P. Paul French

The Disease (Hellraiser)
by Jon Sarre

Pete Townshend once described the “solo album” as bein’ akin to a space probe takin’ off from the mothership (meanin’ the group as a whole) and explorin’ far-off galaxies the larger craft could not navigate. I get the impression he often sees things in such overly-complicated metaphors (try listening to and making sense of Tommy some time if ya don’t believe me), but that’s neither here nor there. I dunno if P Paul Fenech, the leader of Brit psychobilly hotheads, the Meteors, feels like he’s blazin’ new paths with his new solo album. Most songs on The Disease, in fact, sound like they could be on a Meteors record: twangy, sunbaked rockabilly is Fenech’s specialty, and he’s not what you’d call prone to musical experimentation.I actually prefer his solo stuff to his “regular” group (which is weird, cuz most people’s solo output is lousy). It’s a bit less mind-numbingly Gene Vincent than the Meteors. Fenech further strips down the skeletal rockabilly drum kit and turns down (without actually turning down, y’see?). His driving, bent-guitar notes and gravely throat are left to be showcased on horror stories of murder (“The River”), obsession or, uh, love (“Don’t I”), fun (“I’m Gone”) and L7 covers (“Shit List”). The first track, “Under Control,” is pretty much the creepiest thing I’ve heard in a while, kinda like wakin’ up from a nightmare to find yerself propped up at a bar in Juarez, Mexico and then turnin’ to the guy next to you and realizin’ he’s Billy Childish, but he’s gone nutso-paranoid and he’s mutterin’ non-stop, not necessarily to you or anyone else, but he wants to buy you a drink and you’re afraid to say no…
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