ANTI-CLEANSE
Degreaser
Sweaty Hands LP
Negative Guest List NGL-040
A
band named after my favorite cleaning product puts out a another solid
record on my favorite Australian scum label; tis a hard day at the
office! This, Degreaser's follow-up to 2011's quaking Bottom Feeder,
continues main duder Tim Evans's well-illustrated commitment to the
hungover-and-cranky corners of punk weirdness (see also his take on Pop
Group dynamics in Bird Blobs and the mope-grind of Sea Scouts). Scoff if
ya must at the Birthday Party apeage howlin' around these parts (i.e.
Brooklyn) of late, but these folks don't fanny about like some. Though
guitars rasp, throats moan and bellow, and the rhythm section clamps
like a 1000-year-old die-cutter, as they have elsewhere and many a time
before, it ain't always what ya do but how ya do. Feel me?
Right from the jump on "Lizard," these lead-sinkers reach stoner-metal
depths of heave-n-wheeze with nary a second to call out the fathoms. The
focus remains a desperate thud on the deck of a listing boat, even
through what I take to be a cover of "Eyes Without A Face" (?) on the
flip. (No titles on this one; just guessin' from the Discogs entry.)
Never do they leave the confines of their grem-clotted alley, but the
hypnotism this lot casts was enough to keep me glued down. Nice!
EXHAUST-DJINN: A PAIR FROM ANTI-FADE
Useless Eaters
New Program b/w Expensive Taste & Smoke Alarm 45rpm
Anti-Fade ANTI-011
Bout
the closest I ever get to garage is when I need help diggin' a spike
outta my left front tire. Always thought there was
somethin'...underachiever about it; for those about to maybe
rock, ya know? But I reckon that's what folks find so galldern American
about it: desperate, entrepreneurial shots at convincin' some local,
maybe regional, and perhaps national, tail to shimmy. Just a little.
It's that very attitude that makes it so suspect to me; I say, go XXXL
or go sit a spell. Anyhoot & holler, perusin' the Anti-Fade back
catalog gave me the spins, so I called up ol' Bertrand Russell for
advice. Bein' a loud skeptic of garage rock himself, I figgered he'd
know the score. "In studying [a garage rock label], the right attitude
is neither reverence nor contempt, but first a kind of hypothetical
sympathy, until it is possible to know what it feels like to believe in
[its releases], and only then a revival of the critical attitude, which
should resemble, as far as possible, the state of mind of a person
abandoning opinions which he hitherto held. Contempt," ol Betrand
warned, "interferes with the first part of the process, and reverence
with the second." Whatever you say, chief; I'll give it the ol' college.
Maybe there's some new tricks a-turnin'?
Useless
Eaters is helmed by one Seth Sutton outta Nashville, Tenn. A Nashville
one-man garage band on a Victoria, AU label? Why not. Hell, he's already
put out about 5 other records this year alone, and 9 others since turn
of the decade; ain't many spots on this circuit he ain't shot through.
A-side cut is either an indictment or winking endorsement of corporate
drudgery in the guise of an android march. Another "why not" herein is
Sutton's application of positively classic Athens GA moves. I detect the
liver-spotted claw of Peter Buck on "Smoke Alarm," though it be fed
through some homegrown Johnny Marr effects. In fact, this is near the
Blank Dogs cult philosophy of tryin' to apply cheapie-creepie goth
tactics to mopey drug punk. It's still a fair bit better--but just about
anythin' is an improvement to that late model! But keepin' ol' Bertrand
on the dome, I didn't mind the half dozen flips I gave it one bit. And I
ain't about to jeer the folks that find the fun in this one second
more.
Five hunnid hand-numbered.
The Bonniwells
Yesterdaisy 7" EP 33rpm
Anti-Fade ANT-008
What
a pwecious wittle wecord. From the knitty-witty packaging to the
Victorian cats & mice in eternal pursuit on the labels (wabels?), I
was expecting either a So Cow offshoot or something light, feathery,
with a sturdy inheritance. Which is to say, I was prepared to gag. But
actually, this trio bears more marks from early K Records, the Vaselines
and the Marine Girls than what I'd call garage rock. Maybe the rug on
this whole genre done got yanked from under me, but these sunlit
melodies, mid-tempos, and titles like "Pigeon Pizza" gimme those twee
goosepimples. Some kids somewhere in Melbourne are dancin' their couch
cushions to pieces and the sophomore in me kinda wants to join in. If it
wasn't for my trick knee and all...
300 pressed on colored vinyl. Mine looks like rain-soaked pavement with a chewed gum smear. What you got?
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