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Bachelor are in no rush to get to the end of the song, which makes it the perfect soundtrack for getting things done around the house, or alternately sinking into a deep bliss of angel volces, tapped drums, and faraway guitar solos.
There are many bands named Ghoulies, or something like it, but let it be known that we’re talking about the Australian outfit that can deliver an hour’s worth of mosh-pit worthy punk sprinkled with spastic organ warbles in just about ten minutes.
A near-dozen electrolatinized hits, not all of them latinamerican in origin but all of them served as tremendously smart interpretation, from a mostly-marimba “Maniac” (from Flashdance) to the sparse cumbia of Prince’s “Beso”.
Atlanta’s long-reigning kings of greasy garage fuzz get yet another tribute, and given the source material and the participants, it’s easy to see why this hits all the green lights for a multicolored psychedelic ramble.
Hatfield’s relentless output is given some inventive production, and I have to pause to carefully listen. There’s a lot to unpack, sonically and lyrically, and it refuses to fade into the background.
Information on this outfit is scant, but not required to enjoy their lilting melodies and careful close harmonies. These songs are like a cat that has become expert at sneaking onto your lap. Before you know it, they are nestled in and thrumming.
This is an ominous title for a posthumous release, but Allen’s stuttering drum work will no doubt stand the test of time, and this melding of his work with more modern non-Afrobeat collaborators is a glimpse of a fascinating future.
Sweeney’s carefully considered guitar lines are entwined with Will Oldham’s intimate quaver and lyrical prowess, and it’s uncanny how this occasional intersection of two very prolific artists sounds like it’s decades into its trajectory.