From the bohemian-living-room group photo on the cover, it's obvious
that these young San Franciscans are one of the numerous new bands
that look back to the '60s and '70s for inspiration. However, before
you write them off as just another bunch of knock-off artists dressed
in thrift-store drag, take a listen to what I believe is one of the
best new bands I've heard in quite some time.
To quote Dylan (who, natch, stole the title from blackface-minstrel
historian Eric Lott), all rock music rooted in the past is a product
of both "love and theft." It's really all a matter of being a good
pickpocket, and smart enough to recast your swipes into something
that feels fresh. Hip-hop producers do it all the time, and it's
considered brave post-modernism, so I don't know why a band like The
Cuts, who at times during this record remind me of such diverse
artists as the Small Faces, Television, Supergrass, and All Things
Must Pass-era George Harrison, shouldn't be praised for doing the
same thing.
The biggest problem with so much '60s-inspired rock is that it
basically breaks down into two camps: the garage rockers (Mooney
Suzuki, The D4, et al.) and the psychedelic poppers (Apples in
Stereo, Olivia Tremor Control). Both camps seem to miss a lot of what
made rock from that era great. Their albums are either all choppy
I-IV-V chord progressions or overdone Pet Sounds orchestral
fussiness. The Cuts don't think they should have to choose between
rocking and pomping it up, so they do both at the same time, with a
loose-limbed virtuosity and sharp songwriting skills.
These guys can play, and do their songs a service with arrangements
that swagger as sure as the Black Crowes in their prime, while
incorporating casually complex (but never intrusive) arrangements
that mix spidery guitar parts, liquid leads, and bubbly organ touches
into something that I'd best describe as Traffic tackling some
unreleased Television b-sides. Or maybe vice versa, given that
frontman Andy Jordan's voice bears a sometimes uncanny resemblance to
Tom Verlaine's.
Recorded in Memphis's Easley Studios by garage-rock cult hero
Greg Cartwright (né Greg Oblivion of the psycho-garage legends
The Oblivions, as well as the Compulsive Gamblers), the album
delicately decorates its '70s chug, every boogie riff lounging on a
cushion of organ and keyboard flourishes.
Likewise, the lyrics balance fake toughness with fake naïvete
like any good hipster boys on the make should. On the stunning
opener, "How Can I Get Through," Jordan casually dismisses an
ex-lover, claiming, "They say you've changed/ A little different from
the rest/ I see through your disguise," later boasting, "I want you
dead/ Put poison in your drink."
Of course, he's lying; all The Cuts really want is girls that will
love them as much as they love themselves. In "Paradise," a drop-dead
gorgeous mid-tempo come-on as convincing as any I've heard in a
while, they've got a song that should help them get more than a few
indie girls out of their low-rise Levis. Heck, the first time I heard
Dan Aaberg sing the deadly-catchy chorus ("Gotta place where they can
never find us/ And I'll keep you close by me/ Every step you know
they're right behind us/ But when they come around/ They'll be
nothing to see") I was about ready to cut class and jump in the van
with these guys.
They do a great job of evoking their influences without emulating
them, with the exception of "Didn't Live Enough," which showcases
rumbling drums and spiraling guitar lines that were enough to almost
convince me that it was a lost track from Marquee Moon. It's
the only time they really show their hand, and it's good enough that
you won't mind a bit. I'm not complaining, as it's probably better
than half of Television's second album, Adventure, and all of
their 1992 self-titled reunion record.
If you have any interest in classic rock, you owe it to yourself to
buy this record. Don't wait until it turns up as a "lost classic" in
Mojo 10 years from now.
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