This album, Dixie Witch’s fourth, with its gold chrome letters on crushed black leather, is the simplest, most uncomplicated, and appropriately textured statement the band could make concerning their return after a five year absence. As if anticipating the inevitable question, ‘Well, what are you going to do now?’ they’ve just gone and shrugged and said, ‘Let it roll, motherfucker!’ With all due respect to the Small Stone bands who’ve already released albums this year, and many condolences to the ones yet to come, this here is the Olympic pinnacle, and the trio of long-toothed Texan troublemakers have stormed Zeus’ Godly realm and confiscated his throne. Armed with an arsenal of lightning bolts and cloaked in the kind of invincibility you can only get from a mountain high, Trinidad Leal, Curt “CC” Christenson, and new guitarist Josh “JT” Todd Smith now seem to hold dominion over all things ROCK; their Southern stoner sound, once drenched in the earthly confines of mud and fuzz, has found a magical, heavenly edge. It’s still every bit the beast Smoke & Mirrors is, but they’ve elevated the power and melody to rocket-fueled levels (and left out the ballads), making Let It Roll as much a supreme n’ sizzling cock rock record as it is a boogie n’ blues truck stop tango drenched in AC/DC, Lynyrd Skynyrd, ZZ Top, and Alabama Thunderpussy influences. I suppose Let It Roll has the potential to piss off anyone not enamored with a polished production, but if deliciously dirty dynamics and majestic riffs are your bag, you’re in for one hell of a treat.
The Coathangers Larceny & Old Lace
Suicide Squeeze Records
There is never anything very serious about The Coathangers’ business, which usually involves making one hell of a sarcastic ruckus by fusing no-wave fuss and riot-grrrl attitude, and coming up with song titles like “Don’t Touch My Shit,” “Shut the Fuck Up,” “Nestle in my Boobies,” “Gettin’ Mad and Pumpin’ Iron,” and “Arthritis Sux.” I mean, they’re not called The Coathangers because they like coathangers, ya dig? And having taken what I can only assume was a leap from pre-period girls in bobby socks singing into hair brushes to teenage vandals with pawnshop instruments without any kind of forethought to structuring their craft except having the drunkest fun possible, the Atlanta quartet set ears and hearts afire with their first two albums, 2007′s self-titled debut and 2009′s Scramble, both of which were gratuitously punk and gloriously noisy. But on their latest album, Larceny & Old Lace, The Coathangers’ business is sounding a bit more serious than usual, meaning that while their shrieky farce-ula is still prevalent, they do seem to have grown up a bit (and at the risk of having my hand bit, they’re looking more beautiful than ever, too). Sure, you still get that toaster-in-the-tub rush on songs like “Hurricane,” “Trailer Park Boneyard,” “Sicker,” and “Chicken: 30,” but now there’s also an equal amount of pop/beat-oriented moments courtesy of “Go Away,” “Call to Nothing,” “Jaybird,” and “My Baby.” Oh, and there’s a ballad, too. So, they might not be your same old Coathangers, but they’re still irritatingly awesome and they still have the capacity to be the life of the party.
Check out the video for “Hurricane” from Larceny & Old Lace!
I owe a lot to my many years spent as a revolutionary in Sleazegrinder’s army, including my love for all things rock n’ roll in Boston. Early into this millennium I developed an unchecked focus on such bands as Cocked n’ Loaded, Cracktorch, Rock City Crimewave, Milligram, Coke Dealer, and The Humanoids. If only my town had a scene like that, man. And that’s saying nothing of Wild Zero, Noble Rot, and the legendary (in my mind, anyway) Kari Nations. But the king daddy of ‘em all was — and is — Roadsaw (a nod to their off-shoots, Antler and Quitter, as well), the one band who preceded and survived all others. Led by the godfather’s of Boston rock, Ian Ross (guitar), Tim Catz (bass), and Craig Riggs (vocals), Roadsaw have been hammering out Southern-dipped fuzz n’ roll songs for about 18 years now, publishing consistently punishing albums that seem to get a tad slicker and sleazier every time out, to the point now where Roadsaw just can’t help but exude a rock star God confidence larger than the sun. The proof on Roadsaw, their sixth full-length release, is Riggs’ vocal harmonies, which elevate thick-riffed songs like “Dead and Buried,” “Thinking of Me,” “Motel Shoot Out,” and “Song X” into searing arena hits, and any one of Ross’ petulant solos, which attack like a lust-hungry fiend, feverishly and often. Stoner rock rarely contains this kind of excitement, my friends. The band can still play quick and deadly, too, as evidenced by the mean n’ tasty rawk of “Weight in Gold,” “The Getaway” and “Too Much is Not Enough,” and what would a Roadsaw album be without its quintessential ballad, “Electric Heaven,” which stays plugged in but meanders about in a psych-haze of doom-like opulence before delivering the catchiest chorus on the entire album. No doubt about it; the bar has been set…and it’s really fucking high.
Dixie Witch
The Coathangers
Roadsaw