They might insist on keeping that awful name of theirs, but thankfully they have the pedigree to continue overcoming that particular handicap (though we call it a handicap, it is really just a very bad decision). Assorted drugs hells, rolling band membership, fighting, illness, a constant warped backdrop of desert-mirage psychedelia, accents that whether singing or talking clamber out of their mouths sluggishly like a man taken down by a tranquilizer dart after a bottle a cheap malt in the sun, a home city of LA (somehow that is the only place they could live) – that should be enough to banish the clumsy neo-pagan imagery that comes with the name. But even considering those accepted standards – their last album ‘Phoenix’ was a feat of hazy piercing drone-rock – there have been more positive steps into the light with this album than you might rightly expect.
We’re not talking a complete commercial overhaul here, this is no Starbuck’s refit – if it were the lighting would be a shade away from utter darkness and the coffees would all be cheeky nightcaps, without the coffee – the same basic foundations and singed roaches are still very much in place, but the songwriting of Bobby Hecksher has caught a spark. This is brighter, broader, oft influenced by the harmonious formulaic pop of the 50s and 60s, and it’s certainly more accessible. Only then is the psychedelica allowed in to take a grip and ram it home in a ball of distortion, glare and droning pathos. The only thing that might stop this breaking through to a bigger audience is that there’s nothing quite Dandy-mobile-phone-accessible enough.
‘Come Save Us’ opens the record in more typical fashion, a bridge over from the last album, with a repetitive guitar coda hypnotically inviting participation from the band, who crash in with heavy handed intensions. Bobby’s fragmented, twisted vocals add human impact and drama. It’s a strong opening, but up next ‘It’s Just Like Surgery’ is the real one-off heart-stopping moment on the album, a cherry sweet cascade of Velvet Underground paddling, woozy heat-struck atmospherics, toiled lyrics under anesthetic and a genuine melodic pot of gold. Oasis would kill for this. And they’d have to. It’s the Jesus & Mary Chain hanging onto a helium balloon as it hurtles upwards through the clouds. The rest of the album almost seems unimportant after that but ‘Angels In Heaven, Angels In Hell’ drops in some beautifully tender doo-wop work and ‘Thursday’s Radiation’ really lifts off, no energy or commitment spared. Now, if this is paganism, and these are the hymns, we’re thinking about signing up.