Xray Eyeballs frontman O.J. San Felipe may be a current Brooklynite, but his band's new record immediately tips off the fact that he's originally from San Francisco. Xray Eyeballs are the latest in a rich outpouring of American garage-rock; they craft songs rife with distortion, clanging chords, and primitive rhythms pounded out by a standing drummer. This band is particularly long on charm and short on technical ability, but anyone expecting a garage band to reinvent the wheel is expending far too much mental effort.
Opener "Crystal" starts the record on a high note-- the slowed surf-rock chug and garbage incinerator guitars of prime-era Jesus and Mary Chain. It's a homage so direct, so on-the-money, that it could easily be dismissed were it not for San Felipe's nasally, almost cartoonish whine and an irresistible vocal melody. The two succeeding tunes fall under the same category: infectious, 1960s-inspired noise-pop that can be directly traced to the brothers Reid; "Big Toe" even starts with the iconic "Be My Baby" drumbeat. The band's identity may be missing on these songs, but there are certainly worse groups to build your sound around than JAMC.
On the rest of the album San Felipe expands his sound and worldview, with mixed results. "Drums of Dead" features a drum machine and an economy of notes that comes across less as minimal or skeletal than half-formed. Though it clocks in at just more than three minutes, it still feels like a slog. "Po' Jam"-- with its tempo slowed down, its time signature changed, and featuring a cracked arpeggio Issac Brock would furiously covet-- fares much better. It also contains San Felipe's best writing-- a warped ballad dedicated to New Orleans on which he suffers an acute case of homesickness and a broken heart while boarding an empty train.
Throughout the album's second half, the band thrashes out visceral garage-punk of someone like Tyvek. And while songs like "Broken Beds" and "Fake Wedding" would be a blast to hear and crowd-surf along to live, the album's production makes them feel a little distant. Same with "Kamsing Knights", which tries to go for the driving, primal intensity of Thee Oh Sees, but falls a little short behind the reverb. Instead of offering what the aforementioned bands do best-- a gut-punch that knocks the wind out of you and leaves you keeled over on the floor-- those songs end up sounding like a neighborhood punk band gleefully bashing away in a garage two houses down.
By the time "Escape From That Girl" drives along to the album's finish, the JAMC influence is back (right down to the unexpected ping of feedback during the middle of the first verse), bringing the album full circle. It's a reminder that Not Nothing sounds tailor-made for hearing in a live setting, shirt soaked from sweat and alcohol, when you're too drunk to care about how a band distills their influences.
