Photo:
Some bands go for subtle movements in their music, slowly building their songs. Others prefer to hit you squarely between the eyes and eschew any sort of sly progression in favour of out and out raw power. The Black Lips firmly fall into the latter category. The Atlanta four piece have the sort of sleazy swagger about them that forms legends and they stagger on stage like stereotypical Southern rockers. Quite frankly, it’s not clear if they’re even aware of their surroundings, though a mumbled “hello Scotland” at least suggests they know which country they’re in.
But the mumbled chat doesn’t mean a thing when the Black Lips begin to play. That’s because live, they’re simply brutal. They veer from down and dirty gutter blues to bouncing Cavern Club era pop and simply pummel you into accepting their charms by crafting a string of perky tunes that are also covered in grime and muck. Although the fact that bassist Jared Swilley sports possibly the most ludicrous facial hair in the world and guitarist Ian St. Pe’s teeth may look Jaws-esque (that’s the James Bond villain, not the killer shark) may indicate the band are taking their swamp rock roots too far, musically they’re just as proficient at producing 60’s British invasion music, such as on the absurdly catchy ‘Do You Really Wanna Hold My Dirty Hand?’. It means there’s a nice balance throughout and the continual crowd moshing at the front (From an assorted mix of punks, indie kids and even fashionistas) is testament to just how good fun the Black Lips are when they hit top form.
There’s more evidence of this in the form of the soaring ‘Katrina’, which appears to have been plucked from a Detroit garage in the late 1960’s and transplanted to the modern day. And that’s followed by the cheerily titled ‘Buried Alive’, which is the sort of song Chuck Berry used to write, only given a modern twist. The relentless, pounding drums of Joe Bradley ensure a steady backbeat is present throughout the 45 minute set, which seems to contain God knows how any songs in it. Even better, Bradley provides hyperactive vocals at several points, even getting to add a maniacal scream and a sinister laugh at one point.
After a while though, the onslaught becomes a little too relentless and the quickfire nature of the songs (hardly anything goes beyond three minutes) means everything becomes a sort of blur, like being trapped on a desert island and only having one garage rock CD to listen to, hour after hour, day after day, going on and on until you want to scream and shatter the CD into a million pieces. Even when the quartet do try to do things a little differently, such as on ’How Do You Tell A Child Someone Has Died’, pretty soon it slips back to the same routine. Luckily, the Black Lips are good at what they do, but a little more variety wouldn’t go amiss in future. Nonetheless, for sweaty, hard hitting rock n roll, the Black Lips are tough to top.
