Chicago's Mannequin Men swear by rock music's most basic essentials; take two guitars, a bass, and drums, mix with intractable sexual energy/angst, and let sit for 18-24 years. The four-piece's sophomore album, Fresh Rot, offers nothing more and nothing less than this rock fundamentalist recipe. With their unpolished assault on hard-to-get girls, crusty establishments, and the 9-to-5 lifestyle, many have slapped the "proto-punk" tag on the band, a label accurate only in the sense that these guys don't care to advance the rock genre, they just want to harness the carnal passion that made cavemen start banging things together in the first place.
While the widespread Stones and Stooges comparisons fit the bill here, MM's earnest embrace of guitar solos, simplistic riffs and barroom backbeats reflect other less chic, although equally rocking, influences as well. The subtle guitar lick on "The Pigpen" smacks of early Tom Petty, right down to the whiney chorus of "The girls, the girls, the girls/ They wanna do the pigpen." With their massive drum builds and simple chord progressions, "Private School" and "Pattern Factory" wouldn't sound out of place in an arena setting, though Fresh Rot's modest production quality's not fooling anyone for the Budokan.
Galvanizing frontman Kevin Richard sets the group a few paces ahead of your average garage rock revivalist, his gravelly yelps reminiscent of Frank Black on his more recent, classic rock-steeped material. "Dead Kids", a dark, murky rocker, even ventures into Pixies territory, its high-pitched droning riffs and Richard's caterwauling bridge morphing Frank Black's cool croon back into the banshee antics of Black Francis. Despite the vocal resemblance though, MM avoid building up a debt to indie's touchstones-- just a debt to old school rock that most indie bands have already amassed. Proving the band's music not merely a fight/flight reflex, the ethereal "22nd Century" cops the Velvets' deadpan two-chord pop, and "Grapefruit" sucks the art-school sophistication out of Talking Heads, leaving only Richard's twitchy Byrne-isms and jangly, exotic-sounding guitar.
Like occasional tourmates the Black Lips, the Mannequin Men lack innovation, but serve as a nifty quick fix for genuine rock bacchanalia. Sure, they shun the use of any non-traditional instruments or textures, but Fresh Rot's fun in part because it's a garage band attempting to sound way bigger than its clumsy power chords and big, dumb tom-tom fills. Other groups aiming to update raw rock to 21st century standards have ranged from laudable-but-annoying (Cheeseburger) to downright despicable (Louis XIV). Mannequin Men, on the other hand, stick to their bread and butter without sounding self-indulgent or fawning, and if more bands followed suit, this "retro-revival" business wouldn't seem like such a pipe dream.
