Posts Tagged ‘What’s Your Rupture?’

Honey Radar

Wafting like wasp spray on the summer’s breeze, Honey Radar’s Ruby Puff of Dust comes oozing into the pop pool with ill intent. Jason Henn’s Philly outpost has long sum in the wake of Athens’ psych-pop resurgence and they’re presenting one of their most refined visions with this round of twelve crusted twisters. Like a lower-fi Olivia Tremor shorn and shucked of Green Typewriters and write-in dreamscapes, the band reassembles the psych-pop pit of the universe with frayed wires and wood glue. The album’s got a bedrock beat that’s built on The Byrds, The Troggs, and Them, but its all been corroded like wet Kodachrome in the basement. Jangles ring out ,straining to swing wild before a wave of fuzz comes crashing onto their shores obliterating the crystal clear shake n’ shimmy they pine for. The twin-tone twang rattles out of the transistor tubes like a half-formed memory, memorexed and microwaved like shrinky-dink ditties that are always floating just out of reach in the recesses of memory.

That’s not to say the album doesn’t make a hell of an impact, though. The caustic crunch of guitars leaves a fair amount of scars on the ol’ cerebral cortex, jamming in hooks that are barbed and bouncy among the fuzz-bomb flotsam. Henn’s got Pollard’s proficiency with boiling a song down to the elemental necessities and he’s shot this record through to the bone with enough catchy crusters that we’re gonna all need a quarantine before the record is over. It’s been three years since Honey Radar hit the long play market and its damn good to have this melter on the deck, spinning round and round until the night consumes us all.



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Honey Radar – “Kite Balloons”

Honey Radar is back at it again and things are sounding shaggier and shakier than ever. The first cut off the Philly band’s upcoming Ruby Puff of Dust is a fuzz-soaked swinger, hiding a jangled gem underneath a mountain of corrugated guitar shavings and echoplexed sweat. Though clearly pulling from the Nuggets bench, the band also gives this one a nice late-nineties psych-pop punch, feeling like this might have been a more forceful vision of an Olivia Tremor Control b-side. The record is out June 28th from the Radar’s usual home at What’s Your Rupture. Check out those fuzz licks below.



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Bodega – “Jack In Titanic”

Brooklyn’s Bodega have captured the spirit of a generation raised on television and then dipped in the deep end of the internet. The band explores themes of stereotypical masculinity learned from hours watching celluloid heroes. Its hard not to sympathize with the notion of mixing memories with plotlines and the remote buttons as babysitter. The band ties the themes up in their typically austere, yet pervasively effective appropriation of art-punk poses. Along with much of the rest of their debut, Endless Scroll, the song puts the hammer to the nail on looking back with rosey rear view. This record gets more endearing with each listen. Catch the clip above.



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Bed Wettin’ Bad Boys

Though I’ve always balked at the name, Aussies Bed Wettin’ Bad Boys have consistently thrown down a good dose of sore-throated rock n’ roll. They pull from the wave that saw alt-rock rippers rise, riding into major label stardom and branching into either infamy or obscurity at the whims of a nation of radio listeners. For their part, the band leans harder towards infamy on Rot, dredging up more than a few leathered licks from the traditions of The Replacements, Hüsker Dü and Volcano Suns. The Boys know a good riff when they find one, but they’re ready to dive past hooks and into a muddier tangle of rock than most of their peers. And while they may share Joe Sukit with labelmates Royal Headache, they’ve buried his trademarked howl under a tar thick swipe of grunge.

The album’s scraped and scarred, rolled in beer and not a small amount of mischief for a night out. Though that makes them sound like teenagers on a bender, it’s more along the lines of college lads bored and wandering town, looking for the matchlight of fun that winds up the fodder for eternal stories. They succeed in capturing the kind of loose boredom that inhabits youth, the restless heart and shaggy demeanor that’s not quite come of age, but tryin.’ Rot is decidedly classic in its approach, swerving some of the current slacker trends and jangled impressions flittering through the Aussie underground. For their part they’ve gone in looking to create something that sounds like it already belongs to a gilded age of passed down classics and succeeded quite handily.




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Savoy Motel

The hardest thing about digesting distinct styles is making them sound fresh. In the interim between the close of the ’70s and the precipice of 2017, funk, glam and disco had their wave, subsequent revivals and to most they’ve been strip-mined for all they’re worth. But Savoy Motel just don’t know how to take “no” for an answer, and its a damn blessing that they won’t. They take that triplet of genre cues as a jumping off point and dive through an alternate universe where the punks and the disco kids worked hand in hand, sawed off the barrel and found a way to make boogie raw and unrepentant. They pull on the outsized attitude of glam and wield it like a battering ram against any who refuse to get down. They find the simmering and squirming groove at the heart of their eponymous debut and they jack it full of amyl nitrate and High Karate. It’s a record that, while built on familiar forms, converges like a lost artifact of dirty funk freakanetics. It’s a prototype of glam glory and electronic infancy thrown in the blender, blades out and stomping in platformed perfection.

The real clincher is that they dig in deep on the greasy weirdness of any and all of the forms that they inhabit. They stroll through Eno’s queasiest catalogs, tracing his exit from Roxy’s feather boa n’ leatherette S&M boogie and into a his ascent through lyrical pop that picked at the freak impulses of the insomniac soul. The band scotch tapes those aesthetics to an 72-hour binge of Arthur Russel’s swaggering disco divergences and Gary Numan’s panting portent for artificial intelligence with a libido, picking up their rhythmic beats and committing them to memory. As evidenced by the band’s own fashion flare they’re raiding the closets of Slade, Geordie, Bolan and Sweet; but they’re not sticking around pumping quarters into the jukebox for a night of nostalgic waxing. They’re just stealing the clothes off the passed out members of their entourage, nicking an amp and pedal or two to get that fat sound, and making off into the alleys like good degenerate youth.

They’re stomping those hard-heeled boots into the fuzzed-wah floorboards and letting the vibe seep out into the room. It’s a record that feeds on the past, while ignoring the reality. They even make prog a strange bedfellow on the epic centerpiece, “International Language.” It’s the best ‘what if?’ riff that’s never got its shot. As a fan of the fringes and half-failures of the past, this reimagining of styles hits like a warm liquor burn in August. It’s uncomfortable and soothing all at the same time. Savoy Motel have found a way to raise the dead and make ’em dance. Still not what I’d ever have expected from the core members of this band, and I’m delighted to have my expectations dashed in this case.


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Savoy Motel – “Sorry People”

Good news for all the moonbabies out there, the psych/soul/glam/funk barrage of Savoy Motel has found a home at What’s Your Rupture?, spinning their once obscure single into an upcoming album’s worth of sparkle sodden mutant handclap boogie that feels lived in and crinkly as a Twinkeyz single run through the woodchipper and neck-stomped by Slade. This new taste of the LP is a heavy hitter that sneers and holds our Angel of No Mercy, Jay Reatard as its inspiration. There’s less melted sun splatter than on that breakout “Hot One” but still plenty to love about the platform heel stomp, disco click ‘n shuffle and paint peeler of a solo that adorn “Sorry People.” Definitely psyched on Jeffery Novak and co. fleshing this project out into a true weirdo run backwards through the television tube memory of our childhoods.

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Royal Headache

Well I’d be remiss to gloss over Royal Headache’s rise to prominence. Their last album came our way in 2011 via Aussie barometer R.I.P. Society. They’ve since gained prominence through US indie What’s Your Rupture? and with their follow-up they crank down some of the frantic energy that drove their eponymous breakthrough. But that’s not to say that there isn’t plenty of heat coming off of High. It’s glossier and more restrained, if only in the production and perhaps the strain on Shogun’s vocal chords. The album still taps into that wellspring of garage-soul that’s equal parts lyrical testifying and hand shred strums. When Royal Headache hit, they hit like a defibrillator, a shock to the system that’s well deserved and well welcomed. The moments when they tend toward slower tempos could be goosed a bit with some simmer, some sense of Sam Cook gone garage vitality, but it here it sometimes lands flat. So it’s the burners that still fuel their fire. But if they begin to find the balance between burn and smolder they’ll get it right. For now High has some great moments when the band lights out for those sweaty moments under the stage lights.

Listen:


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