A Brooklyn three-piece. Most other reviewers have compared them to other art-rock bands, but those sorts of comparisons imply that they’re some sort of rip-off, which is patently false.
Rob knows how to write good pop with a touch of rockin’ country twang. He does it with energy and a smile, and throws in some gentle slow jazz sounds and even a little funk for good measure.
The tough scaly underbelly of ’90s Southern grind (Eyehategod, Buzzoven) taken into a bikerish “don’t let’m grind you down” direction. Ex-Dragbody/Bloodshovel guys.
A long overdue retrospective of one of the most influential heavy bands of the last decade. This chronicles the almighty Helmet through their full-lengths Strap it On, Meantime, and (the criminally underrated) Aftertaste.
The guitars punch like a Leatherman, and the thematic horns are pure Quinn-Martin production. The lyrics are devoid of humor, save one Brady Bunch reference that slips through.
Half-assed blues from one-third of JSBX. Judah Bauer plays the kind of music that makes you think, “Hey, that Jon Spencer is a pretty good guitarist, isn’t he?”
Imagine Blue Öyster Cult meet The Moody Blues, soulfully singing “I don’t talk to no one but myself” and occasionally slowing it down with a folksy ballad. I don’t have hard proof, but I smell a Renaissance Faire somewhere in here.
The Desert Fathers offer up a mixture of metallic distortion, electronic beats, and amorphous samples that is all then piled onto a rock and roll foundation with vocals that remind me of Built to Spill.