(This show preview originally appeared in the SF Weekly.)
I’m a stoned disciple of the screaming neon tribalism and laser psychedelic dance jammers by the Boredoms, Animal Collective, and Gang Gang Dance. And so are Liars because the group, who in 2005 ditched New York for Germany, killed off the retro post-punk aesthetic that made it a white-hot indie commodity just four years ago. As can be heard on Liars’ new disc Drum’s Not Dead, the band replaced the former sound with a meditative brand of drum circle space rock ritual that often drifts, evaporates, and explodes like the stellar projections of Ummagumma-era Floyd. From the shimmering neo-krautrock drones of what sounds like a synth-tabla to the band’s disembodied falsetto incantations, Liars has undergone an astounding mutation, one that most groups in its position don’t dare attempt for fear of falling out of favor with the fan base. So check this maverick out when Liars performs on Monday, June 5, at the Bottom of the Hill.
If you were to barge into my unlit bedroom right this second then you’d swear I was some pud-whackin’ online porn addict. I’m a 31-year-old man flying solo on a Friday night sporting nothing but a pair of plaid boxers as the irradiating glow of an iBook sears my poor retinas into crispy little fritters.
Leather-clad Al Jourgensen, the man who invented the faux-human-skull-lined-microphone-stand-on-wheels, is fuckin’ pissed at our warmonger president. So much so that Ministry’s new disc, Rio Grande Blood, is a virulently anti-Bush, anti-Iraq invasion song cycle. Now I don’t deny that Jourgensen (who is Ministry) believes in what he’s ranting ‘n’ raving about, but this record — from the cover art (a crucified Bush stuffed inside an oil drum) to the 10 tracks constituting the thing — is such a total caricature of nth-generation industrial rage that it’s really nothing more than an implicit affirmation of the spectacle surrounding the very thing that this slab of political art is supposed to oppose: war. In other words, if our current state of affairs were some cliched, effects-laden action flick (which it is) directed by a hack director who felt his soundtrack needed “a little bit of that Hot Topic, black nail polish angst music for the teens,” then Rio Grande Blood, with its rote jackhammer blast bleats, gratuitous number of electronically altered Dubya samples, and stereotypical wave-them-arms-in-the-air rap ‘n’ metal breakdowns, would be the ideal choice.
The Herms’ full-length debut, Record Machine, has a fitting title. Most indie rock bands these days are like computers, extracting hooks ‘n’ sounds from their fave records and craftily synthesizing them into catchy, patchwork pop — something this San Fran duo (augmented by an ever-rotating drummer) does quite well. On such cuts as “All the Things You Do” and “Get on,” vocalist and axeman Matt Lutz’s deadpan drawl channels equal portions Lou Reed, Jonathan Richman, and the Strokes’ Julian Casablancas, while the backing instrumentation on all 15 tracks cites a goddamn truckload of classics, including the punchy keyboards of the Stranglers, the angular garage of Swell Maps and the Sonics, the Moles’ minimal Brit pop, the programmed grooves of Madchester, Devo-fried new wave, and the New Zealand jangle of the Chills and the Clean. But unfortunately, Record Machine lacks two things: raw, prickly production (it’s way too flat) and nervous intensity. You see, the Herms don’t sound desperate, manic, and passionate like their heroes, something that makes me want to poke their skinny little asses with an electric cattle prod and scream, “Now rock!”
