The Make-Up opened for Sonic Youth on a soccer field at the University of Georgia. The crowd was a tan sea of fraternity types who likely showed up because Sonic Youth is, like, really loud. When Ian Svenonius grabbed the mic (and his crotch) and began yelping like Prince was bursting through his chest, the fraternity types looked at each other silently and decided in a wave of raised eyebrows that this singer was a "pussy." The heckling soon followed. Even before a mob of extracurricular athletes Ian Svenonius continued to scream bloody soul. If anything, the man had frightening conviction. These were the "formative years" of the Make-Up.
Now what are those fraternity types up to? Most likely they're consultants of some sort who drive Altimas. They probably spent $85 to see Bruce Springsteen at the Target Center. Yet, somehow, strangely, those guys might dig the new Make-Up record. ...Well, okay, it's more likely they'll dig the new Tonic album, but I can dream of a rock renaissance.
Save Yourself smells like the '60s. It smells like leather Chevy seats soaked with ass sweat. It smells like incense and pepper. It smells like stems and seeds on a cardboard record sleeve. This greasy, haunted spectre of a record bears disturbed spirits of bands long dead, like the Doors, the Rolling Stones, and Prince. The band brilliantly and concisely sums their image with the song title "White Belt." In the mouth of Beck, this might come across as a retro songwriting prop. Yet the Make-Up spit "White Belt" like activists, and that track spanks ridiculously funky keys like the soundtrack to a Black Panther being chased in his Nova.
Save Yourself stubbornly eats from the salad days of rock and roll, specifically the late '60s, as contemporary music continues to spin toward sardonic Pro-Tools pastiches. The album can proudly stand next to the Rolling Stones' Between the Buttons in even the baldest, pony- tailedest guitar shop employee's collection. Raw and clean with a touch of psychedelica, Save Yourself punches the perfect buttons with devilish effeciency.
These obviously analog, airy recording techiniques in an era of digital gloss feel like a juicy peach after a diet of Mesquite Fritos. Somehow, even a Jimi Hendrix cover manages to sound tougher and more vital 30 years after the original. It's amazing that most of the Make-Up's post- Nation of Ulysses fanbase has dropped off as the band has steadily grown into America's rock and roll saviors. The Make-Up approach the history of rock and soul like a lover, like a scientist, and like a preacher. This record can make even the most jaded Punk Planet columnist proud to be an American. The British had their day in the '60s-- now they'll have to settle for the Manic Street Preachers.
