At a seedy roadhouse three miles off the interstate, a scruffy assembly of skinny boys and girls in tight blue jeans, skinny ties, and bright red lipstick gathered for one final night to raise hell with hard liquor and filtered cigarettes, and bid farewell to the garage/surf revival that had sustained them. When the evening was over, the crowd dispersed via classic car or motorcycle, or passed out cold in the gravel parking lot. The last word came from a staggering DJ, who, while clumsily loading old Sonics albums into the back of his vintage Camaro, reputedly uttered: "They say electronica is the next big thing. I guess that's the end of us."
Many of the evening's attendees took this prophetic line too much to heart, and went home to sell their guitars and invest in expensive music software. Or in the case of Spokane, Washington's The Makers, grew out their hair, changed their names, and started talking concept albums.
As it happened, the whole 'garage rock is dead' bit was at best a gross exaggeration, or at worst a vicious rumor started by an enterprising couple from Detroit who aimed to capitalize on the gullibility of their peers. It's no secret that anything bearing a remote resemblance to garage rock is huge right now, and despite marginal accolades for their new, improved glam rock personas, The Makers got the shit end of the deal.
Which brings us, in a round about way, to Strangest Parade. A flawed follow-up to the flawed concept album that was the preceding Rock Star God, Strangest Parade shows the Makers 'maturing' from full-on glam rock excess into ordinary rock excess with little of the attitude, and less of the energy, that made them even remotely appealing in the first place. Yes, it's dark and serious and musically competent, but why should that be a recommendation of a band once known for their snarling, no-holds-barred noise and the somewhat mythical badassitude they derived from their skid row storyline and predilection for onstage anarchy. The only evidence of a sense of fun or humor on this album are the band's clothes, which, if the album cover's any indication, may have been purchased at a combination Rod Stewart/Queen garage sale circa '77.
Strangest Parade is basically devised as a two-part concept album, separated into a long first half and a shorter second half by two short creatively titled introductions (respectively "An Eternal Climb" and "Death and the Mad Heroine"), and a simplistic stylistic division-- the first part tends to drag anthemically; the second half comes closer to straightforward rock 'n' roll. The album is set up as a mock concert, concluding with "Wide Wide World of Girls"-- a largely acoustic, almost Neil Young-inspired ballad complete with harmonica, dobro, and twang-- an interactive encore, wherein the music is overlaid with periodic stadium-sized audience applause and band introduction.
Though this conceit irritates me as a rule, it's only a mild violation when compared to the over-the-top Bowie-aping that dominates the bulk of the album. With moments of cribbed "Space Oddity" (the acoustic segue "Wild Gray Wonder") and such blatant examples of ersatz Ziggy Stardust as the anthemic "Calling Elvis, John and Jesus" with its falsetto backup choirs and spacy guitar lines, or the whacked out confessional piano ballad "Calling My Name," it's awfully hard to lend them credence that they're anything other than a veiled tribute band-- let alone that they wrote these songs.
The best moments on the album recall The Makers' more raucous past. Sometimes these occur almost inconspicuously: the unabashed crunch of the guitar on parts of "Hard to Be Human," is nearly lost in the glam theatrics and sound effects. Likewise, the great Nuggets-era pop of "Suicide Blues" is hampered by the bizarre inclusion of what sounds like a children's choir at the chorus. Other tracks show the initial energy of what could be wild ass rock 'n' roll (the build-up alone on "Addicted to Dying" raised my heart rate), but draw back abruptly as if weighted by the maintenance of the album's conceit.
I respect The Makers' desire to grow and evolve as musicians, even if-- in fact, especially if-- it seems both aesthetically and economically ill-advised to do so. But ask yourself: do we really need another uninspired T.Rex retread, and if so, do you really want the Makers to be the ones doing it? Me neither.
