You felt cool just being there, like you might be witnessing the birth of something vital. Eastern Connecticut doesn't exactly have what you'd call an amazing music scene, but there we were, several dozen people mashed into a rented room at the Willimantic Elks Club, focusing our attention on the pile of gear crammed in the corner and the musicians strewn among it, trying their best to deal with a cantankerous sound system. About ten bands played at the event that day-- the organizers called it Inertia-- and truth be told, most of them weren't that memorable.
You had a half dozen of those sloppy metal bands with one technically competent member that seem to spring like weeds from the high schools of Connecticut, and some sort of electronic set that was so nebulous no one could even tell when it had begun. As far as I can remember-- and this was all years ago, you realize-- there were two bands really worth seeing that day-- the charmingly cynical folk duo Adam's Leaf, and the headliners, a four-headed monstrosity called Zealous Fuel.
The Fuel came on as the sun was going down outside, and left behind a trail of splattered brains and warped minds-- more than a few audience members were left mentally paralyzed by the band's brand of particularly outre weird rock. I can't remember exactly how much time has passed between that show and the present, but listening to Zealous Fuel's first actual album (they released two cassettes that they distributed themselves in the late 90s), I can tell you that they're no less bizarre than they were back when I first saw them.
Let's say this: tons of people will totally hate this music. At times, it seems like that might even be the point. Drummer Thatcher Graham's self-taught grooves aren't the least bit conventional and his fills are sometimes downright childish, but the way the band locks into his naïve rhythms is remarkably effective. Bassist/vocalist Mike Kelly probably has the strongest chops in the band, dishing out funky, freaky bass lines while the dual guitars of Jason Beebe and Tanner Johnson careen around him with precision or drunken abandon, as needed.
And then there's the little matter of Kelly's vocals. Delivered alternately in a vaguely tuneful sneer and a low, rumbling growl, they don't really conjure much you'll have heard before. Taker together with the band's turn-on-a-dime grooves and strangely juxtaposed instrumental parts, they have an almost Beefheartiar effect, though Kelly never gets quite as affected as Don Van Vliet at his strangest. Graham is the band's main lyricist, and the boy has an odd head on his shoulders to be sure.
The Unknown Label opens with "Sticks To Your Ribs," blasting in with a thick drum and bass groove motoring away under Beebe and Johnson, whose guitar has just about the ugliest tone you could imagine. The music sways wildly back and forth between this, the teetering, almost martial stuttering of the verses, and the strangely melodic chorus. The effect is pleasantly disorienting, leaving the listener appropriately off guard for the rest of the album.
The band's crunchy signature song, "Zealous Fuel," clamors along like some sort of demo Killing Joke might have recorded after their fifth or sixth rehearsal. Kelly's sterling bass line on "Failure" is lodged in the middle of a muddle of guitars would shame ever Mudhoney, while "The Sound of Corduroy" answers the question "what if Gang of Four and the Melvins had mated?"
Suffice to say there are a select group of wackos out there who will enjoy the fruits of their hunt if they track this down. People who aren't looking for a bizarre curio that mixes metal, funk, punk and a few other things into an indiscriminate stew should probably steer clear though. For my part, just hearing something so willfully different and strange is enough to make me breathe easy for the future of music.
