Young, emerging guitar rock bands are lately investing a lot of thought and time into ensuring that their pop music is as steeped in fuzz and scuzz as possible. Harlem are an Austin three-piece that opt out of messing with fuzz pedals and wear their grime on their sleeve instead. You might say they rub some people the wrong way. Their first record's title, Free Drugs, was punctuated with the following, ironically placed emoticon: ;-) Their band name doesn't do them any favors with the more politically correct. Their current press bio reads as though it came to its author on PCP, nonsense slapped together solely to give hapless music journalists migraines. :-( Their live set is comprised of as much on-stage, intra-band ribbing as their jukebox rock'n'roll. But they do seem to care deeply about one thing, and that's their songwriting.
A garage band studied in the ways of Nuggets but clearly enamored with Pixies, they are committed to crafting bubblegum choruses flavored with booze and cigarettes. Hippies, their Matador debut, showcases just how strong that commitment is from the opening bell. On "Someday Soon", sometime-frontman Michael Coomer runs us through an exchange in which his friend catches fire and asks for a little help being extinguished. The pleas are ultimately declined for kicks. It's sick but singable, the Nirvana-nodding "Torture Me" one other deliciously dark example. Coomer shares time playing guitar and drums with co-founder Curtis O'Mara, the two halving songwriting/guitar/lead vocal duties. The split provides a duality in tenor that does the record some serious good. When Curtis is in charge, as he is during the psychotropic shimmy of "Faces" or Casper tribute "Friendly Ghost", the bent is relatively hopeful. If the strep-throated Coomer has the reins, expect thunderstorms.
If Hippies has a flaw, it's only that it overstays its welcome by just a few minutes. By the time highway mood piece "Prairie My Heart" runs its haunting, three-minute course, it feels like an opportunity is missed to wrap things up. But then again, if you look at the way they've stacked hook on top of hook on top of hook, each so dangerously close to one another, it becomes clear that this is a singles parade more than an album. Also, "Stripper Sunset" jams awfully hard. It's pervy, but man does it ever jam.
