It’s refreshing to hear a band that genuinely could not spare you a solitary fuck.
For too long I worry that perhaps we aspiring musician types are spending too long sitting in our bedrooms, endlessly quantising that single vocal stem on our pirated copies of Pro Tools 8, all in the name of futilely, convincing ourselves that THIS is going to be the track that finally gets us that publishing deal with Warner Chappell… Or maybe we’re all stagnating.
Thankfully Smack Wizards make no attempt, nor need to hide behind such unnecessary digital compression because sometimes… Sometimes all anybody needs from an album is to feel like its being recorded at this very moment, on the other side of that wall separating your bedroom and that piss-stained shooting gallery of a close.
On first listen, Smack Wizards III is an album of great urgency and lackadaisical intensity; tripping itself at every sudden jolt of discord and gut-wrenching tom hit, threatening to implode at every bar.
Take ‘Blowfish Joe’; in two-minutes-and-38-seconds the cacophony of emotions, as if wrenched from behind your ribcage, traverse fear, anxiety and euphoria are explored here.
The sinewy, serial-esque basslines that ooze forth from the lower frequencies are juxtaposed by the fractured, abrasively delicate guitar as solo follows riff, follows double solo; I finally remembered what rock and roll was supposed to sound like.
This is not a solitary case though. Smack Wizards III is a lesson in abstract expressionism and the delicate balance of violence and beauty.
I came to this realisation roughly around 2:10 mark of ‘£2.50’, as the life-affirming refrain rang out in my ears I stared intently at the artwork – abstract primary-coloured splotches of paint like Willem de Kooning teaching a nursery art class.
It is an album as indebted to The Stooges, The Birthday Party and Television as it is to Wassily Kandinsky and Roy Lichtenstein.
I think it was Nietzsche that once prattled on about art being restrictive to only those of the higher classes, as it would be diluted by the primitive tastes of the low.
If ever I invent time travel, I’ll be sure to pass on a copy to that self-righteous arse.
Words: Ben McKay
