Backwoods Payback
Momantha
Small Stone

If there’s any immediate difference to be noted between Backwoods Payback’s 2007 self-titled debut and their 2011 Small Stone debut, Momantha, it’s the production (cheers, Mr. Grotto). That 2007 album was an ugly affair, a quagmire of lumbering stoner rock for hairy-backed troglodytes with revenge-ridden manifestos in one hand and a rusty hatchet in the other. Of course, that’s what made it so great; there’s never been any doubt about who Backwoods Payback is or what they sound like — kind of like Kyuss, kind of like The Obsessed, kind of like Devil to Pay, kind of like Acid King, and kind of like Scissorfight, but most definitely a lot like a boulder being dropped into a puddle of mud. Momantha, however, adds melody into the mix, and flexes a bit more muscle as well, but before you think that means the maniacs are city-bound to chuck curses and get library cards, be assured that this album is drenched in BP’s groggy-riffed pestilence. In fact, the album’s first half, from “You Know How This Works” to “Parting Words,” is a beast and is probably as road-ready and raunchy as BP will ever play it, but the second-half variety courtesy of the Urge Overkill alt-vibe of “Poncho,” the sludgy doom of “Velcro,” and the hardcore-tinged animosity of “Timegrinder,”  will keep you on your toes, guessing when, where, and under what modus operandi the band will strike next. BP aren’t reinventing the kill here, but I just can’t seem to definitively peg ‘em, which is an awfully high compliment to give. But there is something familiar here, isn’t there? Sometimes I think it’s that vocalist/guitarist Mike Cummings’ throaty howl reminds me of Pete Stahl — and, to that end, that BP remind me in some way of a woollier Wool — and sometimes I think that they’re out there all alone in the Pennsylvania thick, just them and the shallow graves they’ve dug.

Listen to “Lord Chesterfield” from Momantha!

We’re out the other day, the wife and I, and we happen across a bin of two-for DVDs on sale. If you’ve never rummaged through a bargain DVD bin before, I suggest you do it the next time you come across one, because that is where you’ll find the only movies worth watching, movies that were never really made at all, but born in that bin, deep down, sheltered from artificial light, waiting for you to come along and release their awesomely bad power. Now, lucky for us we scored some pretty sweet finds, including George Lucas’ first ever movie, THX 1138, Blade Runner (director’s cut, of course), and some whimsical cartoon, The Last Unicorn, that will no doubt be magically awesome if watched under the proper influences. But the real treasure we unearthed that day was a movie I had only ever heard about through various underground sources or read about on various underground web sites. Then there it was, its cover so desirable, so becoming, so fantastic, so absolute, no red-blooded man or woman could resist its lure. I’m talking, of course, about Tokyo Shock’s The Machine Girl (2008).

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You know, I really didn’t have much hope for The Last House on the Left, the 2009 remake (or rather, adaptation) of Wes Craven’s 1972 film of the same name, because remakes are, for the most part, unoriginal, money-making film fodder. And I thought that my hopelessness was indeed going to prove true after watching the first five minutes of this movie and having to digest the terrible cop/criminal dialogue that takes place therein. Add on to that the usual isolated house in the woods location (where, of course, cell phones don’t work), a big storm on the horizon, the convenience of the father’s occupation as a surgeon (who better to exact torturous revenge?), the convenience of the daughter’s skills as a swimmer (who better to escape from the killers’ grasp by the lake?), and…well, you get the idea. However, my hopelessness quickly turned to complete and utter uncomfortable interest as this movie went on. By the end, I was disgusted…and pleased.

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