| Dated by at least two removes, at that:
the fuzzy guitars and stuff-me-in-a-closet drums are mid-sixties psych
by way of late-eighties AmerIndie, as anachronous as an AOL icon on
a desktop. Unlike said icon, though, these guitars are downright charming.
They charge forth like mushroom-hunting pigs hot on the scent. Every
song on the album springs out of the speakers with the wild-eyed wonder
one might imagine seeing in the eyes of an old friend coming into
your house after several years spent living in the wilderness -- there’s
a palpable sense of purpose to these home-made rock songs, infusing
them with a quiet, unforced urgency. Per the dictates of his now-defunct
scene, Loewenstein plays all the instruments himself; since he’s
spent some years doing this, the result is not a mish-mash, as was
the case when there were three new albums of this stuff coming out
every week, but the sound of a unified front, all hard and tight and
zeroed-in. |
