album's opener, the eleven minute "Wand II", with it's mélange of quasi-exotica, guitars conveying the feeling of squishy fungus, electrofied appropriations of flutes mimicking bird calls and freak jazz making a landing on some distant planet, it's like Sun Ra and his Astro Intergalactic Infinity Arkestra taking the listener on a tour of Martin Denny's Quiet Village. It's only a quiet at that moment though because the dragons are sleeping. They awaken when they smell the fresh meat wandering about and then the chase is on.
The sprawling "Mother Earth's Toe Jam" spins itself dizzy to several Amon Düül II albums at once in a cabbage field. It results in the largest mountain of the sourest kraut (rock) around. They feed it to the unclaimed children of Phallus Dei after they located them living at an abandoned drive in movie theater. The band then sticks around to watch scratchy and washed out art flicks edited down and repackaged as 8mm stag film loops of Uschi Obermaier boobs with them til dawn.
May 27, 2015
Us punk rockers urchins and new wave misfits did our what we could to avoid them. For the most part it was easy. We weren't invited to their parties and they kept out of the video arcade we claimed our turf in this small town.
With vocals that sound flailing about like Mark E. Smith with his hair on fire while some guys re-imagine what Mordecai's College Rock album would sound like if they attempted to be Flipper taking a stab at doing pop songs on circular saws, New Zealand’s Trendees probably aren't getting invited to many rich kids pool parties.
Right from go, "Power Waves", guitars caked in mud blare a feedback infested squall and drums that sound firecrackers shut inside an armored car go bang. From there uncontrollable musical spams herk, jerk and pant through cyclones of introspection like "Boring Party", rants while pissing on an electrical fence for "Small Town/Dressing Gown", drops acid at dawn on "Center Of Town" and "Concorde #3" so they can wait for a bad trip to happen and, for "Motorcycle (Make Loud Noise)", take the term Biker Rock way more literately than most by sounding like they are living right inside the tail pipe.