C.A.D. & The Peacetime Consumers

Proving there’s still plenty more melters crawling out of the crater in Detroit, C.AD. and the Peactime Consumers’ latest runs roughshod through a river of garage punk poison that’ll make you shake. The latest lob out of Christopher Alan Durham doesn’t just scrape the sores of the Midwest for inspiration, though. Throwing a tether to the ‘60s soul-biter years, when garage chucked the ties n’ tweeds to sweat out its heroin shakes in low-heeled leather and the original parcel of punks let acid lead them down winding paths, The Peacetime Consumers take a world tour through the kinds of hooks and hangups that kept us coming back to the tailpipe for more from the garage. The record stitches burlap n buttons between Canturbury-curled curiosity, the kind of psychotropic West Coast burn that sent the hippies looking for harder hits, and the Texan heat shakes that turned dehydration into delirium.

Somewhere along the way, the decade’s vision quest chemicals got left to the prog n cosmic country heads while garage got hooked on volume and chased crank shafts full of amphetamines towards the pummel of punk. Yet, The Consumers envision the flashpoint of fission, the place where we’re all heat-stroke shamans. Smeared with horns n’ heat, garage grit, wet-eyed warble, keys n’ conga comedowns, the record leads the listener into the cave and leaves them searching for the ghosts of The Soft Boys, Doors, Hawkwind, Blue Cheer, and The Elevators. It finds ‘em too and ushers in their unmistakable shiver. If you’ve been looking in the wrong direction, The Peactime Consumers might have missed ya, but it’s about time to get those eyes fixed and focused on Play Atlantis.

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