Mrs Magician, meet all 14 of Gumshoe's readers ...
Heyyyyyy mah ladies and gents, NOW WE’RE HAVING FUN, AREN’T WE? Avoiding reality online, thinking and talking about music 99.5 percent of the population would never deem it necessary to “POOP” on circa Triumph the Dog; what more is there to life than digesting different forms of media and working till we die?
[(Oh hey, I just found out Daniel Striped Tiger are from Boston, not somewhere in the Midwest. See sometimes I don't research where bands come from because I'm lazy and because I hate it when reviewers mention where a band's from and then spuriously relate the band's sound to a generic trait of said location. Like, "Hey Modey Lemon are from Pittsburgh, and their non-metallic guitars charge forward like the assembly-line steel for which that city was named." I find it to be omnipresent -- along with bad music writing, which is seemingly everywhere -- and off-puttin' to say the least. Anyway, the scene in Boston is, apparently, POPPITY-POPin' so I'll just leave it at that I guess.)]
Well, hopefully there IS more, but I seriously do find that maintaining The Gumshoe Grove keeps me sane in some respects. It’s the one thing — after so many years of contributing, freelancing, editing-at-large and even volunteering — that EYE control. ME. I. Not you. Gumshoe. That’s right — just TRY and tell me what to post! Go ahead, I dare ya …
I’m by no means stretching language when I tell you that at this very moment — 2 a.m. — I am ecSTATic to be alive and awake at this fine hour. The dog next door is barking so I have to flip the records quickly, but other than that I’m peaceful as a hippy whose just bashed his mind senseless with a gaggle of drugs. AWESOME, right?
I’m happy because for the second-straight night — oops, the second in three — I’m spinning a 7-inch sent to Gumshoe Grove headquarters that is blowing my mushy BRAINS out. That’s right — the man that never seems to find rock ‘n’ roll he likes is bippin’ and a-boppin’ to something Pop … RUNN FOR THE HILLS MA BARKER, BEFORE I CALL THE GOL’-DARN FEDZ!!
Mrs Magician — wow, it took me what, FOUR paragraphs to actually mention the band under review? — have got me all giddy, all sprightly and bouncy because they don’t believe in god but playing their mood-lifting music as if our lord and savior (remember, god can be water, ice or steam, right!?) were facilitating every note. Plus, both tunes are so short and snappy I repeatedly feel as if I haven’t actually HEARD their songs — they drift into existence, and before you can turn around they’re saying goodbye, like those too-motherfuckin’-cool kids you knew in your 20s who would show up at a party and leave within 10 minutes, taking half the cooler kids with them. FUCK THAT.
Naw, it’s OK; I’m not bitter, I just always wanted to be that cool. I feel I’ve achieved some form of justification as far as being, if not needed, not-not needed on this planet, and so that’s enough. I don’t have to live in New York or San Francisco or Los Angeles or wherever else because I’ve got my GRIZoove on, feel me?
Or maybe, again, it’s the 7-inch. I like what these guys do with their rock ‘n’ roll. They aren’t afraid of blessing us with a nice melody, yet they also sorta whip their balls out and SHOUT a bit, too, a nice contradiction that expresses what a lot of us feel in day-to-day life (there were so many times today where I would have liked to have just stood up and screamed “IT’S HOT IN HERE!!!” because it’s Texas and it’s hot and it’s humid and I might not make it) as we drift from task to task without any real time to connect to anything or anyone. It’s all tits and butts and sales and work and bar and work and more tits; where’s the love, where’s the devotion? Where’s the … money?
Yeah, me neither. Mrs Magician doesn’t know what the hell is going on either, but they’re willing to deal with a little uncertainty if it means they can still play in your garage. They write good songs — that’s the hard part — and dress them up in just the manner I’d hope any band would. There some echo but not an obscene amount, and the fuzz on the guitars reminds me of Apples In Stereo/Robert Schneider/Marbles in that it’s heavy and bass-y but never “hardcore” or threatening in any way. It rocks JUUUST right.
Alright, I was going to parse the two songs offered by the “There is No God” 7-inch for you but I think you’ve probably gotten the idea: Simple songs, laid-back tempo, fuzz, echo-vox, layered vox, “boom, thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap … thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap” drumming and … bass guitar, played by someone. A hint of Wavves; maybe Times New Viking if they — the girls included — shaved their beards, but overall that stuff is subverted for a more crisp recording, which is then raked over the coals by the fret-straining notes they’re actually barely hitting.
Oh, and one of the songs is called “I’m Gonna Hang Out With the Lesbians Next Door & Drop Acid,” so, you know, in case you weren’t motivated to check this out before, well, there you go …
