Of course, all albums are technically ‘live’ aren’t they? As in essence, they have to be performed in order to be noted down for the annals of rock histoire. But few could promise to sound like there’s sweat seeping from the walls and bits of venue being pulled apart to be used as battering rams, all with the undeniable lack of an actual audience, as this filth that’s been unrestrained from the none-more-scuzzy Narnack Records. Something tells me we’re not in the shire anymore.
As it seems, ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly…’ has a higher abundance of recognisable song structures than the Coachwhips seem to let us onto, particularly in relation to the shitting-Nora-what-was-that debut LP ‘Bangers vs. Fuckers’. ‘Cos this mob have hooks bigger than the one Peter Pan was almost disembowelled with. But what makes Coachwhips bigger than the rock n'roll n'amphetamines and extreme petting that inevitably gets etched on them is sheer, dirty, bone-corroding, untamed noise. Like the neo-blues-garage-punk-stuff comeback/revolution (obvious references: White Stripes, Jon Spencer, most bands beginning with The or Thee) has been chewed up and spat out and stamped upon and served on toast. That first track ‘Body and Brains’ provides a slight false sense of security through sounding like it could conceivably have been made by Sonics-lovin’ human citizens is dispelled as ‘I Made A Bomb’ jolts into life with its chugging, organ-pummelling maximum r’n’B-movie zomboid swampness and the, if you will, quicker ‘Did You Cum?’. The way that ‘Ya No Ya Wanna’ is almost like the first bar of a Futureheads riff repeated then slashed to pieces and stuck together with used chewing gum, whilst other aspects like ‘What Do They Eat?’ sounds like a demented and distorted preaching about something other than ‘the light’ shows that there are many ways to skin a guitar and get away with it. They also have the decency and good sense to piss off before it gets less messier or we grow too accustomed to it.
It’s ten tracks in about twenty minutes, the vocals sound like the loud, croaking version of a dial-up internet connection and quite frankly we wouldn’t have it any other way. If you want reaffirmation that the proverbial r’n’r belly is still aflame then you need this but you don’t know it yet – might as well give in now, eh? Rarrr.
9Thomas Blatchford's Score