Listening Station: Nine Pound Hammer, Marques Wyatt, Detachment Kit

Nine Pound Hammer

Kentucky Breakdown

As a young whippersnapper, Blaine Cartwright was probably the kind of salty dude who huffed spray paint and slugged cough syrup just to make himself feel normal. These days, though, the Nine Pound Hammer guitarist--on hiatus from Nashville Pussy--looks a little worse for wear with his bloated pot belly, sweat-stained Ted Nugent T-shirt and bald head (don't be fooled by the cascade of hair trickling down the side). In fact, the entire band, which hasn't put out an album since 1997's Smokin' Taters, looks like it might not have the energy to chase down a gaggle of emo kids and beat them to a whimpering pulp with printouts of their online journals. My, my, these are sad days indeed.

Still, if "Rub Your Daddy's Lucky Belly," the first song on Kentucky Breakdown, is any indication, Cartwright and Nine Pound Hammer seem to be taking their decline in stride: "So roll me a joint, fix me a turkey pot pie/ It's just another damn day on the long way to die." Actually, this kind of charming defeatism runs through all the songs on Kentucky Breakdown--an album that's as much an homage to old age as it is to rock 'n' roll excess.

Anchored by Cartwright's white-thrash riffs and Scott Luallen's cowpunk yowl, the Kentucky foursome plows through 13 country-core ditties about slaughtering chickens for dinner ("Chicken Hi, Chicken Lo"), going Rambo on the local police ("Ain't Hurtin' Nobody") and getting good and liquored up (all songs but "800 Miles"). There's even a song about Dale Earnhardt ("Go-3-Go"), which is prefaced by Darrell Waltrip's description of seeing the Eliminator creeping up in his rearview mirror. Granted, Nine Pound Hammer's pro-intoxication, anti-intellectual approach has been tried before (see Wisconsin's Killdozer), but rarely with this much authentic redneck verve. After a few listens, Kentucky Breakdown may have you believing that, contrary to Dean Wormer's opinion, "fat, drunk and stupid is a good way to go through life."--Newt Briggs

Marques Wyatt

Horizons

There are few greater delights within the mammoth Los Angeles nightlife scene than "Deep," helmed by resident and longtime SoCal producer/DJ, Marques Wyatt. A biweekly event devoted to deep house, "Deep" is an institution. It exudes a vibe that reaches every corner of its midsized home in Sixteen Fifty in Hollywood, a soulful, ethnocentric jubilance that mirrors that of New York City's Paradise Garage--the late '70s/early '80s sanctuary chiefly for gay African-American and Latino revelers, where DJ sets would mix the remnants of disco with the early forms of house music coming from Detroit and Chicago. The likeness is not accidental, as Wyatt has always been influenced by early East Coast house, including that introduced by Paradise Garage visionary Larry Levan.

Horizons, Wyatt's latest mix album, is a paean to that vision. The set serves up the same midtempo delights found at "Deep" and on any of Wyatt's previous releases, but here he makes even more of a worldly statement. Global vocals, Afrocentric flavors, Latin beats, Caribbean flourishes and American soul decorate most of the hybridized tracks here, opening with the conga-punctuated, prog-kissed, gospel rave-up "You Gotta Believe," by Intense and the Voices of 6 Ave, and concluding with the percussive, jazzy, chill-out "Maw" mix of "Nos Vida," by New York legend Louie Vega (featuring vocals by Anane).

Most deep house mixes tend to highlight the vocal elements, but no singer is front-and-center on Horizons. The same could be said of the tracks and their components, too. Wyatt's selections are diverse, to be sure, but because of the smoothness of his mixing, every element and song seems to complement each other. There are no showboating divas, aggressive rhythms or pandering hooks--just one universal vibe, as indicative of his aesthetic gifts as it is the humanity-celebrating faithful at his gigs. The idealism attempted but not always attained in trance music is a natural, heavenly constant in the world Wyatt expresses through his mixers and turntables--as it was at Paradise Garage, as it is for "Deep" and anywhere else he expands music lovers' horizons.--Mike Prevatt

Detachment Kit

Of This Blood

Judging from the stylishly sloppy romantic bluster of Of This Blood, it's hard to imagine Detachment Kit hailing from knot-nosed Chicago. Try, rather, Seattle or even Portland: There's a sensitivity to this indie-rock outfit that avoids being fey (see Death Cab for Cutie) and sham-mystical (see Modest Mouse); you get the sense that Detachment Kit singer/guitarist Ian Menard isn't the type of guy to hoard all his deep thoughts in precious notebooks--and yet he's anything but detached. On Of This Blood, it feels as though he's getting it all out of his system right there at the microphone, wailing expertly over charging jalopy rhythms ("Skyscrapers") and post-millennial torch songs ("Chronology") alike. Of course, he's equally adept at screeching to outright sturm-and-drang rockers like "Ted the Electric" or gospel-cum-indie spazz-outs like "The Race."

Fine. So Detachment Kit is one competent indie rock band. But the real rewards come when DK's Ritalin kicks in and they do break open the mushy secret notebook; the most standout tracks are the more subdued. "Pill Cake" smurfs along on a whiteboy funk bass line, layered with deadpanned lyrics. "Ricochet" is a sophisticated centerpiece, a sparse indie-blues number built on a chiming guitar figure and Menard getting all Jeff Buckley on us. At only four tracks in, it makes Of This Blood peak earlier than it probably should. But while no other tracks gleam and sparkle quite like "Ricochet," there's still plenty worth exploring in this kit.--Andrew Kiraly