In woeful celebration of Reviews Editor Chris Ott stepping down to mere scribe, I decided to treat him to a night on the town, partying old school South Texas-style just so he knows where I'm coming from and why I have so few brain cells left. I picked him up in my Oldsmobile Cutlass and handed over a lukewarm Lone Star tallboy as we cruised through the east side of Austin. I already polished off two, hence I was driving, while simultaneously rolling up the finest in migraine-inducing Mexican dirt weed to help Ott "feel the noize." I popped in the new Those Peabodys eight-track and cranked it up on my system.
Ott: Christ, you might want to replace the tissue paper on your speakers you got in here. The low end is swampy like Town Lake. And uh, what is this wretched classic rock rip-off you're buzzkilling me with?
Beta: Dude, new Those Peabodys, Unite Tonight. You should've seen their hair when they opened for Trail of Dead. Well, they didn't send me a cover on this one, but trust me, they rock live and their hair looks good. Here, hit this-- pffffffffft.
Ott: Can they do anything other than step on the wah pedal and do pedestrianly pull-offs and hammer-ons on their Les Pauls? I mean, there are Iommi-like structures to the insipidly titled "All My Friends Are Good"-- but the riffs keep leading down dead ends. Where's the payoff?
Beta: What about the cowbells and Thin Lizzy licks of "What's Up Turbo?" It's cool cuz it's like a car with turbo. Vrrooom. Heh heh.
Ott: Jesus, Beta, you can't lace up a pair of ironic cowboy boots without stepping on a dollar copy of Jailbreak down here. What's the point of taking on the chop-attack of classic Rick Nielsen, or fuck, Leslie West of fatso hair-farmers Mountain, if you can't write a tune to go with it? The twin guitars are competent, but the songs fall on false posturing and buzz-bin words after the riffs bog down. Look at "Denim and Diamonds Forever" or better yet, "Komputer Musik", technophobically spelled with a "k."
Ott: And when that won't work, the solos flip through the classic rock stations until they hit on a particular effect that works for the moment. The chunky riff that starts "Makin' Magik" veers toward Foghat's "Slow Ride" before getting lost in the piled-up riffage and aborted choruses, uncertain if they want to be all-chops or all-pop.
Beta: Dude, they're tight, like Tight Bro's From Way Back When. Hear how they all hit the drum and main barre chord at the same time in the build-up to "Bleed Blue"? And with the feedback, you could kinda tell where like Bon Scott would be saying like "I'm going dooown..." right there. I mean he's dead and stuff, but...
Ott: But while it throws off every indicator of "rocking," replete with thrusting fists, horned hands, and high fives from That 70s Show, it just doesn't rock. It's like those Frank Marino, Budgie, and Moxy records that sell for $30 down here, but are worthless in any other part of the country. Licks and tight tricks abound, but it doesn't lock in.
Beta: I kinda like the Kentucky Fried Chicken picking they nail just right to open "Bustin' Up Yo Complex" with them dudes hooting along at a kegger. It reminds me of those days of partying in Austin on a Saturday night. Empty promises but it feels all right for the doped-up moment. And their take on "River Deep, Mountain High" is totally Jim O'Rourke's boogie rock from Insignificance, but like doing Ike and Tina instead.
Ott: At least there's none of that crappy Drag City irony riddling the thing. Maybe they just got rushed in the studio and didn't have any solid songs ready.
