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Marvin. Sounds like the name of the poor bastard bully-magnet at school. You know the one – he carried a briefcase, had sellotaped glasses, smelt of cheese crisps and was head of the science club. Alternatively he could be a Martian who has an intense dislike for a furry carrot-munching mammal. I suppose though picking a geeky, possibly unlikeable-sounding name works. Look at the Melvins – named after some dude who Buzz Osbourne used to work with and hated with a fiery passion and they’re one of the most almost grunge-metal-what-the-fuck bands in the world!

Marvins Revolt seems an unusual choice of signing for the Richter Collective – an Irish record label that has provided the deranged ‘spaceship-being destroyed’ splatter-rock of Adebisi Shank and the dance-punk/monster obsessed ramblings of BATS and the rough-shuddering stomp of Hands Up Who Wants To Die. However, there’s nothing like a smattering of diversity in the ranks to escape the notion that your label only caters in mangling eardrums and Marvins Revolt add just that. Originally the band (then a four-piece) catered a more noise-rock approach. However, 2 albums down the line and a member down, they now focus their energies in a different musical direction. Whilst their previous material may have more to my tastes, the songs on ‘Patrolling The Heights’ tap into that softer side of my psyche that favours the more melodramatic side of rock, that focuses on layered instrument-progression, haunting vocals and rich drum textures.

Opening track, ‘Siberian Outer Boundries’ blends the atmospheric wash of a lone man, pouring his heart out in deserted church; his voice bouncing off the hard stone walls, whilst the passive guitar strumming supports his hushed tones perfectly. It morphs swiftly into second track ‘Siberia’ under this mellow haze, before kicking into a simple, yet strong drum march, that builds on a deliberate, pounding rhythm of stomping feet. The guitarist deviates from intriguing time signatures, to standard indie-rock strumming at each drum roll and pause, building on a more progressive and slightly-heavier nature as the track comes to a conclusion. The vocals rise and soar with youthful eloquence and the accompanying synthesised backing is a delight.

The juddering build of guitars on ‘Antique Markers’ gives a rough, punk-influenced edge, that dissipates beneath the soothing flow of those haunting vocals and jerky drum beats. There’s a distinct fuzz of washed-out noise pop within their somewhat erratic sound that holds everything together, like parcel tape. ‘Patrolling The Heights’ has that feeling of a gentle mish-mash of styles and influences, all making themselves know in a rather timid way, that gradually builds in confidence, before departing without over-staying their welcome. ‘Organize Your Arms’ is perhaps a perfect example of this. One minute it’s all angular spikes of indie rock blades; the next it’s bouncing along with a distinct Beach Boys-summers-day vibe of plinking keyboards, exuberant high-fives and gang vocal choruses.

‘Doctors, Hospitals’ sounds like something that should be sound-tracking the next eccentric, indie-film by Wes Anderson, or Juno 2, with its gentle, rising introduction, twee-pop guitar-twangs, vocal harmonies that eventually flow into the rushed, yet luscious musical dexterity of spiralling heavy guitar rock and throbbing drum hits. However, it’s the kind of ramshackle ambitious attempts such as ‘Like Wires’ with its mellow string postscript and sweeping grace that really make Marvins Revolt stand out.

It’s difficult to find any fault musically – despite some parts feeling scattered; they tie nicely together through an excellent build up of well constructed tunes and arrangements. The vocal-tone seems incredibly young and earnest, as though they’re desperate to please, but passionate, with this eager sense of self belief and optimism. Well worth investigating.

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Links

Marvins Revolt
Label

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By Ross Macdonald

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I sometimes feel like I’m missing something when it comes to Brand New’s artwork. Is it meant to be deliberately shoddy? I mean, take the cover of ‘Daisy’ (no literally, take it please…) it looks like something some stoned teenager made on Microsoft Publisher. He didn’t have the common courtesy to change the font from Times New Roman (Suddenly imagining this album cover with Comic Sans has cheered me immensely). As for the startled looking fox, it looks like it’s been given a light-bulb enema and the white particles floating around appear to be dandruff. Also, the inlay consists of a folded 6 panel sheet with some ‘arty’ (i.e. blurry) photo of the band and a full page ‘poster’ of some dude in a hat who looks like he’s been caught trying to flush a massive turd. One thing Brand New managed to get right is the CD design, which is a vibrant peach colour, concentric blue circles and the signs of the zodiac around the edge. Anyway, getting off topic here; Brand New are the kind of band that, whilst their artwork deteriorates, their music grows in strength, becoming more intimidating and terrifying, progressing towards a vitriolic embodiment of crushing sounds and sonic noise-scapes, which isn’t bad for a band who used to sing about losing girls to crappy English actors, eh?

This is probably the album that will split opinion among the bands prolific fanbase. It seems a cliché to say it, but the minimalist, scrappy nature of Brand New’s presentation, coupled with the stark cruel-edge their music has now evolved into, one can only assume that this is the time they ultimately lose followers, but perhaps gain some new ones. At times, listening to ‘Daisy’ it’s hard to believe that this is the same band who released the pop-punk bounce of ‘Your Favourite Weapon’; an album that bled youthful determination with those now familiar seeds of despondence and malice that stemmed from Jesse Lacey’s (lead vocals) fragile and emotional past. Whilst Lacey had this quite brash anger on ‘YFW’, it always seemed quite childish and playground-esque, whereas subsequent releases have retained a dark, malevolent side, with some quite cutting wordplay and breath-taking instrumentals.

In a move to confuse the listener, opening track ‘Vices’ features an excerpt from ‘On Life’s Highway,’ a gospel hymn written by Bertrand Brown, in all it’s skipping, low-fi production glory. This strange introduction clocks in at just over a minute before cutting suddenly into a pummelling fury of haphazard guitar squeals and precise drum beats. Gone is the soft, melodramatic grind of 2006’s ‘The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me’, which is replaced with the caustic, dense attack of Lacey’s throaty roar of strangled defiance and a guttural drag of tinny, mangled chords. The overlapping nature of Lacey’s feral, bile-spitting voice, coupled with what I’m assuming is guitarist Vincent Accardi’s quite sombre, yet matter-of-fact vocal technique balance each other out, deviating between rage and tranquillity. ‘Bed’ is perhaps the only track that has any real similarity to the material present from ‘Deja Entendu’ – it’s a tender number that follows a solemn moving pattern of layers, which instead of erupting in a fury of noise, circle around one another, trying to take control at different points and conjunctures but never break through. ‘Bed’ seems content to tantalise the listener with it’s closed progression and the beautiful fragility of Lacey’s vocals.

Part of me is wondering just how fucking pissed off Accardi was when he penned ‘Gasoline.’ Like ‘Vices’, it’s notable for it’s adrenalin rush of malicious screams courtesy of Lacey, who barks the words like an infuriated canine, straining at it’s chain, eager for the chase and attack. The concentrated sound of ‘Gasoline’ is the backbone of ‘Daisy’ – it’s a thick, impenetrable wall of skyscraper-barrage that dips and churns with a grinding, grim determination. Guitars are at times fuzzed out beyond recognition, whilst the precision drumming is so taut; it reaches the Mr Burns level of tightness. Up there as one of the top 5 tracks Brand New have ever recorded.

Lyrically, ‘Daisy’ seems weak compared to clever word-play and pictures conjured up by 2003’s ‘Deja Entendu’ and ‘The Devil and God….’ – but what it lacks in words, it completely destroys with guitar, drums and bass. ‘You Stole’ is a perfect example of this. Whilst initially starting with a gentle lead in, with Lacey’s exquisite voice, crooning a deep sober tone, under a haze of moody atmospheric shifts; it soon fades into this white-noise drenched salvo of progressive hard rock that works on the strength of claustrophobic feedback, reeling drum hits and flamboyantly heavy pitches of dense animosity. ‘Sink’ follows a similar trend set by ‘You Stole’ by combining the grit-covered guitar strangle and hoarse screams of emotional rage, that I don’t think have sounded so sincere since the first Glassjaw record. ‘Be Gone’ feels out of place – a 91 second intermission track slapped in the middle in an effort to break up the rather intense nature of ‘Daisy.’ The heavy drum stomp and Spanish guitar-strumming, coupled with some rather hollow ghostly vocoder-effects, give the impression of a scratched record, desperately trying to spin, whilst the needle bounces in an out of the groove, causing a horrific mess of stuttering stop-start moans and wails. Actually, some mouth-breathing last.fm users have perfectly summed up this track with these ‘hilarious’ tags seen here.

The chorus of ‘Bought a Bride’ is unappealing, in the sense that its leaden, cumbersome nature makes it seem like Lacey’s been singing for several thousand years, and never seems to progress, rising and falling with excruciating sluggishness. This is a shame, as there are some genuninely brilliant moments; such as the thunderous whine of the guitars, which slice and hack away with meticulous energy and cutthroat determination. The title track is yet another grave affair, containing some cleverly woven-in samples, one of which appears to be a concerned child speaking about a person they’d seen in a dream. Lacey’s vocals are somewhat buried in the almost industrial stomp and the intense bass-driven shudder. Alongside ‘Gasoline’, ‘In A Jar’ is probably the best track on the album; combining deft moments of severe misanthropic wrath, via Lacey’s distorted shout and the grunge-rock onslaught of clattering guitars and scratching shifts of dark resonance.

‘Noro’ closes proceedings, bringing more of the same – stark sounding guitar lines and the bone-crushing rhythmic grind of a determined struggle. It’s also one of the loudest tracks on the album; whether this is a production tweak, who knows, but the guitars cut through the mix with such a teeth-rattling chill and that recognizable warped fuzz that sounds like Lacey and Accardi are playing their six-string with the aerial from a Theremin. It ends as it began with the coda from ‘On Life’s Highway’, abruptly cutting into the wailing vintage vocals.

Despite its soft-sounding name, ‘Daisy’ isn’t a comfortable listen. It’s probably the most desolate sounding collection of songs Brand New have ever released and almost nothing recognisable exists, (save Lacey’s voice) from their humble beginnings back in 2000. I can’t make up my mind if this is their ‘definitive’ work, but it’s still an incredibly strong release that shows just how far they’ve come and a remarkable display of skill with distortion pedals.
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Links

Brand New
Interscope

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By Ross Macdonald

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Appearances can be deceiving and none-more-so than James Marsters, who I always had down as a British punk rocker thanks to his brilliant performance as the peroxide blonde vampire Spike from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. When I found out several years ago that he was actually an American and led a band called Ghost of the Robot, who were Bronze material through and through, I was quite shocked and obviously a massive idiot for realising that this man wasn’t of British descent. Nowadays, Marsters looks less like Billy Idol, and channels the look of a hip-university Dean with a stylish perm, but still has those magnificent cheek bones that you could ski down.

‘Like A Waterfall’ is Marsters’s second solo album and sees the former trenchcoat wearing bloodsucker mix his college pop-rock shenanigans with a heavy dose of the blues. Although from hearing opening track ‘Not A Millionaire’ it seems former-William The Bloody has been listening to far too much Los Campesinos. Handclaps? Check. Twee-as-hell choruses? Check. Gentle soft-rock, bouncy pop melodies that are as catchy as hell? Check. The complete unexpected nature of this opener lends a certain charm and youthful exuberance to proceedings that are quite out of character, yet rather brilliant. Even the little “yeaaahhh yeah!” harmonies inject a lazy, summery vibe. On ‘Don’t Worry Son’ and ‘Birth of the Blues’ Marsters attempts to emulate Jon Spencer. To some extent, he achieves this by exuding the similar arrogance and strut of the Blues Explosion frontman. The rather bizarre garbled vocals on the latter (which I’m guessing are Marsters’ attempt an emulating a professional blues musician) however should have been cut – they lack any real meaning and add a cringing element to proceedings. However, the melody and guitar-work, whilst a standard blues-riff, is admirable, especially ‘Don’t Worry Son’ which sounds like something that would soundtrack a sleepy cop drama series, blasting from the speakers of the grizzled protagonist and his quest for order and peace in a small mining community.

‘Looking At You’ has a She & Him vibe – soft indie rock, with Melissa Giattino (stage performer according to google) providing some pleasant female-backing vocals to the country-twang of Marsters’s almost Southern-drawl and Creedence-instrumental backing.

The intro to ‘White Hot Girls’ shares many similarities to ‘Kick Out The Jams’ (and strangely ‘Love Everybody’ by POTUSA), albeit sounding cleaner and tighter, whilst the main body of the song has Marsters take on the suave, debonair nature of a strutting rock star and appears to channel the cocky arrogance of a certain blonde vampire.

‘Louise’ is Radio Sunnydale to the max; featuring the kind of catchy, bouncing guitar jaunt that is infectious as it is cheesy. However, when the song finally kicks into gear with its 70s riffs, wailing chords and stubborn drum patterns it’s ultimately rewarding, if a little short.

‘When I Was A Baby’ steers the listener back on to the ‘blues’ element, with the song’s subject matter focusing mainly on the discovery of the genre and getting to grips with playing and adapting to it’s style. Marsters does a fair job; his voice hums with the same drive and passion, dipping from a deep sombre rumble, to a yelping, strangled wail. Although, I can’t help feel if his voice was a little harsher, more ragged in its delivery, then it would send shivers up the listener’s spine, rather than a faint tingle. The laid-back surf-guitar riff, heavy-saxophone parp and scattered drum beats give the track a jazz-vibe of improvised meandering and complement the vocal lead.

It might just be my imagination or my want for Marsters to dip into his English accent again, but ‘London City’ certainly has that Brit-twang bubbling on the surface, especially the opening verse. It’s again, another relaxed affair, showing the smooth, gracious tone of his voice, offset by gentle pop-harmony. ‘Up On Me’ follows a similar path, albeit less atmospheric-pop, but with the addition of a well-crafted guitar solo.

Ultimately, ‘Like A Waterfall’ is a strong second album from James Marsters; containing the right amount of hooks, memorable choruses and some interesting variations in style that could divide the opinion of the fans of his earlier work, but I guess this is the process a musician goes through in order to develop and expand their sound. Recommended (if you can find it that is!)

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Sounds

To listen to ‘White Hot Girls’ from ‘Like A Waterfall’ click on the player below.

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Links

James Marsters Homepage
Ghost of the Robot (site no longer updated)
IMDB Page

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By Ross Macdonald

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No doubt you’ve re-read the title of this post and are still having trouble coming to terms with the dreadful pun I’ve tried to shoehorn in. Remember Terrorvision? They did that song about drinking that amber/sometimes clear liquid that also involves snorting salt and then squeezing lemon in your eye? Now read the title again. If you still haven’t got it, go tip salt in your ear and shove a lemon up your bum.

Who knows what The Bronx, or should I say Mariachi El Bronx were smoking when they came up with the idea of doing a Mariachi-style album. The seeds for this were rooted in the intro track on their 2nd self-titled effort and it’s been 3 years since this album has come to light. Note: this is not a side project, in all respects; ‘El Bronx‘ is a Bronx album and their 4th full length, albeit a distinct departure from the caustic vitriol that was present on their first 3 records. My knowledge on Mariachi is…well…this album basically. I have none; in fact, this will be my first step into listening to this type of music and hopefully not my last.

Those familiar with the vocal talent of Matt Caughthran will be surprised to hear that the teddy-bear faced frontman has changed from sounding like the bastard offspring of Henry Rollins and an enraged bull.  On ‘El Bronx‘ his voice is uncharacteristically heartbreaking and deceptively delicate. This isn’t to say Caughthran has gone soft; his familiar ragged vocal lead his still present, but instead of pummelling the listener, it’s a soothing alcohol burn of warmth and melody. Take ‘Cell Mates’ for example; after the flourish of exuberant trumpets and intricate guitar-plucking, Caughthran’s voice flows with deft elegance and smoothness. It’s a quintessential summer song that glides along a lazy yet skilful beat. “Honestly, will you wait for me?” he croons, singing with such passion and believable loss, you’re convinced he really is spending a considerable amount of time behind bars, pining for his lover to stand by him.

Percussion is sparse; resulting in steady drum rolls and bouncing patterns of sound that dips in and out of several tracks yet remain a constant militant marching band-style backbone in others. The emphasis really is directed towards guitarists Joby J Ford, Ken Horne and Vincent Hidalgo (of The Drips fame, who incidentally plays the guitarron, a large 6-stringed acoustic bass) whose layered arrangements are astonishingly elaborate and intricate. Those cynical readers maybe wondering “pfft, it must all sound the same then” – you couldn’t be more wrong. For every summery leap of juddering guitar and horn blast, there’s a Mexican-ballad (the luscious, dreamy infection of ‘Sleepwalking’) to the big-band thunder blast of ‘Silver Or Lead’, which would perfectly soundtrack almost any professional dance style (save ballroom and the quickstep!) to the jaunty sea-shanty swagger of ‘Clown Powder’ which wouldn’t look out of place inside a bar from the Old West, nor would Caughthran’s wolf-like howl of triumph in the songs coda.

Typically of The Bronx, themes revolve around death and the afterlife, with possible explicit links to the day of the dead, particularly on the touching, yet mournful ‘Quinceniera’, which despite being about the coming of age ceremony celebrated by Latin-American girls; focuses more on how we’re one step closer to the grave. “Every night I get older…” yelps Caughthran, his voice cracking with splintered emotion, whilst the chorus of “the dead can dance if they want romance, all I need is some air” takes a different path, focusing on celebrating a departed person’s life, rather than mourning it. To counter-balance this, they also focus on the most hurtful of all emotions: love and the unity between two people who have become separated and desire to be with one another again. This is particularly so on the enthusiastic stomp of ‘Despretador’, which sees Caughthran taking the role of someone preparing for the return of a loved one; “I’ve been planning this meeting for days, carefully placing my words, come back to me little girl” he wails, backed by the oom-pa-pa ramshackle of spirited South-American harmony. ‘Holy’ takes an almost calypso-style backing beat, laced with sombre vocals, swirling dramatic string flourishes and jagged guitar plucks of despondence and intimidation.

In many respects,  ‘El Bronx’ does share common ground with The Bronx’s usual hardcore punk racket, despite both musical endeavours weight at the opposite end of the genre spectrum. Passion for one thing; the bleeding sincerity of Caughthran’s outstanding voice, which dips from a heartfelt croon to a boisterous chant (similar to the way he changes from a boisterous Yankee cowboy, to a screaming maniac on previous efforts). The musicianship, whilst different, shares that same meticulous tightness and raw, focussed determination, especially the huge body of sound created by guitarists Ford, Horne and Hidalgo. This isn’t to say that the differences aren’t staring you in the face; they practically scream blue murder, jumping up and down like some ADD-Zebedee, high on the most potent coffee known to man. Elements such as the demanding trumpet arrangements provided by Brad Magers, not to mention Jorma Vik’s elegant, yet light percussion and the luscious strings open doors to new and exciting prospects, collaborations and touring partners for the Los Angeles 6-piece.

I said in my review of ‘III’ back in December last year that their 2008 release was “the strongest collection of songs of their career” –  ‘El Bronx‘ however, romps home with that title and is testament to the truly superb bunch of musicians this band has become and an act you want to see go on playing forever. My only question is: “when will we see another Drips album?”

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Links

Mariachi El Bronx
The Bronx
Wichita Records

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By Ross Macdonald