Thursday, January 30, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Listening Station

The Sun

Love & Death EP

You know what, fuck "garage." Don't get me wrong. I'm totally sold on the style of rock that people have dubbed "garage," but I'm troubled as to how to describe it. Basically, they hack and slash their guitars just like punks and heavy metallurgists but without the amps turned up to 11. And they aren't afraid to add some funky organ or electronic doodads to the mix. It's cool but that's not really what it's about.

Here's another thing: These new "garage" bands are supposed to have their roots in the late '60s/early '70s second- and third-tier rock bands--you know, the underground critic faves that thrived, or didn't, in the deep shadow of the Beatles, Doors, Stones, Who, Byrds, etc. Bands like the Count Five, the Troggs and the Seeds. But I question that linkage, because I'd challenge any 21-year-old to find a Troggs or Count Five or Seeds CD. Dad might have a dusty old 33 in the, um, garage, but they're not readily available in a modern format. Maybe you can get a hold of the one-hit wonders by these bands (Troggs' "Wild Thing," Count Five's "Psychotic Reaction,") but that's it. So this "nu garage" is really something new, in the sense that it has mostly developed organically rather than as a direct homage to the past.

Okay, so how does The Sun fit in? This Columbus, Ohio, quartet delivers the best "garage" rock soon to be available at a record store near you. The band played together for just a few months before it was signed by Warner Bros. Its new EP, Love & Death, has six songs, ranging from pretty damn good to great. "Fell So Hard" is two minutes and nine seconds of fast-paced, ragged-edged bliss, on a par with the Hives' infectious "Hate to Say I Told You So." The title track echoes the bluesy midtempo Doors. Chris Burney's tinny voice indeed harks back to the garage glory days on the trance-inducing "Rock Stop" and the ironically retro "Back in the Summer of '72." The EP concludes with "Eyelids Apart," an earnest acoustic number that brings to mind the Beatles or Wilco.

Don't get caught up in the "garage" thing. It doesn't matter. Just bask in The Sun.--Geoff Schumacher

Primal Scream

Evil Heat

Scottish alternative act Primal Scream has been in operation for nearly 20 years now, an interesting bit o' trivia that has escaped most U.K. music fans. Three important aspects mark the band's evolution: It has yet to make a truly consistent album (the closest being its breakout and Mercury Prize-winning effort, Screamadelica), its devotion to instilling discotheque-friendly rhythms into its rock 'n' roll has never faltered and it has remained one of the most fascinating bands from the other side of the Atlantic. (It also hasn't made much of an impression here, but that says more about America's musical Anglophobia than it does Primal Scream's talents.)

Evil Heat, its seventh full-length and first for Sony's Epic imprint, reinforces those markers. The flow of this 41-minute drug trip is not particularly smooth, nor is its quality particularly concordant. But Primal Scream is typically forgiven in this department, mainly because its experimental punk/techno fusion is admirable and its radio tracks are often modern rock touchstones. On this set, "Miss Lucifer," the first single, is as demonically propulsive as 2000's "Swastika Eyes," while the follow-up single, "Autobahn 66," recalls the relaxed psychedelia of its acid house days. The garage rock tendencies still abound--"City" and "Skull X" are aided by British effect-pedal messiah and My Bloody Valentine leader Kevin Shields--but most of Evil Heat pulsates with post-midnight verve.

As for the intrigue level, PS singer Bobby Gillespie doesn't shy away from sensationalism (sample title: "The Lord Is My Shotgun"), but his guerilla hippie shtick wanes a bit here; his purpose occasionally sounds muddled. Preferable this time around are his comedown moments, such as "Space Blues #2," when his hymnal musings and hazy yearnings recall fellow psychotropic bluesman Jason Pierce (of Spiritualized fame).

Criticisms aside, Evil Heat is loaded with a variety of aesthetic approaches and unconventional tones that make it alluring to anyone looking to expand their mind--and you can take that any way you want.--Mike Prevatt

The Aluminum Group

Happyness

The precise nature of the relationship between contemporary adult pop music and modern interior design is one that, for reasons good and obvious, hasn't often been raised. Now, for better or worse, The Aluminum Group has forced it on us.

The Aluminum Group takes its name from a line of Ray Eames furniture. And the band's music is like Eames' designs: sleek, urbane, stylish and comfortable. Mellow and jazzy, the expertly crafted songs roll along on synth chords and programmed beats, with bouncy horns and strings slowly folded into the mix. Brothers Frank and John Navin's artsy mod-pop adds a darker shade of tristesse to its breezy '60s and '70s AM-Gold influences, referencing musicians from Burt Bacharach and Steely Dan to more contemporary throwback mavens such as Saint Etienne and Belle & Sebastian. Happyness includes contributions from members of Tortoise (John McEntire engineers the album) and The Sea and Cake. Witty and wry as sipping a sidecar after coming home from the office, this is lounge music for the paneled suburban den, jaded and adult. "The neighborhood is full of kisses," they sing, "and each one has your name." Even the album's giddy name has that ironic misspelling lurking at its center.

The comparison between music and design does raise the question of whether music as an accoutrement to a lifestyle is enough to expect from a band. Is tasteful background music fading into the interior landscape all we want? I suppose it's cynical to say yes and maybe a bit naively idealistic to expect something altogether more heroic. With typical cleverness, Frank Nevin addresses the quandary, saying, "We're not trying to reinvent the wheel. We're redesigning the hubcaps."--Dan Ionascu