I don't know how they did it. It's a complete disaster. They sound like they're playing in a junkyard, on trashcans and saws, all hooked up with one long extension chord. It's a mess, a hazardous wasteland of noise. The sound is total crap. The vocals, if you can even call them that, are indecipherable rambling, shouting and mumbling. It doesn't seem as though an ounce of talent was required in concocting this slushy sludge of crash-bam-boom nonsense.
And yet, somehow, by some mysterious act of some otherworldly power, they manage to do something to you, to exhilarate feelings and grooves and highs. 'Cause even while they sound like they're making something anyone could make (and I mean anyone), they bring out something not everyone can.
'Cause you know as well as I do, there is a load of sloppy punk rock bands out there. The majority of them blow, am I wrong? And as with any form of music (or art for that matter), only a few prevail.
Why do the Coachwhips prevail? Like I said, I have no clue. Something to do with
madness and insanity and speed and energy and finding a groove. Something else
to do with distortion overkill, immensely affected vocals and a muddy blues undertone.
They had just the right, righteous and raw combination of something, something
inexplicable and real — man, you shoulda seen them live. If you missed
them though, Double Death — a collection of live footage, photos,
gems and rare, previously unreleased tracks, and their final release — is
a good substitute. Doesn't touch the live shows but, heck, not much can. "Hope
you guys like these gems," read the liner notes. "Now we can all move on and
actually listen to good stuff. Love, The Coachwhips. P.S. You're cute."
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