The Gimmicks – High Heels – Review

The Gimmicks

High Heels (Estrus)
by Jon Sarre

Yikes! The soundtrack to yer soul’s inner torment has just arrived, courtesy of Estrus (you were expectin’ maybe Amy Grant’s label?): moody fuzzy scuzzbagged feedbacked rock, like a dirty needle wrapped up in a brand new box. Open it up, spray some disinfectant, maybe wash yer hands and then kiss The Gimmicks full on the lips. Worship ’em as they manage to scream “trapped” (or is it “tramp”) at the top of their lungs while a barely managed junkie sludgecaphony sets the tone for the next time yer so blitzed that you don’t know what else to fuckin’ do, ‘cept wander ’round while the last two gulps of vodka left in the plastic bottle spill out every time you stumble.

At their most decipherable, these Seattleites sound like Mudhoney’s first record sung by Richard Hell at a kareoke bar for muttering beat poets. Past that, it’s all Ron Asheton tweakback guitar noise hangin’ out over Birthday Party rhythms. On the first track, “Up to a Down Beat,” vocalist Mark Starr sounds like he’s in pain, pretty much from the get go, barely able to get out an “Alright,” straight outta the Stooges’ “1969,” Luke Van Mohr’s traps follow him, nearly stallin’ out like an overloaded Dart minus three cylinders on Heartbreak Hill while Steve Denaurd’s bass and David B. and Starr’s guitars valiantly attempt to sound as strung out as possible (cuz these guys definitely know how to pace stuff!). “Dark Cave” may be a pun, since it sounds like Nick Cave stumbling blind drunk in someone else’s apartment (get it?), that’s not to say it ain’t great. Same with “Saturn Speedster”‘s bad interpretation of Link Wray’s “Rumble” grafted onto Iggy’s “LA Blues.” Man, the blackest hell imaginable never sounded so goddamned heavenly! Only bad thing I can say about these guys is tied up in their name. Gimmicks they ain’t. This is the real deal!
(PO Box 2125 Bellingham, WA 98227-2125)