Any year that sees Endless Boogie on the release schedule is a momentous one indeed. While last year saw the release of a treasure trove of basement recordings bound up in an essential box of boogie, it’s been since 2017 that we’ve had a real dose of new work from the reigning kings of the choogle circuit. The band, at this point, are already legends in their own time — exhuming the spiritual grit from the very sidewalks of NYC, the crush of the currents from the East River. The Boogie manifests as an oil slick come to life, fed on the cantankerous cloud of disharmony in the air. They breathe in the bile and exhale a quivering cool, like an old-growth forest for the soul.
Paul Majors continues to be carve out a Beefheart bravado for this generation, ever the shadow shepherd we need, while the band seethes beneath him, a beast of their own making. Bones’ bass is the bedrock, a slippery, hungry live wire of rhythm that harnesses the band’s essence to tape. Eklow and Sweeney converse in cosmic languages long lost and now found — a musical manifestation of strange divination that’s following the blood from Diddly, to Cale, to the Gibbons/Hill houndstooth hackles. While its all divined from improvised sessions, there’s a feeling that not a note is out of place when it comes to Endless Boogie.
The sounds that emanate from the speakers drip and vibrate. The boogie infects every synapse, sense, and sinew. Charred black riffs roll thunder with Druzd’s steady pound like storms on the horizon. The electricity in the air when EBoog is on the table is quite the same as the most monstrous Nor’easter. In their absence the band laid coiled but calculating, ready for hard truths and tectonic heaviness of Admonitions. Now that its leveled to land, there’s no escaping the storm laid out here, nor should you want to hide away from the deluge. This one’s here to scrape us clean and lord knows we need it.
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