Saturday, April 9, 2011

Review :: Armchair Telepathy :: Apache Dropout

Apache Dropout
Family Vineyard Records

Apache Dropout :: It's a Nightmare
Apache Dropout :: Sam Phillips Rising

I'm supposed to say that the Nava-joe Deadbeats are a gravelly, neo-psych garage outfit with a lot in common with someone else from the same sub-Great Lakes dead zone, only nuanced or hyperbolized in some way that's not really worth stopping to consider.  The Arapaho Louts got the Motor City scene by the balls, crippling the Stax-style sounds they rode in on, onomatopoeically drawing life and fire from their instruments.

Just eat the words and move down the buffet line.

Instead I'll say something equally meaningless: these pigeon shit mongers buzz, hum, and click just like they're supposed tuh. Got some organish happenins, some samples of other people's voices to make you feel a little more likely to let these strangers into your homes. There's some wailing here, some stomping about, some sense of plucking or strumming. The sneaky natives put a thing in my head, a whirring device, much like a 2-barrel carburetor with the same pipe fittings and welds. It thrombs loudly in my ears when I swing from the ceiling fan. Bitter maidens dump their buckets of milk and come on out to the fields where the tribal bird-callers wait, hand to mouth, flapping the loose air expelled from their lungs, manipulating the flow to imitate water over pebbles. Riverbed. Bedrock. Asphalt. Gravel. Warbling pigeon shit punk rock.

Oh, wait, I'm supposed to be talking about the band. Instead I tug at words. Fuh-fuh-fuck that.

You can actually get your slippery hands on the entire A-side of the new album over at Apache Dropout's Bandcamp page.  Makes you wonder why it's even worth going to work to make money anymore. As drafty as the Midwest plains they strike out from, this Indiana band ride into town to play Comet Ping Pong on 5/7. That's the first Saturday in May for those of you who don't savvy numbers and symbols suh-suh-so well. Stop staring and mop it up, my man.

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