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When Rob Crow gets to anthologize the songs he wants to cover into an album, the results are disparate, insightful, and educational, ranging from King Crimson to the Melvins to the Beach Boys.
Featuring a thunderous rhythm section unafraid to venture into lockstepped odd grooves, a guitar team willing to weave in and out of those sonic pylons in tandem, and a beguiling childlike voice floating above it all, this is your standard Deerhoof.
When you’re closing out your fifth decade as a band, you might be expected to rehash all your tired tropes and package them as brand new nostalgia. Instead, this sounds like a lost album from the band’s golden era.
The female vocals have a child-like quality, and the bass-forward music hulks behind it, sometimes like a princess’ bodyguard, sometimes like a delicate clockwork contraption.
It’s hard to pin down this Brooklyn trio, with their angular guitar dissonance and harmonies that range from drone to treacle. This live album showcases the band’s strange energy with a barrage of short songs and very little audience reaction.
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