Chris Wilson - It's Flamin' Groovy (Twenty Stone Blatt/U.K.) - courtesy of blurtonline.com

Welcome to Reverberations, point of entry for all things Steve Wilson, rock writer. The link takes you to my review of It's Flamin' Groovy by long-time Flamin' Groovies singer-guitarist, Chris Wilson.

http://blurtonline.com/review/chris-wilson-flamin-groovy/

Since there are no current "videos" for tracks from It's Flamin' Groovy, 
let's time trip; shall we?

           Back in the day - Chris Wilson with the Flamin' Groovies, performing "Slow Death."

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 5, King Tuff - s/t (Sub Pop)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.

This a previous review of Reverberations No. 5 title ...

King Tuff - s/t (Sub Pop Records)

King Tuff’s self-titled sophomore release on Sub Pop is not what it appears to be. It appears to be some crude spoof on the stoner rock Kyle Thomas purveyed (w/ Jay Mascis on drums, no less) with the band Witch. On the cover a devil-bat wields what looks to be a Gibson SG in one claw and a five-pointed star wand in the other. Ooh – Wee – Ooh.

King Tuff’s debut record Was Dead, a mid-fi feast of sharp pop songs buried under de rigueur distortion, established an audience for Thomas’s trashed out recycling of classic rock moves. Was Dead got frequent, not unreasonable comparisons to similar works by garage like Ty Segall and Jay Reatard.

Of course with Melted and Watch Me Fall, Seagall and Reatard (respectively) made moves toward greater production clarity and songs bordering on pop-rock convention. With King Tuff, Thomas (with Magic Jake on bass and Kenny on drums) staggers past such peers, making a small rock ‘n’ roll masterpiece. This, of course, is bound to alienate some of the distortion is God crowd. Theirs’ are crocodile tears, really; this record sacrifices nothing whatsoever in energy or attitude. 

The Ramones weren’t trying to make shitty sounding records. The Clash weren’t trying to make shitty sounding records. I’m not sure when the sub-garage ethic became the currency for bratty bands, but it’s a fashion that’s run its course. 

Speaking of the Ramones, Thomas has Dee Dee Ramone’s deadpan ability to say what’s on his mind. The loser anthems on King Tuff make consistent reference to outsider status. On “Alone and Stoned” Thomas bluntly asserts that “all his friends” are just that. “Everywhere I Go I am a Stranger” laments “Stranger.” “Loser’s Wall” – okay, not a lot of explication required. For “Evergreen,” which bears more than a bit of resemblance to Deerhunter, Thomas presumes peace will find him “only when I die,” and sings with resignation that “I’m not really here.” A Bo Diddley throb is the foundation for “Unusual World’s” assertion of isolation and independence, the band sounding a little like the Sleepy Jackson. Get the picture? Yes, you see.

What prevents King Tuff from becoming a cartoon version of post-teen angst is the variety and deceptive depth of its music. At Detroit's Malcolm X Academy (nifty studio name), producer Bobby Harlow and Thomas crafted a rough, but sparkling diamond. The band is a classic rock magpie, and arrangement details abound; “Alone and Stoned” concludes with an acapella repeat of the song’s first line, capping off a satisfying T. Rex/Beach Boys hybrid. “Loser’s Wall” opens with chords borrowed from the Kinks’ “Till the End of the Day,” goes all “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” over the breaks, and Thomas’s vocal delivery is pure, laconic Thurston Moore. “Bad Thing” features close harmony vocals on the verse, transitioning to Daltrey screams on the chorus. “Loser’s” and “Bad” both have ingenious, beautifully developed guitar solos. Thomas is no slouch on the instrument he mythologizes (“when I play my Stratocaster”) on the latter song. 

“Baby Just Break” is a neat mash-up of Buddy Holly and Bob Dylan derivations. “Now I’m a criminal” Thomas forlornly insists. But hey, he’s been preaching the alienated loser lifestyle throughout King Tuff – at least he’s consistent. The outsider ethic extends to the music business itself on “Stupid Superstar.” The lush, languid and majestic Big Star emulation of the performance is expressive, as the band decries bands that “don’t make art, but they play the part.” The ultimate message, of course, being that it’s better to be a loser than a fake. 

King Tuff’s trump card is played with “Swamp of Love.” The title sounds like Cramps tribute; instead it’s a virtual banquet of Beatle elements. A raw testament to the glory and grit of love, “Swamp” is built on acoustic guitar and piano, building to a full band performance; then breaking down to a verse with just vocal and tremolo guitar, only to build back to a glorious finish, triggered by Kenny’s clear channeling of Ringo. Tucker’s Harrison-esque guitar lines are at once gnarly and gorgeous; his vocal has the lost wastrel quality of Johnny Thunders,  and the whole performance transcends homage. 

King Tuff is the sound of a band feeling its oats. While it strays from the limits of a certain garage-punk production aesthetic, it resolutely confirms the genre’s oppositional attitude and hard rocking conviction. 

Reverberating: 8.8 (originally 8.5)

Top Ten Countdown Continues with No. 7, Lee Bains III and the Glory Fires - There is a Bomb in Gilead (Alive Records)

In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012.  In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings. 

For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.

This a previous review of Reverberations No. 7 title ...

Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires - There is a Bomb in Gilead (Alive Records)

Lee Bains III is the prodigal son, raised on the Good Book Jesus, corrupted by punk-rock and working out his own adult reconciliations between the two. It’s the blessing and curse of being Southern. From Jerry Lee Lewis to Tyler Keith (Preacher’s Kids), and all the way back to Robert Johnson, artists, black and white alike, have been torn between Saturday night and Sunday morning; ever since moonshine and lusty women first presented a challenge to the Christian life. Crap - that was probably in the fifth Century; in southern … France, or somewhere.  Hell, I’d have to get out my History books. Like I say, it’s nothing’ new. Bains and his Alabama boys, the Glory Fires, aren’t reinventing the wheel, just grinding the sucker. And it yields a great ride.

Even if there’s nothing new under the sun, each generation and every new artist has the opportunity to put its and his or her own spin on the eternal conflicts. On There is a Bomb in Gilead, the Glory Fires debut, Bains brings the sensibilities of a literary education to his talks with Jesus and his hallelujahs to Joey Ramone. I don’t say this just because he makes literary references, like the one to Walker Percy (“go ahead take my Walker Percy, go ahead and take the t-shirt by brother got when he saw the Ramones”), but because his melancholy and moral musings are offspring of Faulkner and O’Connor’s world. “Everything You Took,” the ditty with the Percy/Ramones lyric, establishes the artist’s lifestyle essentials: rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts and books. And essential they may as well be since he’s losing his gal. He’s clearly hanging on to a thread, clinging to “every little hope that you give me.” But the lady sounds to me like she’s moved on.

The singer’s wrestling with virtue resounds in “Ain’t No Stranger,” rhyming contrition and perdition, by God – and reminding the almighty that he may be prodigal, but he’ s “no stranger.” Bains and lead guitarist Matt Wurtele slash through the Willie Mitchell groove with guitars that are more Keith Richards and Ron Asheton than anything Memphis or Muscle Shoals. “Centreville” sustains the rocking pace. It’s Skynyrd after the Pistols (and Some Girls), Bains spitting out lyrics about guys who are “over educated and under-employed.” Perfect, it captures the new Birmingham, or hell – Boston, as the United States becomes the new Spain. Imagine Tony Joe White amped up and all pissed off. That’s what Bains sounds like on “Centreville.”

Bains works his connection to the lords of the garage in “Righteous, Ragged Songs” (‘say a prayer for punk rock, and say a prayer for me’) like a man who  believes that there just might be some soul saving potential in the  devil’s music, music, like gospel, that can surely be righteous and ragged. The Dixie-punk of “Red, Red Dirt of Home” neatly paraphrases country classic (you know, “Green, Green Grass of Home, the Curly Putnam Jr. warhorse recorded by Porter Wagoner, Bobby Bare, Tom Jones and your cousin Daryl); akin to a digital age version of “The  Letter,” Bains reflects on having his “momma and daddy on speed dial.” Wurtele’s “Honky Tonk Women” guitar carries him home. Here, Bains effortlessly strikes the Southern grit and groove that John Hiatt labors to achieve.

Simmering laments like “Reba” and “Choctaw Summer” rock country like country rocked before it became the fucking Eagles with fiddles. I hear the ghost of real, honest to God country singers like John Anderson in these tunes. But I also hear a band that sounds like they just might have listened to a Richard Thompson record or two. “Roebuck Parkway,” waxes nostalgic for a childhood idyll, and features some flat lovely acoustic picking. Wurtele breaks out some Wayne Perkins style licks for “Opelika,” Bains slyly referencing Johnny and June’s “Jackson” as he locates the boys position (‘3,000 miles east of L.A., 1,000 miles south of N.Y.C.’). 

“Magic City Stomp” is probably more fun live. It’s a chant wrapped in an instrumental workout that’s as much MC5 as it is M.G.’s. In the context of the album it sounds like filler, or a fun b-side.

The title cut references a youthful malapropism of Bains’ (he heard the gospel soother “Balm in Gilead” as “Bomb in Gilead” as a churchgoing kid). The Glory Fires strip things down to simplicity and soul. Bains stretches out phrases, wringing out nuance like the great soul stirring singers. There are some fine singers operating in the Southern (garage) rock idiom (the twin sons of the Oblivians, Jack Yarber and Greg Cartwright come to mind – Patterson Hood, too), but few make you think - damn, I could listen to this son of a gun sing James Carr and O.V. Wright songs.

Produced by Bains and Lynn Bridges in Water Valley, Mississippi, Gilead was mixed by the Jim Dickinson of Detroit garage-rock, Jim Diamond, at his Ghetto Recorders. In this instance, the locales speak volumes. This is rock ‘n’ roll from the South, dirty and distinguished, polished (but not too much) to a Motor City shine. Fresh, soulful, assured, There is a Bomb in Gilead is a damn fine debut from Lee Bains III and the Glory Fires.

Oh, I didn't work in references to bassist Justin Colburn and drummer Blake Williamson in graceful rock critic style. They kick ass.

Reverberating: 8.8 (originally 8.6)

The Legs - Aaaa New Memphis Legs (Goner Records)

There are bands that never rise too far out of the muck of the American underground, yet they play a critical role in keeping a certain kind of rock ‘n’ roll anima alive. The Oblivians from Memphis were such a band.  Throughout the Nineties, their spontaneous, greasy mix of American garage-rock archetypes and rhythm and soul influences was most entertaining. And it was as pure a product of Memphis as anything from the heyday of Sun, Stax or Hi Records. Or Big Star, for that matter. Over the course of several albums, scattered singles, anthology tracks, and innumerable low budget tours they kept the flame for brash, bratty, soulful rock alive.

Jack (Yarber) Oblivian has gone on to a remarkably consistent, soulful solo career, fashioning a kind of bordello-barfly rock, fashioned from classic soul moves and strip club boom-boom. Greg (Cartwright) Oblivian formed the formidable Reigning Sound, combining ‘too much guitar’ thrash with Duke-Peacock heartache, bringing it all back home just-a-one-more time. Cartwright and crew also made a wonderful record, Dangerous Game, with former Shangri-La Mary Weiss.

It’s Eric (Friedl) Oblivian who’s made the least noise outside of the Oblivians. Of course he’s been busy with founding and operating the Goner label, a rocking imprint responsible for furthering the cause of artists from King Khan and BBQ Show to The Eddy Current Suppression Ring.

Around about the year 2000, Friedl hung out with a Texas guitarist named James Arthur. They did guy shit around Memphis, hung out, you know. No bass player. Eventually, they worked in the rough and ready drumming from the Neckbones’ Mr. Forrest Hewes.

Then … they spent months woodshedding, crafting a densely poetic, richly eclectic concept album about self-discovery. 

BULLSHIT!

NOPE, they bashed out a noisy blast of half-baked originals, handy Aussie garage covers from some Ugly Things compilation and a mauling of the Sir Douglas Quintet’s “Doin’ it Too Hard.”  And this short scrap of a set is called Aaaa New Memphis Legs.

 Whether creating a new mock dance craze with “(Let’s) Do the Legs,” a frat party stormer with guitar distortion as dense as freakin’ Blue Cheer, or going all down-tuned and metal dirty (“Been Kinda Lost”), or rewriting “Have Love Will Travel” (and blow-out combing their New York Dolls love) on “You Won’t Get Me,” Aaaa New Memphis Legs is an almost legless collection of Duchampian readymades, a spontaneous party of rock fuzz.

Truth is, by most orthodox standards this is a bloody, freakin' racket, It’s also pretty great, Moments of near brilliance include “Bill Dakota Knows,” a Paul Revere and the Raiders on rotgut gem that’s all deliciously excessive toggle switch use; the chorus is “you’ve been found to be bisexual, swinging, groovy, busted” – how do they know my old girlfriends?

“Wild About You” honors the night the Dolls spent in a Memphis hoosegow. It's whiskey soaked, a bit reminiscent of the Saints, and (oh yeah) the ghosts of every maniac beat monkey who ever tried to entertain shitheads at a frat party. ‘Wild man on a rampage, swingin’ through the jungle; honey, where are you?” It’s Raw Power with a side of grits, and it’s got a coda cool enough for an American International Pictures flick. Stepping down in thirds, clichéd, just right.  

Aaaa's twenty-seven minute romp goes out with The Legs' savaging of "Doin' It Too Hard." They do it pretty damn hard, that's for sure. In the Sir Douglas Quintet's hands the song sounded like some bizarre cross between Creedence and the Velvets. By the time the Legs are through with it it's been taken into the alley and beaten with a Kinks stick.

It’s all over too fast. That’s what she said, anyway.

But it sure is fun while it lasts. It’s a rock party for friends to be played at maximum volume. It’s stupid good. It’s not recommended for anyone who’s not ready, steady go for high distortion kicks. For sure not recommended to fans of Seals and Crofts or Bon Iver. And really, what’s the difference, ‘ceptin for a few decades.

Aaaa New Memphis Legs* is the sound of living for rock ‘n’ roll. You got a better idea?


* Available on digital download and Goner vinyl.

Reverberating: 8.2 

King Tuff - s/t (Sub Pop Records)

King Tuff’s self-titled sophomore release on Sub Pop is not what it appears to be. It appears to be some crude spoof on the stoner rock Kyle Thomas purveyed (w/ Jay Mascis on drums, no less) with the band Witch. On the cover a devil-bat wields what looks to be a Gibson SG in one claw and a five-pointed star wand in the other. Ooh – Wee – Ooh.

King Tuff’s debut record Was Dead, a mid-fi feast of sharp pop songs buried under de rigueur distortion, established an audience for Thomas’s trashed out recycling of classic rock moves. Was Dead got frequent, not unreasonable comparisons to similar works by garage like Ty Segall and Jay Reatard.

Of course with Melted and Watch Me Fall, Seagall and Reatard (respectively) made moves toward greater production clarity and songs bordering on pop-rock convention. With King Tuff, Thomas (with Magic Jake on bass and Kenny on drums) staggers past such peers, making a small rock ‘n’ roll masterpiece. This, of course, is bound to alienate some of the distortion is God crowd. Theirs’ are crocodile tears, really; this record sacrifices nothing whatsoever in energy or attitude. 

The Ramones weren’t trying to make shitty sounding records. The Clash weren’t trying to make shitty sounding records. I’m not sure when the sub-garage ethic became the currency for bratty bands, but it’s a fashion that’s run its course. 

Speaking of the Ramones, Thomas has Dee Dee Ramone’s deadpan ability to say what’s on his mind. The loser anthems on King Tuff make consistent reference to outsider status. On “Alone and Stoned” Thomas bluntly asserts that “all his friends” are just that. “Everywhere I Go I am a Stranger” laments “Stranger.” “Loser’s Wall” – okay, not a lot of explication required. For “Evergreen,” which bears more than a bit of resemblance to Deerhunter, Thomas presumes peace will find him “only when I die,” and sings with resignation that “I’m not really here.” A Bo Diddley throb is the foundation for “Unusual World’s” assertion of isolation and independence, the band sounding a little like the Sleepy Jackson. Get the picture? Yes, you see.

What prevents King Tuff from becoming a cartoon version of post-teen angst is the variety and deceptive depth of its music. At Detroit's Malcolm X Academy (nifty studio name), producer Bobby Harlow and Thomas crafted a rough, but sparkling diamond. The band is a classic rock magpie, and arrangement details abound; “Alone and Stoned” concludes with an acapella repeat of the song’s first line, capping off a satisfying T. Rex/Beach Boys hybrid. “Loser’s Wall” opens with chords borrowed from the Kinks’ “Till the End of the Day,” goes all “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” over the breaks, and Thomas’s vocal delivery is pure, laconic Thurston Moore. “Bad Thing” features close harmony vocals on the verse, transitioning to Daltrey screams on the chorus. “Loser’s” and “Bad” both have ingenious, beautifully developed guitar solos. Thomas is no slouch on the instrument he mythologizes (“when I play my Stratocaster”) on the latter song. 

Liminanas - Crystal Anis (Hozac)

French pop marvels, the Liminanas, hail not from Paris, but from a town called Perpignan, nestled between the Pyrenees and the Mediterranean (also home to the also awesome Sonic Chicken 4).

The Liminanas self-titled debut, released in the States on Chicago’s Trouble in Mind label, was a sparkling collection of garage-rock and Velvet Underground inseminated Gallic pop. The follow up, Crystal Anis (on another Chicago underground stalwart, Hozac Records) is a shorter, sharper distillation of their aesthetic. Smart, simple and seductive - you’ll listen again and again.

Since the French pop of the Sixties and early Seventies, represented by singers in the Ye-Ye style (which could be generously interpreted to include everyone from France Gall and Sylvie Vartan to Jacques Dutronc and Francoise Hardy) and the sinuous, sexy songs of Serge Gainsbourg, Gallic pop has been pretty much a wasteland for three decades. The petit renaissance that began with bands like  Sonic Chicken 4 and the Plasticines showed the French could rock out with flair. And the Liminanas add additional support to a new case for Franco-rock.

Lionel and Marie (Liminanas) use spare, simple materials. Unlike many of the V.U. influenced ensembles since the Jesus and Mary Chain or Spacemen 3, Lionel Liminana abjures slick slabs of harmonic distortion, favoring instead discreet bits of Reed/Morrison guitar framings, more redolent of the Velvet’s third, self-titled album and Loaded than the merciless wave of White Light/White Heat. The band’s music also travels well with fellow neo-retro rockers like the Raveonettes and the Dum Dum Girls, even sometimes suggesting the Euro-cool of Stereolab.

 From the tremolo guitar on “Longanisse” (a sort of sausage, hmm?), and the flanged sounds of the title track, to the blasts of fuzz guitar on the choruses of “AF3458,” the Liminanas keep the textures fresh and changing. Lionel’s guitar parts play off  his Farfisa and Vox Continental style organ lines. Championed since the heyday of the sound by guys like Jeff “Monoman” Connolly in DMZ and the Lyres, these archetypal keyboard sounds are forever identified with Sixties garage-rock, a vibe associated more with one (or two) hit wonders like the Castaways, Five Americans and Seeds than the Beatles/Stones/Kinks canon.

Lionel’s vintage guitar and organ sonorities are driven by Marie’s basic, insistent drumming, and blended with everything from ukulele (“Salvation”) and glockenspiel (“Longanisse”). It’s a palette both bone simple and subtly complex and the Liminanas know the difference between embellishment and excess. 

Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires - There is a Bomb in Gilead (Alive Records)

Lee Bains III is the prodigal son, raised on the Good Book Jesus, corrupted by punk-rock and working out his own adult reconciliations between the two. It’s the blessing and curse of being Southern. From Jerry Lee Lewis to Tyler Keith (Preacher’s Kids), and all the way back to Robert Johnson, artists, black and white alike, have been torn between Saturday night and Sunday morning; ever since moonshine and lusty women first presented a challenge to the Christian life. Crap - that was probably in the fifth Century; in southern … France, or somewhere.  Hell, I’d have to get out my History books. Like I say, it’s nothing’ new. Bains and his Alabama boys, the Glory Fires, aren’t reinventing the wheel, just grinding the sucker. And it yields a great ride.

Even if there’s nothing new under the sun, each generation and every new artist has the opportunity to put its and his or her own spin on the eternal conflicts. On There is a Bomb in Gilead, the Glory Fires debut, Bains brings the sensibilities of a literary education to his talks with Jesus and his hallelujahs to Joey Ramone. I don’t say this just because he makes literary references, like the one to Walker Percy (“go ahead take my Walker Percy, go ahead and take the t-shirt by brother got when he saw the Ramones”), but because his melancholy and moral musings are offspring of Faulkner and O’Connor’s world. “Everything You Took,” the ditty with the Percy/Ramones lyric, establishes the artist’s lifestyle essentials: rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts and books. And essential they may as well be since he’s losing his gal. He’s clearly hanging on to a thread, clinging to “every little hope that you give me.” But the lady sounds to me like she’s moved on.

The singer’s wrestling with virtue resounds in “Ain’t No Stranger,” rhyming contrition and perdition, by God – and reminding the almighty that he may be prodigal, but he’ s “no stranger.” Bains and lead guitarist Matt Wurtele slash through the Willie Mitchell groove with guitars that are more Keith Richards and Ron Asheton than anything Memphis or Muscle Shoals. “Centreville” sustains the rocking pace. It’s Skynyrd after the Pistols (and Some Girls), Bains spitting out lyrics about guys who are “over educated and under-employed.” Perfect, it captures the new Birmingham, or hell – Boston, as the United States becomes the new Spain. Imagine Tony Joe White amped up and all pissed off. That’s what Bains sounds like on “Centreville.”

The 2011 Countdown Continues with No. 23, Bass Drum of Death

Continuing today, and culminating with REVERBERATIONS number one album of the year on December 31^st (if my math is right), we’ll be counting down the top twenty-five records of 2011. I’m referring to this countdown as Twenty-five Faves because I have no pretenses about telling you what’s “best.” Sure, I think my taste is better than yours. But nobody died and made me Lester Bangs. And Lester could be arrogant, but I kind of think he would come down on the favorite side of the fave/best dichotomy. His criticism was nothing if not personal.

I've reviewed the majority of these selections. In the event that I have I'll simply recycle the original reviews, sometimes with a little new commentary. If it's a selection I haven't reviewed previously, I will dash off a new, brief, introductory review just for perspective.

 

This year, like most in recent memory, saw the release of several scraggly-ass garage-grunge-punk-pop records (hyphens, no charge) - new releases from mainstays like Ty Segall, newcomers like Hanni El Khatib, download only entries from fixtures such as Reigning Sound and King Khan (a sign, albeit an ironic one, of the times) – heck, the admittedly loosely construed genre even spew forth reissues and anthologies from the Reatards, Lost Sounds and the aforesaid Mr. Segall, a sure sign of, uh, maturity.

All of them were pretty good, but none resonated from bang one to final decay as records like Reigning Sounds’ Time Bomb High School or King Khan and BBQ Show’s debut had in years past. For me the best representatives of the idiom are those records that have an appeal that preaches beyond the converted. In 2011, one album has kept insinuating itself, despite my initial dismissal; that album is GB City the distortion-saturated opus from Oxford, Mississippi’s Bass Drum of Death on Fat Possum Records.

Thee Oh Sees - carrion crawler/the dream ep (In The Red)

 

Ah, it’s sweet really. The noise generation is meeting me half-way. I remember back in 2003 when a young pal tried to introduce me to Pink & Brown. I try to keep an open mind. Really, I do. My shelves are full of records and discs with music that the average listener would call noise. But I always viewed noise as something that best served as energy and expression tools for … I dunno, songs? From the MC5 to Sonic Youth the racket was seasoning and juicing to rock ‘n’ roll. So, all this Pink & Brown, Lightning Bolt shit left me perplexed. I love a racket, but this was a new kind of racket – primitive, artless, tuneless. Meh. Was I missing something?

Well, the answer is: a) not really and b) maybe a little something.

Which leads us to our man John Dwyer, he’s the prolific force behind Pink & Brown, the Coachwhips, Hospitals, and most recently Thee Oh Sees (among others). The Coachwhips wanted to be the Oblivians but were without the limited skills and lyric sensibility required for such homage. But they were better than Pink & Brown. The Hospitals? I never listened to them enough to have much of an opinion. When I heard Dwyer had yet another band - this one called Thee Oh Sees, I approached them with trepidation.

But from the beginning I kinda liked what I heard. In addition to the annals of noise racket, Dwyer seemed to have absorbed lessons from psychedelia (the kind with spaces between the noises) as well as the urgent, fuzz-toned rhythms of the bands that were featured on Crypt Records Back from the Grave compilations. Thee Oh Sees release something new every four months (okay, close to it). Seriously, they’ve put out about thirteen records in seven years (under various monikers, relying on TOS for the last four or so years), depending on what you count and who’s counting. The band’s latest offering carrion crawler/the dream EP (lower case is theirs’) is an arresting synthesis of the various strains that run through the band’s music, especially a combination of Help’s psycho-trips and Castlemania’s Cali-garage-pop, music that sounded touched by San Francisco garage peers like Ty Segall and the Fresh and Onlys.

Jack Oblivian - Rat City (Big Legal Mess/Fat Possum Records)

 Memphis has long been the place where the rural cultures of the Deep South meet and mix. It was surely the case before Sam Phillips put the ignition in the mighty motor of Sun Records in 1952. But Sun does provide the most obvious and optimal example of Memphis’s place in American musical experience. While Phillips first recorded the likes of Howlin’ Wolf, he made his fortune discovering white performers whose influences were reflective of an emerging South where, prior to but anticipating the social convulsions of the Sixties, whites were being entertained by black performers and vice versa. Well before schools and lunch counters integrated, Southerners radio dial and record shop preferences were crossing racial lines.

What’s this got to do with Jack Oblivian? Lots, as it turns out. Oblivian (or Yarber as his ma and pa know him), is a modern day Memphis mixer, putting together stray stands from Fresno blues to Carolina beach music, from the Stooges to Springsteen and the Clash, he’s a working class musical magpie, and in top form on his new release Rat City.

With Greg (Oblivian) Cartwright and Eric (Oblivian) Freidl in the Oblivians, he became an icon of the (re)emerging garage-rock genre by blasting grease pit , r ‘n’ b infused rock ‘n’ roll at punk tempos. As a soloist (and with his nominal ‘band’ the Tennessee Tearjerkers) Oblivian has purveyed a slightly grown up version of the same thing. He’s become a better singer and musician, and it sounds like he’s running his beloved cheap Jap guitars through better amps in better studios (actually, the portability/affordability of good recording gear is probably the bigger change). But he’s still a thrift shop recycler. And his uncanny ear for sweaty hooks and grooves is sharper than ever.