Furry Things

The Big Saturday Illusion (Trance Syndicate)
by Nik Rainey

I have a sneaking suspicion that someone dropped a jar of liquid Owsley into the Lone Star reservoirs ‘long about ’65 or so and it’s scrambled Texan genes ever since. I can think of no other reason for the freakiest psychedelic excess of the last thirty years. From Roky Erickson and the Red Krayola, to Scratch Acid and the Butthole Surfers, each has borne a Texas postmark. Furry Things, a discovery of Butthole drummer King Coffey for his consistently fine Trance Syndicate label, carries on this noble tradition by minting glorious kitchen-sink trip-pop that’ll send your eyeballs bouncing off the mirrors of the Hubble with or without chemical assistance.

Much of The Big Saturday Illusion is sweetness frosted with fuzz ‘n’ phase, multi-guitar pileups on top of blissed-out melodies – like a Stateside analogue to My Bloody Valentine’s gold-leaf glide-pop (though I wouldn’t call them “shoegazers” – they sound like they couldn’t find their feet if they tried). “Still California,” “Attic,” and “Take You Away” are like wistfully jumbled, over-amped dreams, not given to forward motion, instead burrowing themselves into the ground while still somehow touching the stars. The junkyard etherea alternates with effects-happy noise experiments like “Cats” (where a sped-up tape evokes a crazed feline) and “Lawnmower Sounds” (like a Lawn-Boy in a rock garden). The Things’ psycho-joy freakout comes to a head with “Nothing From Zer0,” a power-dirge with buried vocals that ends with a mind-fellating six-minute coda where flaming, unaccompanied guitars head straight up into the heavens, explode in Technicolor effulgence, then fall back to Earth where a gang of toughs beat ’em up, take their money, and leave them for dead by the side of the road. Turn out the lights, strap on the ‘phones, and liquefy into a pool of Fuzzy rapture.