Thursday, July 03, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Listening Station

Eastmountainsouth

Eastmountainsouth

After going to school in northern Maine and attending more than my fair share of Grateful Dead shows, I've had the opportunity to interact with many a so-called hippie, and during that time I've learned one truth: Hippies, by and large, are an incredibly annoying bunch. And it's not just their self-righteous, work-is-for-squares, I'm-comfortable-with-my-own-stink attitudes that bother me. It's the accessories--the hemp jewelry, the corduroy, the expensive drug paraphernalia, the foreign musical instruments (specifically, didgeridoos and African drums), the shoeboxes full of Phish tapes--that really drive me nuts. After all, why is a kid with a $300 North Face parka and a hand-blown glass bong asking me for a dollar? I mean, I'll be damned before I surrender my hard-earned ducats so some trust-fund stoner can satisfy his munchies with another gluten-free, organic tofu burrito!

As you might imagine, all of this pent-up rage has made me extremely wary of the hippie music, and thus, I was more than a little perturbed when I first encountered lead singer Kat Maslich in sundress and bell-bottoms on the back of Eastmountainsouth's self-titled debut. It was so bad, in fact, that I could almost smell the patchouli oil radiating from the CD case. Nor did the track listing--with songs titled "Show Me the River," "Rain Come Down" and "All the Stars"--do much to alleviate my fears.

But appearances can be deceiving, and Eastmountainsouth is not by any means the typical hippie band. Neither tree-hugging jam band nor brooding lesbian collective, Eastmountainsouth instead capitalizes on the throwback American folk revived recently by the O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack. Opening with a poignant rendition of 19th century composer Stephen Foster's "Hard Times," the album only stumbles when the lead voices are smothered in technical production. In fact, singer/songwriters Maslich and Peter Adams might best be described as postmodern hippies caught at the crossroads of organic sound and electronic possibility. Undoubtedly, their best work is yet to come, but this debut definitely smacks of future potential. Could anything be more unhippie than that?--Newt Briggs

Gossip

Movement

Yes, this is a review of yet another minimalist, garage-sounding band. These sorts of albums are all publicists provide for we hacks anymore--updated garage and Vendetta Red promo copies. You don't want to know who the latter is, so here's more of the former.

However, the Olympia, Wash., trio Gossip isn't affiliated with any indie trend beyond layman comparison, to its credit. Gossip's lo-fi punk soul is less the Kills and more Sleater-Kinney. This is primarily because, for one, the music doesn't sound as nostalgic, and two, vocalist Beth Ditto assertively wails and warbles similarly to labelmate and S-K singer Corin Tucker. There are also likenesses to early PJ Harvey and current Yeah Yeah Yeahs, rooted in the music's abrasive exhibitionism, and the fact that Gossip also boasts a scene-stealing frontwoman unafraid to flaunt her ragged femininity. Combined with guitarist Brace Pain's bottom-end chuggery and Kathi Mendocaa's militant, unshowy percussion skills, the band's swaggering boogie is unobstructed and never half-assed.

Lyrics aside, the songwriting isn't as defiant as its performers; it has reins that keep you aboard even when the ride gets rough. "Yesterday's News" feels the most dynamic, if for Ditto's soaring homage to '60s soul singers, with competition from the swingin' "All My Days," featuring a blues a cappella worthy of a Moby song. Bodyrock, indeed.--Mike Prevatt

The Locust

Plague Soundscapes

Who knows whether it was some warped sense of benevolence, prankishness or fuck-all attitude on Epitaph's part, but that purveyor of McPunk has signed The Locust. In case you dunno, The Locust specializes in mercilessly brutal, profoundly painful, spastic, screamy, dense krazycore that, beneath the razorblade steam-blast, manages a sinister tunefulness that's unsettlingly easy to fall in like with. True to form, the insect-costumed foursome from San Diego keep the songs on Plague nasty, brutish and short, each one its own little fast-forward freeway pileup of hammered keyboards, wailing guitars and Justin Pearson's acid-gargle scream.

If that sounds hopelessly messy, it is--and yet isn't. The Locust is quite at home trafficking in a brand of customized, controlled chaos that clears out a space somewhere at the crossroads among math-rock, tech-metal and noisecore. If you don't mind gritting your teeth, you'll discover that what sound like 40-second noise assaults are actually impeccably tight, hyper-compressed songs about the anxieties of living in the shadow of a world power. The multispeed deathblender of "Wet Dream War Machine": "Who's got the nightmare glasses?/ It's time to go diving/ Prime time is/ Crime time is/ Nuclear might." Or the ragey burble and guitar-groan of "Listen, the Mighty Ear Is Here": "Wet nurse asks/ 'What's your amusement?'/ Wet dreams answers/ 'Deadly powders/ Napalm showers and/ Glowing cans.'" Sometimes it is indeed a comfort being part of the swarm.--Andrew Kiraly